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mimik-u · 4 years

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Flower Child, Chapter 19 (Blue IV)

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Thursday, July 5th, 8:38AM:

Blue: Hello, Steven… how are you this morning?

Steven: tired.

Blue: I’m sorry.

Blue: Is there anything I can do?

Steven: no

Steven: I don’t think so

With one hand, Blue Diamond held her phone aloft and read Steven’s bare reply again and again. And with the other, she gently massaged her aching right hip, kneading her spiny knuckles gently over the bone beneath the thin layer of her nightgown.

She’d slept on it the wrong way.

Had tossed and turned all night, nightmaring.

And she didn’t need a psychoanalyst to tell her what it meant that her dead daughter erupted from a wilting hibiscus flower before transforming into Steven Universe, who dissolved into petals as she tried to cling onto them both—her smile, his laugh, her freckles, his hair, all crumbling beneath her fingertips into pollen and pieces. Pearl’s words echoed in the dark chapel of her own head as she gathered the petals in her palms: “Start with a flower and a smile, perhaps.”

Help him, Blue.

Don’t look away.

(You’ve always been so good at looking away.)

In the end, she laid her phone facedown on the bed and rubbed her sore hip in the curtained darkness of her room for a few minutes longer. It was unclear to herself whether she was trying to soothe the pain or grate it in just a mica deeper, one sensitive knuckle movement at a time.

Either way, she was only giving herself what she deserved.

Relief.

Injury.

And perhaps both at the exact same time.

A cocktail of them both—shaken, not stirred.

It was only when the alarm clock on the bedside table indicated that ten minutes had passed in silence and arthritic torture that she endeavored to apprehend her cane with both hands, violently wrenching herself into a standing position, briefly throwing her world into dizzying spirals. Blue closed her eyes against the initial nausea and told herself that she had to go on.

In so many more ways than just simply one.

She glanced fleetingly at the hibiscus that still remained on her nightstand, now withered around the edges, now graying, and thought to herself that perhaps she could save it if she acted fast, pressing it between the pages of a favorite book—an Austen, a Homer, a Kierkegaard.

Preserving it.

Start with a flower and a smile, perhaps.

Help him, Blue.

Don’t look away.

The sounds of her cane were muffled in the carpet as she made a detour to the bathroom to grab her robe, pulling on the worn garment like an old friend, the collar flush against her long neck. And then, her movements as stiff as they were laborious, she made her way from the bathroom back to the bedroom and then into the vast, empty hall—at the end of which the living room was framed in an arch of white, morning light.

Clank, she barely glanced at the door leading into the study because she knew Yellow wouldn’t be in there.

The door was completely closed, which was a telltale sign in and of itself.

Clank.

Assorted images from the previous evening sifted through her head like grains of falling sand, salting her unsettled thoughts as she moved forward, her bare feet tracing the smooth wooden planks.

Clank.

They had sat in the backseat together on the car ride home from the hospital yesterday and dared to hold hands, fingers intertwining, palms touching.

Lifelines.

Yellow was as warm as Blue was cold, the gathering of their skin simply electric.

Clank.

The sky outside the tinted glass windows had been the precise shade of a bruised peach—gold around the edges and a darker amber within. There were cream colored clouds that swirled and swirled through the ripening sky, becoming milky wisps in the places where they spread too thin.

Blue stared upwards into these vaulting heavens and thought fleetingly about beauty, how it could come from the most mundane of places.

In the continuous cycles of an ever-changing sky.

In children who gave flowers to random strangers at cemeteries.

In laughter.

In sadness.

Even in grief.

The fading light dusted the crown of her wife’s blonde head.

A slight frown pulled at her lips.

And there was great beauty and great sadness in this, too.

Paradoxes and contradictions.

“What are you thinking about?” Blue had asked, absently skimming her thumb along the side of Yellow’s hand, tracing every line, relearning every divot and groove.

“My luck,” Yellow returned in that familiar dry voice of hers. “That wreck could have been… disastrous.”

“Yes.” The word was hushed in her throat, cloistered, the possibilities that it engendered too much to bear: Yellow injured, Yellow dying, Yellow gone. The worst hypothetical had never felt more real to her than in the handful of hours that had elapsed between her doorbell ringing and rushing to the hospital in the dead of night.

With Pink, there had been no likewise chance.

No hospital to go to.

Only a morgue.

“Did… what’s her name… you know—the new valet—did she make it out alright? I forgot to ask.”

“She did,” Blue confirmed with a small nod. “Topaz—I mean. Only a few cuts on her face from what I understood. I gave her a temporary leave of absence.”

“Good,” Yellow sighed, relief palpable in her low voice. “Excellent.”

Her frown incrementally shifted, becoming the barest of smiles.

Subtle.

Almost easy to miss.

Clank.

They had ascended the elevator side by side, too, Yellow pulling her special keycard out from the pocket of her immaculately pressed shirt with fumbling fingers, and Blue could tell that she was tired by this uncharacteristic clumsiness alone.

“Let me,” she whispered before gently apprehending the card and slotting it into the reader that would grant them immediate access to their floor.

It was a tiny kindness.

Somehow, it was far more than that, too.

Yellow stared at her, eyes wide, and said, “Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” Blue murmured, a dull flush coloring her cheeks as she returned the card, slipping it back to where it belonged.

The doors opened slowly, welcoming the Diamonds home.

Clank.

Blue had insisted that Yellow sleep in the bed, that she needed a good night’s rest after all that she had been through, but Yellow was infuriatingly stubborn to the last—intransigent, inflexible, chivalrous—protesting that she didn’t want to aggravate Blue’s hip problem.

She’d be fine on the couch.

It only hit her later that night, as she laid in that bed that was much too big for her, that she could have invited her wife to come to bed with her.

But the thought scared her as much as it intrigued her.

She pushed it to the side, tabling it for a later date.

(Coward.)

Clank.

The living room was dressed in a pale sunshine coat when Blue finally arrived at the very edge of it, her oceanic eyes washing over the scene until they lit upon Yellow Diamond, stretched beneath a thin blanket on the white couch, fast asleep, soft snores emitting from her half-open mouth.

In the hours that had elapsed, her wounds didn’t appear as angry as they had done yesterday, and there was already a little discoloration around the edges of her stitches that suggested that they were already beginning to do the complicated work of healing—as transitory wounds tended to do.

Blue lifted the bottom of her cane now so it no longer thudded against the floor with each slow and deliberate footfall; she could retain her balance for that long, or, if she couldn’t, then she’d very well know it was likely time she had that hip replacement her physician kept threatening at each of her successive appointments.

But she didn’t waver.

Didn’t fall.

Miraculously refrained from breaking.

Long enough to reach the creamy ottoman in front of the couch, which Yellow had apparently used in lieu of a nightstand. Her reading glasses were folded neatly atop of yesterday’s copy of The Empire City Times, the crossword section right side up.

She’d almost finished it, lacking only two-across: ANTONYM OF CRUELTY.

And the answer, Blue Diamond could plainly see, was grace.

Fondness for her wife, exquisite and painful tenderness, unexpectedly erupted in the column of her throat—a rush of love, a flurrying sensation, spreading all over, both trickling water and raging fire, paradoxes and contradictions. And suddenly, all impulse, thought swept away by feeling, feeling unknotting her hesitant bones, Blue gingerly bent down and brushed the sharp line of Yellow’s jaw where sunlight had already scribbled itself in patches. She was a child running curious fingers along the edge of a forbidden shelf. She was a butterfly tentatively skimming a blade of grass. She was a broken mother trying to learn how to be unbroken again. She was a loving wife.

She hadn’t been intending to wake her—had only wanted to touch—but somewhere in the space of four awful years, Yellow had apparently learned to be a light sleeper. Her golden eyes flew open at the gesture, catching Blue in the act.

“Blue,” she murmured, shocked, disbelieving, as though she wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t dreaming. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Blue returned softly and at least had enough decency to look ashamed. (For what exactly? She wasn’t necessarily sure. Somehow, she just knew that it was a very shameful thing to touch her wife. To caress her gently after so many days and months and years of having not done it.) “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, no,” Yellow protested, sitting up abruptly to make room for Blue on the half-rumpled couch. The movement must have been too sudden for her sore body because she briefly winced, glancing downwards at her leg. “I should be getting up anyway. What time is it anyway? Seven? Seven-thirty?”

Blue remembered the timestamp that had accompanied Steven’s last message, and a frown bruised her lips as she slowly lowered herself by her wife’s side, balancing herself on the head of her cane.

“Closer to nine, I believe.”

Yellow blinked once, disbelief turning to cross bemusement in the slightest shift of her brow as she searched for the truth in her wife’s long face.

“Seriously?”

“More or less.” Blue’s lips slightly rippled, and Yellow shook her head with disgust, the emotion snarling across her weathered face.

“I haven’t slept in past eight since I was in college,” she muttered, pushing a hand through her sleep-straggled hair. “Goodness, that’s unusual.”

“You were exhausted,” Blue proffered immediately, as though this was explanation and excuse enough, but Yellow only shook her head again, refusing her own defense just as quickly as Blue had risen to it.

“Not anymore than usual,” came the stubborn reply. There wasn’t argument in her voice, so much as there was an edge, inwardly pointed.

Because that was the thing about Yellow Diamond.

She saved her sharpest words for herself, lancing her own criticisms deep into her skin in order to forcibly teach herself how to do better the next day. Blue knew better than to challenge her when she did this, for Yellow did enough challenging to herself.

So she looked away and allowed Yellow to punish herself and lapsed into contemplative silence, thinking about Steven again, threading her fingers together on top of her robed lap: his sunken face, his lachrymose messages, his careworn caretakers, and all of their collectively haunted eyes. Even glancing out onto the sun-warmed balcony was enough to conjure the image of him sitting beside her in the chair that usually belonged to Yellow and eating one of Holly Agatha’s famous chocolate cakes.

The one he would later throw up.

Because he was sick.

Terribly so.

“Blue?” Yellow’s voice was soft, prodding, hesitant, awkward—full of all the dichotomies and contradictions that their relationship seemed to have been built on these last four years. They both loved each other.

Surely.

Deeply.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

They were equally afraid to say it aloud.

“Is something troubling you?”

Blue’s turned away from the balcony and faced her wife again—the stitches on her sharply hewn jaw, the complicated emotions in her golden eyes, the sharp set of her frown—and wondered what would happen if she simply told her the truth, if she laid it nakedly between them and simply waited for a response.

It was terrifying to be vulnerable with another.

Somehow, in the midst of everything, she remembered that it was necessary.

“Steven Universe,” she finally whispered, the name less like a name and more like a confession, gently handed over between the sliding partition in a wooden booth. “I’m worried about him. I talked to one of his guardians yesterday, and he isn’t… doing well.”

Yellow’s face grappled with the news, appearing far more stricken than Blue could have ever expected of her.

When she frowned, the lines beneath her eyes darkened and creased, making her appear ancient.

Haunted.

“I know,” she said unexpectedly.

“You do?” Blue couldn’t help herself—she arched an incredulous brow, and her wife’s cheeks promptly colored in response, the pink feathering the sickly purple of her bruises. It wasn’t a particularly handsome effect.

“I met him the other night,” she muttered, a little impish, a little stiff, glancing away. “I was curious. I wanted to know what he looked like.”

Blue didn’t know what was more astonishing—the fact that Yellow had visited Steven in the first place or the miraculousness of her actually admitting to it so plainly. Neither action seemed particularly characteristic to a woman who attempted to subjugate all of her emotions beneath the sleeves of her immaculately ironed shirt.

But she could see the truth of the words in the tense sobriety of her profile.

And she knew, from experience, that as astonishingly unlikely as it was for Yellow Diamond to visit a sickly child in the hospital, it was even less likely that she would lie about it in the first place.

And so Blue did what she could to collect her face, but she was fairly sure that trace remnants of her surprise still remained because her wife scoffed, the color of her cheekbones still a rosé red, sweet and mild.

“You don’t have to look so shocked.”

“I’m… I’m not shocked,” she protested immediately, her own features shading themselves in. “I’m just—”

But Blue Diamond, eloquent though she was, could not find another fitting word, and Yellow Diamond, seemingly despite her better judgment, laughed once, the sound harsh and warm in that airy, light-filled living room.

“Shocked,” she repeated emphatically, shaking her head.

“You’ve disarmed me before I’ve taken my morning tea,” Blue mumbled, a little petulance in her voice, a little play.

“Good,” Yellow sniffed, half-grimacing, half-smiling. “I’m glad to see I can still keep you on your toes.”

And then they both stared at each other—nakedly, unflinchingly—quite painfully aware that they were on the verge of making each other laugh for the first time in years, and the solemnity of the occasion brought them both back to themselves.

Blue frowned so easily that it was only muscle memory, primal reflex.

And Yellow followed suit, the sunlight raking itself across her wounded face.

“And what did you think of him?” Blue asked, both wanting the answer and dreading it. She slightly learned towards her wife; part of her wished to flee; and because she didn’t flee, because she stayed, the contradiction manifested as a twisting of her gut, a turning.

“A little impetuous…” Yellow said immediately, her voice low, distant with memory. “Annoyingly happy… but good, I think. Smart for his age. Kind. He almost reminded me of—”

But she caught herself just in time—stricken, terrified, revolted.

And Blue’s heart nearly failed with the simple proximity of her daughter’s ghost, of the closeness of her nearly evoked name.

But they danced through the horrible moment.

Silently.

Together.

Yellow swallowed thickly, and Blue Diamond was merciful; she gently took her wife’s splinted hand.

“Pink,” she murmured softly, the word, the name, the ghost reverent on her tongue.

Holy.

“Those eyes,” Yellow croaked painfully, folding her fingers into the gaps between Blue’s own. “That wide smile.”

“I know,” Blue whispered. “I know.”

“I can see why you like him, Blue,” she said seriously. “He hooks you in.”

Blue’s mind worked far ahead of her. Even though she didn’t explicitly articulate it, even though she likely never would, it was clear that Yellow was amongst this number.

She liked Steven Universe.

She cared.

“Before you even know it,” she agreed softly. “Before you’re even aware.”

“It’s all so very sudden,” Yellow muttered uncomfortably, frowning, a divot forming between her dark brow.

And Blue thought to herself, very quietly, that that was the nature of love, really.

It was all so very sudden.

And beautiful and extraordinary and rare.

And sad and horrible and tragic.

And lasting.

Even when it happened suddenly.

(Even when it was suddenly taken away.)

“What isn’t in this world?” Blue murmured, and she gently skimmed the side of her wife’s hand with her thumb, watching as this simple revelation played out across her powerful features.

Smoothing them.

Sanding and softening all those rough edges.

“Frankly,” she finally said, smiling a little sadly, “I have no damn clue.”

ii.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a little elven girl, all tucked up in bed together, side by side by side.

Blue ran her fingers through her daughter’s mass of curly hair as she snored lightly. Her tiny hand was curled into the front of Yellow’s pajama shirt, knobbly fingers twisted into the fabric, secure there. She’d fallen asleep protesting the need for sleep, trying to convince her mothers for one story more, and just as Blue had finally conceded—she rarely ever didn’t when it came to Pink—her hooded eyes drifted to a close beneath the gentle lamp-strewn haziness of the room, where she was warm.

Safe.

Loved.

For that was the crucial fact, the fundamental thing—Pink Diamond was loved most of all.

“We’re never going to have a sex life again, are we?” Yellow lamented, slanting a honey-eyed gaze at her wife over the top of Pink’s head.

Amusement in the expression.

Fondness.

Blue laughed lightly and could not help but play along, teasing her body upwards so that she was propped on her elbow, and she could look at her wife properly, drinking in the way she looked at ten o’clock at night, with her hair still a little wet from the shower. There was a certain gentleness in her hawklike face that she tended to eschew during the day around business colleagues, subordinates, and clients, but here, in the safety of their shared bedroom, it had always been implicitly understood that even birds of prey had to roost, too.

“It isn’t too late, you know,” Blue returned, her voice warm, low, suggestive . Yellow had started it after all; it was only fair that she finished. “We can simply move her to her own bed…”

“And chance waking her up again? Hell, no. It was an ordeal just getting her to sleep.”

“The couch is always an option.”

Yellow scoffed imperiously, poking her lips out in a magnificent imitation of her mother’s trademark pout.

“Every time we try that, one of us falls off the damn thing.”

“Hey,” Blue laughed again, causing a heavy strand of hair to fall from where it had been swept from behind her ear, “I wasn’t the one who vouched for hardwood floors.”

Yellow pulled on a faux-offended look like it was one of her favorite ties, dramatically starfishing one of her hands across her chest, exactly where her collared pajama shirt dipped into a vee.

“Well excuse me for thinking that carpet looks outdated.”

“You’re impossible,” Blue smiled gently, shaking her head.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is practical .”

And then, because it was late at night, and they were tired and being stupid, and there was a baby in the bed between them, the two of them caught each other’s eye and couldn’t help themselves, collapsing into laughter that was lovely and loud and ridiculous enough to make Pink briefly stir, her ears twitching irritably at the disturbance.

And then, because this was somehow incredibly funny even though it really, really wasn’t, they laughed some more—silently this time albeit—before eventually flicking off both of their lamps and wrapping their arms around their daughter in the cool darkness, fingers meeting precisely in the middle.

iii.

Friday, July 6th, 9:20AM:

Blue: Hello, Steven. Are you feeling better today?

Blue: If you are, I would love to come visit you again soon.

Steven: not really

Steven: sorry, Blue

Saturday, July 7th, 9:51AM:

Blue: Just checking in, sweet boy. Respond only when you feel up to it.

Blue: And if that’s not at all… that is perfectly okay, too.

They took their tea and coffee out on the balcony, Blue assuming the right armchair and Yellow the left, and somehow, there was both a rightness and a wrongness to these simple actions.

Because this was new.

And yet, achingly familiar.

One week ago today, they danced this same vicious dance, drinking coffee, drinking tea, sitting in these chairs, appropriating a sense of normality that they did not feel. And the memory of their failed ruse swallowed a lot of the precious oxygen in the air, making it hard for either of them to speak. Blue spidered her hand across her sternum, the tips of her long fingers touching spiny collarbone, and tried to remind herself how to breathe.

Yellow was more finicky in her discomfort, her careworn face drawn as she bobbed her left leg up and down, the heel of her slipper flicking arrhythmically against the smooth floor. And the sun that she stared at was the precise color of a healing bruise, pale ochre against a silver sky. And the bruises on her angularly hewn face were mottled in the strange light, pulsing like miniature supernovas, burning, gradually dulling.

“I heard it was going to rain tomorrow,” the businesswoman eventually said, and it was clear from the way that her voice was clipped that she didn’t really want to talk about the weather.

“I saw that, too,” Blue Diamond replied in a low voice. “On the news, I believe.” She had seen no such thing, in fact, but they were talking again, she and Yellow, and that was something that would occasionally take baby steps.

Weather talk.

Mere pleasantries.

Scratching the deep, dark surfaces with fingernails.

But then, because the weather could only take them so far, they lapsed into a silence that was its own person, sitting indelicately in the space between them.

Pink hair.

Constellation freckles.

A black hoodie.

A mischievous smile.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a little elven girl, who hadn’t been so little anymore—not really. She’d been tall and willowy and full of passion for a life she had yet to live. She’d been twenty-one, but both of her mothers had treated her like she was twelve.

And they loved her, but they suffocated her.

And they loved her, but they ignored her.

And they loved her, but the awful and unbearable truth of the matter was that love was not enough.

Love was the foundation, but it had to be built upon with care and attentiveness—with perceptive eyes and willing ears and flexible hearts. It required sacrifice. It demanded compromise. Mutability. Vulnerability. Change.

And so Blue and Yellow loved Pink Diamond, down to their marrow, down to all the atoms in their four hundred and twelve collective bones, but they failed her in so many of those other important respects.

And they paid the steep price.

Because once upon a time, the little elven girl who wasn’t so little anymore had had enough of her own fairytale and dreamed of carving out another.

She sought freedom and adventure.

She was daring; she wished to rebel.

But when she did for the first time (and the last), when she snuck out of her palace of a room, there were monsters out there, and nothing in the world had ever prepared her for monsters—not even her parents, who had slain their fair share of monsters: dragons and greedy businessmen and hardhearted mothers.

And so she died, and the princess and the knight were left alone in their high tower to lose their goddamn minds.

In separate rooms.

Away from each other.

They mourned and mourned and mourned.

And on that sun-paled balcony, before she knew it, before she could stop herself, Blue Diamond’s eyes were pooling with hot tears. She tried to swipe them away, so Yellow wouldn’t see, wouldn’t chide her, wouldn’t scold, but Yellow had already seen—of course she had already seen—and her golden eyes were wide.

Lined.

Horror-struck.

“I’m sorry,” Blue pleaded reflexively, covering her face with her tall hands. She was always so very sorry. “I was just... I was thinking of her and I couldn’t help it... and I’m—“

“Don’t apologize, Blue,” Yellow cut across her hoarsely, her voice a sharp knife on the edge of breaking. “Don’t ever feel like you have to apologize to me.”

But Blue didn’t think that this was a particularly healthy way of looking at things either. There were so many things she felt the need to apologize for.

(All of them had to do with looking away.)

“But—“

“Because I was thinking about her, too.”

The sentence was an admission, rushed, expulsive, thrown to the floor like it was a bomb ready to ignite.

Yellow abruptly flinched, and Blue did, too, waiting for the aftermath of the blow that didn’t quite come.

So now there was an invisible body in the space between them and a ticking time bomb on the floor.

Company was always diverse in the Diamonds’ penthouse suite.

Perpetually attuned to their self-made demons.

“You were?” Blue’s voice verged on the edge of offensively wondrous. She dared to look at her wife in the gaps between her fingers, slicing her statuesque profile into vees. Her stern jaw. Her world-weary eyes. The lines crisscrossing her face. The defeated hunch of her Atlantean shoulders.

Blue pulled her fingers downwards until they were tightly clenching the lapels of her robe, fingers sinking into the thin fabric, knuckles turning white at the grip.

“How could I not be?” Each word was acerbic, gritted through the teeth, self-loathing. “Just last week, we did this, too, and I hurt you then… I’ve hurt you so many times over Pink. I should be the one who is saying sorry.”

Yellow looked over then, her face desperately open, as though she was trying to convey the force of her raw penance by expression alone.

How tortured she was.

How craven.

Feral.

Agonized.

Undone.

“And I am sorry, Blue,” she continued, the lines beneath her eyes contracting harshly. “I am so sorry—for every wrong I’ve ever done to you. For every time I’ve made you feel wrong for grieving Pink. I… I have no excuse, no semblance of a justification… I just…” But she violently interrupted herself, her ferociousness seemingly drained from her body as she jerked forward, elbows on her knees, dragging a hand across the whole of her face, uncaring of her stitches.

And she remained like that for what felt like an eternity, a statue ruined, palm covering her mouth

Staring wide-eyed into space.

Into an awfully bruised sky.

Blue Diamond’s entire nervous system was in total disrepair as she looked at her wife.

And tried to comprehend the words she had just said, the very ones she had resigned herself to never hearing.

Because for all the four years that she had grieved and grieved, Yellow had been right there beside her, insisting that she should get a grip on herself, should get better, should move on.

And here was the apology for all those awful words.

Here was the proof that they had existed, and that they had injured, and that they had hurt.

The creased skin around Yellow’s eyes was damp.

Her robed shoulders trembled.

“Yellow Clytemnestra Diamond,” Blue finally whispered, the name less invocation than it was admonition, less admonition than it was cruelty, less cruelty than it was love, “you cannot honestly believe that it is that simple.”

That caught her attention.

Yellow jerked her head in Blue’s direction so quickly that it looked painful.

“What?”

“Can’t you see?” She asked, a pleading note in her voice as she leaned a little across the gap between their chairs, her silvery hair falling in loose gossamer curtains around her face. “It isn’t all just you, and it isn’t all just me either. It’s both of us. Together. My God and my goodness, it always has been.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Yellow snapped, her face leached of its color as she scrabbled for purchase, for a reasonable ledge upon which to mount her own cross. “You were grieving, and I kept pushing you. I couldn’t stand watching you fall apart.”

“But you were grieving, too, Yellow!” Blue all but shrieked, desperate to impress upon her wife how important it was to acknowledge the unplumbed depths of her pain.

To own it, by God.

To share it.

Because she didn’t want to be alone anymore.

She couldn’t bear to be.

“You were hurting, and you were sad,” she continued unrestrainedly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes again. She made no attempt to brush them away this time. “And I was so cruel, Yellow. I wanted you to acknowledge it for my own selfish reasons, and then, at the very same time, I was desperate to push you away. You hurt me, but fundamentally, I hurt you, too, and you can’t just… you can’t take away our history like that. You can’t shoulder all these four years on your own. It doesn’t work like that. Love doesn’t! Marriage doesn’t! We don’t!”

Blue Diamond’s chest heaved painfully at the end of all this, as though she had just run a marathon. She rubbed her sternum again, trying to excise the damage, but there was so much of it there—so many hundreds of days worth—and she was so tired.

Exhausted.

But still, there was more to be said; there were mountains between hers and Yellow Diamond’s chairs.

Insurmountable oceans.

And Yellow was frozen, a monument to her own colossal grief.

Stone.

Leaking stone.

She had fountains for eyes; they dripped and dripped.

“And we hurt Pink,” Blue whispered, closing her eyes against this final, horrible truth as the tears continued to lance down her long face, salting her cracked lips. “Oh, my God, how we hurt that poor child. She wanted so badly to grow up, and we wouldn’t let her. We looked away. And that’s what I think about every time I close my eyes, Yellow. Her last words to me echo perpetually in the dark of my head.”

You’ll never let me grow up, will you?

She couldn’t help herself then; she let out a bitter sob, wrenched to her very core.

Because their daughter was dead and never coming back, and the pain of that simple fact would haunt her until the day she died, the memories of her so many thousands of scattered ghosts.

Eternal.

Omnipresent.

Her own constructed gods to worship and to fear.

“I was grieving,” Yellow confessed hoarsely, and the naked baldness of it forced Blue to open her eyes again to take a look. Her wife was rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, fingers dug into the thighs of her pajama pants. Without her trademark three piece suit, without her makeup, without her man-killing heels, she seemed so much smaller than usual—less adamantine, more human. “And I hurt you.”

“Yes,” Blue said simply.

It was a mere syllable; it cost everything in her to utter it.

“And you were grieving… and you didn’t mean to… but you… you hurt me, too.”

“But sometimes,” Blue reminded her gently, the words awful on her lilting tongue, “I absolutely did mean to. I wanted to hurt you, Yellow… I wanted you to feel the barest inch of pain that I felt and suffer with me. Us. Together.”

Yellow looked like she didn’t know what to say to that, so she ignored it, striking the heel of one of her hands across her running face, sniffing harshly.

“And we hurt Pink,” she carried on, this unforgivable truth the salt in the exposed wound. Yellow’s voice broke at the end as the pain of it simply burned. “We hurt her so many times over.”

There was only one possible answer to this leveled charge, too.

“Yes.”

Yellow closed her eyes against this final condemnation, wincing harshly, as though skewered through with a sword. Her jaw was red in the place where she’d tried to wipe away the tears that still continued to flow down her angular face.

“So what do we do now?” She asked, and the question was almost childish in her stringent voice. The desperation in her golden eyes pleaded for an answer, a foundation upon which to stand. “Where the hell do we even go from here?”

It was a simple question at the same time that it was a loaded one.

It engendered the possibilities of more pain, dissolution, and grief.

The startling potentiality that neither Blue nor Yellow Diamond would ever recover from the loss of their only child.

Their shared tomb of a bleak and horrible future.

But there was hope there, too.

The startling possibility of it.

The barest potentiality.

Small.

Slight.

Goddamn miraculous even.

But there.

Taught first to Blue Diamond by a boy in a cemetery, so many days upon long, aching days ago.

Thinking clearly for the first time in four years or perhaps not thinking straight at all, the fifty-five year old woman tenderly reached her shaking hand across the gap between their chairs and held her palm upwards as though it had a flower in it, inviting her wife’s fingers to fill in the empty spaces, to imagine a conceivable future where they could one day hold hands and be content.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice also quite childish, the words so very small. “But wherever it is, Yellow, let’s go together.”

To heaven.

To hell.

To the grave.

To their golden years.

Yellow stared at her open hand for the longest fraction of an infinity, and there was exquisite agony in her eyes, painful tenderness, too.

Paradoxes and contradictions.

“Okay,” she finally whispered, taking Blue Diamond’s hand, interlinking their long fingers.

“Okay.”

iv.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a night that seemed to swallow them both entirely whole.

Because White Diamond wasn’t doing well.

Her live-in nurse had called Yellow just today and told her that some days were worse than others, and worse days were become less exception than the rule; she was often agitated, frustrated, terrified, confused; she thought that Yellow was still at boarding school; she saw shadows of strange men on the alabaster walls; she missed her own mother, who had been dead for some forty-odd years; she wanted to send her dearest Starlight a postcard from Paris.

As they laid in bed together in the darkness, Blue wrapped her arms around her wife’s tense body, pressing soft lips against her pillow-rumpled hair.

“Mother always said that she wanted a grand funeral when her time came,” Yellow said stiffly, each word yanked from behind gritted teeth. “If her casket cost less than a hundred grand, she’d haunt me from the aether for the rest of my life.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Blue sighed, a little sad, a little amused, a little fond. Her mother-in-law had always been quite the character, larger than life, always meticulously dressed in Gucci jumpsuits that were more expensive than most people’s home mortgages.

“She wants to be buried in the same crypt as my grandparents naturally,” Yellow continued in that same halting voice, “and I told her that she was being ridiculous. Someone would have to knock out a damn wall to fit another casket in there.”

But Blue knew her wife too well, perhaps better than she knew herself sometimes with her obstinate avoidance of all things introspective in nature.

“My colleague’s husband is a contractor,” she said gently, skimming her fingers up and down Yellow’s sleeved arm. “I can get a quote for you on Monday...?”

“Mm,” came a noncommittal grunt, which Blue correctly interpreted as reluctant assent.

The silence laid thickly upon the two women then.

Seconds passed.

Electric minutes.

Blue could almost feel the tension agitating Yellow’s bones.

And then—

“We should talk about our own burial plans one day in the near future,” she said brusquely. “At the very least, we need to have the Zircons codify our basic intentions into a will.”

Blue stared at the back of her wife’s head incredulously, eyes wide, her dark brow contracting somewhere in the middle. With some effort, she extricated her arms from around her, so that she could prop herself up on one elbow more easily.

“Yellow Clytemnestra Diamond,” she whispered, unable to quite keep the emotion from her voice, the rising pitch, “what on Earth do you mean? We’re not even fifty yet.”

Goodness, they were barely forty.

“Accidents happen all the time,” Yellow reasoned sagely, rolling around to face Blue properly, “and I want to leave Pink with a clear blueprint. Otherwise, you and I might end up in neon pink caskets as Weezer plays over our grave.”

“How serious of you,” Blue quipped, lowering herself down to the pillow again so that they were at eye level. In the barest light that seeped through the curtains, she saw that there were tired lines scoring Yellow’s face, straining shadows.

“I’m being completely serious,” she protested shortly. “Not about Weezer, perhaps, but the fact that we should have solidified plans.”

Abstractly, Blue knew she was correct—it was only common sense for them to put their affairs in order, even if they were young, and perhaps especially while they were. And yet, she had a feeling that this particular topic of conversation wasn’t strictly about the common sense of it, the practicality, the realism.

It was more so about the haunted look in Yellow’s eyes.

And the stiffness of her body.

And her sick mother.

Assuredly, it was about grief.

“Yellow,” Blue only whispered, reaching across the barest gap between them and placing the palm of her hand on the woman’s warm cheek. Her thumb cradled that imperial jaw, tracing its harsh geometry, loving it softly.

And Yellow Diamond immediately jerked, as though stung by such a gentle, careful touch, but ultimately, she didn’t move away from it.

She leaned into it, in fact.

And closed her dark-stricken eyes.

Sighing.

“Sorry,” she muttered thickly. “I was being morbid... I just... it’s all becoming real to me, I think...”

Blue remained silent in this awful darkness, simply listening, simply holding her wife’s face.

“The inevitability that one day, my mother isn’t going to call me on the phone to chew my ass out about the company again... she’s just always been so stubborn, so implacable, that to imagine her as anything else is...”

But she trailed off, opening her eyes again. They were strangely filmy, bright but simultaneously dull.

“Well, you know what it is,” she finished awkwardly.

The words sprung immediately to Blue’s clever and elocutionary mind: unbearable, unfathomable, cruel.

She decided quickly, though, against saying any of them aloud; thinking them was punishment enough.

“I know,” she whispered, continuing to study the planes of her wife’s jaw by touch alone. She chose not to say anything when there was sudden dampness on the side of her hand.

“What do I do, Blue? The question was hushed, strangled, barely articulated into the night. “What happens next?”

Blue Diamond didn’t particularly know grief yet, the harrowing nature of it, its iron-sharp teeth.

And so that was the only answer she could give her wife in the end, as intelligent as she was, as intuitive, and as sensitive to the natures of others.

“I don’t know,” she admitted gently, “but I promise you, Yellow Diamond, I’ll be by your side through all of it.”

In sickness and in health.

’Til death did them part.

’Til Weezer apparently one day played over their grave.

“How sentimental of you,” Yellow laughed humorlessly in a failure of an attempt to hide that she was touched.

Blue leaned over then and pressed her lips against Yellow’s cool forehead, fingers still cupping her face. And when the stalwart general of a businesswoman’s entire body shuddered, she was merciful again; she pretended not to notice.

“Yes.”

Tuesday, July 10th, 7:22PM:

Steven: i’m sorry for just getting back to you, Blue. It’s been a rough couple of days.

Blue: I know how that feels.

Steven: it’s just kinda hard to get outta my own head right now.

Blue typed and sent her reply just as the door leading into the penthouse suite abruptly swung open: I know how that feels, too.

When she glanced up from her phone from where she was sitting on the couch, Yellow Diamond was limping through the threshold in such a way that it was painfully obvious that she was trying to hide that she was limping—holding her shoulders ridiculously straight and grimacing as though to subjugate any pain she was feeling in the firm press of her mouth.

Though she was dressed in a button down with black slacks and a suit vest to match, she wasn’t quite coming home from work; rather—as she’d told Poppy to tell Blue earlier that morning—she had been at the hospital all day.

Doing some more tests.

Placing her phone facedown on the nearby end table, Blue narrowed her eyes in what she hoped was sympathy but probably more so resembled fear.

“Yellow?” She asked softly, her voice small and tremulous and terrified of its own aggrandized shadow. She loathed herself; she didn’t know how to be anyone other than herself. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” came the immediate and stubborn reply as the woman shuffled over to the couch, her face unbending in unsubtle relief when she finally collapsed into a sitting position. Her palm immediately went to her right thigh, which Blue knew had been the one heavily bruised in the accident.

Blue’s brow bent pointedly over her arctic eyes.

Coldly.

“No,” Yellow amended herself, abashed, embarrassed, sniffing haughtily. “It’s only my leg, though. I was on it too much today.”

“I told you you could borrow my cane.”

“And I told you that that was the last thing I wanted to do,” she muttered, flushing, continuing to rub the inflicted area. “Besides, you need it more.”

Because it was always a competition between them—who was suffering the most. And for some odd and likely unhealthy reason, it was one competition that the ambitious CEO didn’t like to win.

Blue sighed heavily at this silent observation, disturbing the heavy braid that was slung across her shoulder, before slowly pulling herself upwards from the couch, drawing her wife’s incredulous, harried gaze.

“Wait! I didn’t mean for you to leave—”

But Blue only shook her head, quelling Yellow’s protests with the gesture, before slowly hobbling over to the kitchen and slowly hobbling back, this time bearing the ice pack that she sometimes took to bed with her and a gray towel to wrap around it. Using the head of her cane cane as leverage, knuckling it tightly, she nudged the white ottoman towards Yellow with her good knee until it was right in front of her.

“Prop your bad leg up,” she commanded quietly, her voice taking on that same authoritative note that she had once used with her pupils. “Elevating your leg will help drain some of the tension from it.”

And like the best of the headmistress’s former pupils, Yellow knew it was best to swiftly comply.

Laboriously, with obvious discomfort, she used her hands to drag her right leg onto the ottoman, wincing a little with each microscopic adjustment of her thigh. Blue, careful to give the limb wide berth, lowered herself down to the ottoman, too, where she encased the ice pack in the towel, neatly tucking the ends in together so that the cloth wouldn’t unloose itself.

Yellow watched all of this with offensively wide eyes, staring at Blue as though she was turning water into wine or doing somersaults in the middle of the living room. Self-conscious, hyperconscious, anxious, painfully aware, she tucked a stray strand of silvery hair behind her ear and tried not to pay attention to her as she gently pressed the ice pack against her leg, meticulous to cover the entirety of the affected area.

“Cold helps,” she only proffered in explanation. “I can instruct one of the maids to change it out for a new one in a few hours or so.”

“Thank you, Blue.” Yellow’s voice was constricted, tender, raw.

Blue didn’t think she deserved such an outpouring of emotion for such a simple task, this tiny, most minuscule of kindnesses; she glanced away, feathers of color dusting her hollowed cheeks.

“It’s nothing,” she returned gently. “You would do the same for me…”

A slight pause.

Loaded.

Unbearable.

She felt the need to extinguish it at once.

“You have done the same for me,” she added with quiet forcefulness, still not quite looking in Yellow’s direction, drawing both of her hands into her lap. They were cold now from handling the ice pack, rigid and stiff.

“So many times over.”

After all, how many times had Yellow Diamond sat vigil by her bedside in these past four years? Bathed her? Accompanied her to doctor’s appointments? Taken care of her the best way she knew how?

The number was unfathomable to Blue, innumerable even—both from a lack of attention and from the stunning knowledge that indeed, there were probably too many times to count.

There was a shifting noise then—Yellow adjusting herself on the couch, perhaps—and when Blue finally forced herself to glance up, she could see that there was a rumpled look in her wife’s eyes—the same messiness of an unironed collar, the stain of tea spilt on a tiled floor. She had jerked forward as though to reach out and touch Blue, but the position of her extended leg had made it difficult.

“But I could have done so much more, Blue,” she said softly, with quiet pain, the barren and fervent truth of it shining in those liquid gold eyes. “I watched you suffer more than I ever helped you… I’m so sorry.”

And when Blue immediately opened her mouth to protest, to rearticulate that it wasn’t as straightforward as that, that they had both done inconceivable wrongs to each other, that Yellow had done the best that she could, Yellow shook her head ferociously, her aspect taking on that same indefinable sense of authority which had so permeated her reign as the CEO of Diamond Electric.

And like the wisest of Yellow’s colleagues, Blue knew when it was best to simply stand down.

“No! I’ve been thinking about this,” she continued doggedly, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that just because we’ve both hurt each other doesn’t very well cancel out the fact that we did. That’s asinine, Blue—fallacious logic. I hurt you. I pushed you away. I didn’t want to acknowledge your grief for the inglorious reason that if I did, I would have to acknowledge my goddamn own.”

She raised her voice only at the end, flinching when she did, looking away.

The pale light flooding down from the strips in the ceiling cast strange shadows across her beaten face, and Blue Diamond’s heart bruised with the utter surreality of it all.

The confession.

The accountability.

The simple agony in Yellow’s voice, laid bare.

There were no barriers between them now, no walls, no facades, no meticulously constructed pretenses—only words.

Words and words and words.

Yellow Diamond had been there for Blue in so many different ways in four years… but she had hurt Blue so many times in so many different ways, too, and that was apparently something that neither of them were allowed to forget.

How many times had Blue laid in the horrible dark by herself, silent tears streaming down her face weathered? And how many times had Yellow insisted to her physician do up her meds, as though the underlying problem of grief could be treated first and foremost with a pill? How many times had her wife raised her voice at her—so devastatingly harsh, aloof, and cruel?

The number was unfathomable, innumerable.

Blue could not immediately swallow the lump in her throat.

“I… I remember thinking that if I could just keep myself together on the outside,” Yellow half-whispered, “I could be strong enough for both of us. I couldn’t bear being weak.”

And she flexed her fists on top of her powerful thighs, scraped knuckles trembling.

And she somehow found enough courage to look Blue in the eye.

And Blue stared at her right back, her eyes melting with awful tears.

“Grief isn’t weakness, Yellow,” she said ardently, with all the conviction she could muster, with all the atoms in her broken body.

Because she knew grief; she understood it; it was her closest companion, her very best and most horrible friend.

Yellow sniffed and swiped a hand across her face as though it would do anything, as though it would annihilate the over-brightness of her eyes.

“What is it then?” She asked, and from the quiet tone of her voice, Blue thought that she’d already guessed the answer.

But she said it aloud anyway, for both of them to hear and to know and to never forget again.

She reached over and gently took her lover’s hand and whispered, “Love.”

Tuesday, July 10, 9:02PM:

Blue: It’s such a hard feeling to contend with, sweet boy—the feeling of everything, the feeling of nothing, the feeling of drowning in the empty space of your own head.

Blue: I was there.

Blue: Some days, I still am.

Blue: But please know, Steven Universe, that I am here for you.

Blue: So many people are here for you.

Wednesday, July 11, 6:58AM:

Steven: thank you, Blue

vi.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a dead queen to mourn and to bury in a one-hundred thousand dollar casket.

On the day that White Diamond died, Blue washed her wife’s hair when they showered together that night, rubbing her fingers gingerly across her scalp as the steaming water broke across the crowns of both of their heads.

Yellow braced her shaking hands against the marbled walls and tried not to make so much as a sound.

Her shoulder blades were knife-sharp with the excruciating tension of holding herself together.

(Of not falling apart.)

Blue kissed the skin right between the middle of those tremulous mountains and scrubbed those places tenderly, too.

And when they dressed in their pajamas and went to bed together later on, loosely intertwining hands and painfully letting go, Pink Diamond came in, wearing one of Yellow’s old t-shirts as a gown, and wrapped her arms around Blue’s neck first, pressing a gentle kiss against her head. Her dark eyes were red from where she had been crying, for she had loved her Gran dearly, even if the eighty-five year old woman had taken habitual offense to the teenager’s choices of music.

“Goodnight, Mom.”

Blue closed her eyes in her daughter’s warm embrace and inhaled the scent of her floral shampoo.

“Goodnight, Pink.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.

She used to say it so easily then, and she said it so often, too.

It was commonplace.

It was habit.

(What had ever happened in the intervening years? Blue Diamond, to her eternal condemnation, could not know.)

And then the sixteen-year old dutifully shuffled over to the other side of the bed, where Yellow was sitting on the edge, staring blankly into space, the lines beneath her eyes stark, as though dictated in black ink. And Pink wrapped her arms around her other mother, too, burying her nose against that tall column of a neck.

Tears flowing down her freckled face, she whispered, loud enough for Blue to hear, “I’m so sorry, Momma.”

Yellow Diamond didn’t seem capable of moving a muscle at that very moment, more statue than human, obelisk-like, calcified.

But Blue watched as their beautiful daughter squeezed all the tighter, uncaring that she was meeting stone, her slender shoulders wrenching with a sob.

“I’m going to miss her, too.”

Yellow hadn’t cried since she had first gotten the call earlier that morning, and she didn’t start then either; Blue knew her too well; she was desperately afraid to be vulnerable for anyone to see.

And yet, with slow rigidity, with a tenderness that almost did not befit her, labored though it was, the businesswoman reached upwards and encircled her arms around her daughter, drawing the sixteen-year old girl into her lap as though she was that same child who had perpetually come into her mothers’ room after a bad nightmare.

“Shh,” she croaked, and there was pain in her fractured voice.

Pronounced agony.

Love.

Blue’s heart stuttered at the sight and at the sound.

“Shh, Pink,” she repeated, cradling her child, tangling her fingers in that wild, pink hair. “I’m here.”

vii.

Thursday, July 12, 7:12PM:

Steven: hey Blue?

Blue: Yes, Steven?

Steven: You can come visit me tomorrow if you want.

Steven: Would morning be okay? 9:00 maybe? I think they have some more tests to do on me in the afternoon

Blue: I’ll be there.

The summer evening was flush with soft colors—pink and indigo and aegean blue, all bleeding into each other, all melting, until the sky was falling with hazy radiance, white stars dotting the sky like angels in the night. Blue was on the balcony when Yellow arrived home, listening to a familiar piano arrangement that was playing on the classical radio station; the portable stereo was sitting on the table between the chairs.

“You’ve always liked this one,” Yellow said fondly, and when Blue turned around, she saw that her wife was leaning against the sliding glass doorway, dressed as impeccably as usual in a black button down and well-tailored khakis. The collar of her shirt was popped up around her sinewy neck, and there was a manila folder tucked neatly beneath her unhurt arm. She’d spent yet another day at the hospital, doing heavens only knew what.

At least she wasn’t coming home with any new injuries, though.

“Debussy?”

“Chopin,” Blue smiled faintly, and the gesture stretched a little stiffly across her unpracticed lips. “Nocturne in E Flat Major… I used to play it at my parents’ estate for our guests…”

“You used to get so frustrated when you pressed the wrong key,” Yellow teased as she pushed herself off of the door and ambled over. She didn’t quite sit down in her chair, but rather placed the manila folder down in front of the stereo before straightening up again, her silhouette tall in the burgeoning night. “Your brow would furrow just in the middle before you’d start all over again, intent on getting it right this time…”

Blue Diamond’s heart gently pulsed in her throat as she stared upwards at this figure she knew so well—so stern and so simultaneously magnanimous, so magnificent and so undeniably… broken, the lines beneath her eyes fixed scars, her face an angular canvas for cuts and oddly healing bruises.

“I’ve always been a perfectionist, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

Yellow drew a purposeful step closer, and Blue instinctively leaned back, her stomach clenching against wild and irrational and warranted fright.

“Yellow…”

Because then, with a little awkwardness in her eyes, with a hell of a lot of fear, Yellow Diamond slowly proffered her hand, the metal band of her watch catching in the golden light that illumined the balcony.

There was no mistaking the gesture.

It was an invitation.

“The song’s almost over,” Blue whispered, her throat savanna-dry.

“So?” Yellow meant it to be casual, Blue inferred, but the sound came out too agitated. Color leaked from the sky and seemed to scribble the hollows of her cheeks in. “That’s never stopped us before.”

She was embarrassed.

It was adorable.

And strange.

And oddly sad.

And so, Blue Diamond swallowed her fears.

She took her wife’s hand in the star-strewn darkness.

They could be embarrassed and strange and oddly sad together.

Relief shattering her face, Yellow leaned forward then and wrapped her arms around Blue to help her stand, going slowly, with all consummate gentleness. Their bodies were so close that they could hear the hummingbird beating of each other’s hearts—loud, quick, and desperately afraid.

Blue placed her chin on Yellow’s shoulder and allowed herself to be held by her wife for the first time in four years.

The thought and the sensation nearly made her want to cry.

Yellow Diamond led them slowly and carefully as the arrangement lolled through its sweeping notes. With Blue’s bad hip and Yellow’s sore leg, they couldn’t do much more than turn around in careful circles.

Once upon a time, they would have both sworn that they could out-waltz a king.

“I had an interesting day today,” Yellow said suddenly, as though this was explanation enough for why she was dancing with her wife. Her breath was warm against the tip of Blue’s right ear.

“Oh?”

“Indeed,” she nodded, her chin briefly pressing against Blue’s shoulder, “but I’ll have to tell you about it later, I’m afraid.”

“You’re such a tease,” Blue murmured, but the accusation didn’t come out quite as light as she wanted it to. Her voice shook, and her hands trembled where they were resting on the woman’s back.

Tears danced in her sea-dark eyes.

“Something of the sort, yes.”

The song continued on, but it was nearing its beautiful end—a series of high-lilting lifts and then a final, graceful fall.

Blue greeted every note like it was an old friend, long lost at sea, now come home.

“I’m going to see Steven tomorrow,” she whispered as they continued to draw their slow circle upon the floor. “Early. He asked me to come visit.”

A slight pause.

The piano tinkled a spray of final notes.

And then, there was silence.

“I don’t think his head is in a good place.”

The silence made the proclamation all the more wretched.

Yellow stopped them in their place but didn’t quite let go of Blue, her fingers curling into the thin fabric of her dress.

“I don’t find that hard to believe,” she murmured. “We wouldn’t be in a good place either if…”

But rightfully so, she let the end of that particular hypothetical trail off into the night, for Yellow and Blue Diamond both weren’t in a good place either yet. They were dancing, and they were tentatively smiling, and they were learning how to love each other all over again.

But that was only the beginning.

The start of another piano arrangement began to rise softly from the stereo.

“Bach,” Blue said automatically to smooth the rough moment over. “One of the Goldberg Variations, I believe.”

And so they began their gentle revolutions again, swaying, barely moving their feet to the solemn melody. The wind ran its fingers across them, stirring Blue’s heavy braid, ruffling the collar of Yellow’s shirt.

“Do you know what you're going to say to him?”

It was a remarkably intrusive question, or perhaps it very well wasn’t. Perhaps Blue was judging off the standard that four years of standoffishness from her wife had taught her so emphatically. The questions she most associated with Yellow now largely had to do with whether or not she’d taken all her pills.

She shivered a little, even though the air was mild.

“No,” she replied, closing her sunken eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea…”

She hadn’t been able to rouse herself out of four years of grief; despite whatever Pearl seemed to believe, she wasn’t entirely sure that she possessed the words that would be enough to help Steven Universe. For even he hadn’t given her words that fateful day in the cemetery.

He’d given her kindness.

He’d given her a flower.

“You’ll figure it out,” Yellow said with an assuredness that made Blue’s heart flutter again. It was a wonder that she could even breathe.

“You say that with such confidence on my behalf.”

And as Bach’s mournful contemplation scored that profound night, Yellow Diamond drew back, so that Blue could see her face, every sharply drawn facet of it, illuminated in that softly scattered lamplight—fifty-six years of life, pressed into the layers of her skin, lines and shadows and lines. These were the lines that had formed beneath her eyes when their daughter first died. And there was the cut that raced across the bridge of her nose from the car accident. And here were the stitches that currently served as a memento of that scary night, too. And there were the slight parentheses formed around her mouth whenever she frowned, relics of time and age and grief.

Her golden eyes were bright with emotion and ancient with the weight of so many passed years.

“Because I know you,” she returned simply, “and I love you.”

They were merely three words, but Blue’s heart nearly failed to hear them.

Spoken to her.

Meant for her.

By the person whom she loved.

Oh, dear God, when was the last time anyone had ever told her that they loved her?

She could not say; she strained to remember.

“I love you, too,” she whispered it back, even though it was only four words, and they were all so very semantically simple.

But the expression on Yellow Diamond’s face was anything but as she, too, registered what it was to be loved by another, her mouth agape, pleasure and pain and ecstasy and terror warring across her face in dizzying swirls.

Oh, dear God, when was the last time she had told Yellow that she loved her?

She could not say; she strained to remember.

And there was hesitancy then.

And vast, godawful fear.

And there was longing then.

And tender, unquestioning desire.

And they both leaned forward then…

And tilted their heads in just the right way…

And they…

viii.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a master bedroom that smelled like a fresh coat of paint.

It was empty as of yet, hollow and silver-walled and woefully unadorned—the movers had just placed the bed and mattress down. They’d be coming back later on that day with the nightstands, armoires, and dressers—all custom-made for the Diamonds’ penthouse suite.

For their first home.

“Wait,” Yellow said, and there was mischief in her twenty-eight year old voice that took Blue by pleasant and tender surprise. “Let’s finalize this bridal style.”

“Yellow,” she laughed, her face coloring pink, “don’t be ridiculous.”

But the heiress only shook her head, grinning with all the self-assuredness of her love and general air of arrogance, as she bent down and scooped her wife into her well-toned arms. Instinctively, Blue wrapped her own arms around that corded neck to help support her weight and found herself so close to Yellow’s face that she could not help but be enchanted.

By her.

Because of her.

This golden-eyed knight.

“I’m not being ridiculous,” Yellow scoffed, pressing a quick kiss against her head. “I’m being romantic. Haven’t you heard of the concept before?”

“Abstractly,” she teased. “In novels and fairytales and the like.”

“You read too many books.” “And you read too little.”

“Nerd.”

“Neolith.”

And they grinned at each other with unbearable affection as Yellow Diamond walked them over the threshold of the room, careful to maneuver her body in such a way that Blue’s feet didn’t hit the doorframe.

When they were on the other side, though, she gently placed her down, so that they were directly in front of the bed that would soon be their own. Blue would assume the right side and Yellow the left, and on some nights, they would meet directly in the middle.

“Soon,” Blue murmured, softly interlinking her fingers with Yellow’s. The bands of their wedding rings clinked delicately at the touch.

“No more bumming out in my mother’s mansion,” Yellow smiled, playing a little with Blue’s hand, swinging it.

“And hearing her daily tirades about being late to breakfast…”

“Oh, yes,” came that harsh, lovely laugh that Blue so loved. “I certainly won’t miss those.”

And they turned to face each other then, light playing in their youthful eyes.

And Yellow reached up and tentatively brushed back a strand of loose hair behind Blue’s ear.

And Blue leaned into the touch because she could not imagine ever doing anything else in this world.

And their futures stretched before them, ribbon-like, graceful, spiraling into each other’s lifelines with an inextricability that they simultaneously believed in and found hard to fathom. They were each other’s beginnings and their ends. They were partners, soulmates, wives. They dreamed, in that very moment, tiny though it was, of all the things that they would do together over the course of an interconnected lifetime. They would chase their ambitions with wild abandon and climb to the very height of them side by side. They would take long walks in the park near their high rise. They would go see musicals on the date nights that Blue chose and drink the most expensive bottles of champagne over steak and lobster on the ones that Yellow preferred. They would fall into the same bed every night, the very bed in front of them now. They would fall asleep in each other’s arms—warm, loved, secure. Maybe they would get a cat at some point, even though Yellow swore up and down that she was allergic to them. And maybe they would travel the world, seeing all the sights and wonders and ultimately concluding that somehow, even the Eiffel Tower paled in comparison to the view that they had of each other.

And maybe, one day, they would even adopt a child to love, to raise, and to cherish.

For Blue had always wanted a little girl.

The possibilities were endless.

And so, they leaned forward then…

There was nothing else left to do.

And they tilted their heads in just the right way…

And they…

ix.

Thursday, July 12, 7:45PM:

Steven: I’m scared, Blue.

They danced in the incomplete darkness for as long as they could both bear it, but eventually, their bodies caught up to them—Blue’s aching hip and Yellow’s sore leg and the overwhelming awkwardness of it all that arrested their limbs, too, as they slowly remembered what it was to touch each other.

They hadn’t touched each other in so many years.

Holding on to the head of her cane for support, Blue leaned down and turned off the stereo, while Yellow collected that curious manila envelope from the table and tucked it beneath her arm again.

When they both straightened up again, their noses were inches away from each other.

Blue could see every microfilament in her wife’s expression, softly realized by the amber light above. She was a beautiful creature, down to every last line that had struck itself across her face. Those dark lashes and golden eyes. The way her teeth gently pressed into her lower lip in tender and shy hesitancy.

With this sort of notable self-consciousness, though, she stepped backwards and away, giving them both space to breathe.

Blue’s heart felt as though it was going to beat right out of her chest.

“You can shower first,” Yellow said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I have some paperwork to attend to anyway.”

Oh.

She’d forgotten, for however long that they had been on the balcony together, that it was commonplace for them to part at night.

That they weren’t together.

How awful and how unbearable.

How completely and utterly cruel.

Yellow’s gaze flicked down to the manila envelope, but Blue’s remained centered on her wife’s face as she struggled to articulate the words she desperately wanted to say and ardently dreaded to, her lips partially cracked open, her entire body electric with nerves.

“Blue?” Concern bent Yellow’s brow. She shifted her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.” Are you—”

“Come with me, Yellow.”

Oh, the awful and beautiful and terrible words—how they fell so clumsily and stupidly off her laden tongue.

“What?” The businesswoman’s eyes flew wide open, stretching the lines beneath them into almost comedic proportions.

Blue tried again, slowly extending her hand, palm up, her oversized sleeve dangling from her wrist.

Her skeletal fingers were trembling, but there was no mistaking the gesture.

It was an invitation.

“Come to bed with me, Yellow,” she whispered as tears reflexively blurred her eyes. It was no small wonder that she still had the capacity to cry after so many days and nights of weeping herself undone.

“Please.”

What complicated emotions were going through Yellow Diamond’s mind then, Blue could not entirely say. Sundry emotions seized across her eyes; her mouth wrenched itself open; and for what felt like an eternity, an infinity wrapped into excruciating seconds, she was simply and utterly speechless, staring at that outstretched hand as though she was seeing God for the first time.

How many nights had this woman dreamed of this moment? Blue wondered to herself, pain and love and fear commingling in the column of her throat.

And how many nights have I half-wanted it?

Half-dreaded it?

Craved it.

Pushed it away.

She did not have time to answer these profound questions, though, for with astonishing tenderness, with paramount and equivalent fear, Yellow took her hand, palms against palms, the striations of their fingers aligning themselves perfectly.

“Are you sure?” She asked quietly.

She was thorough as ever; she was giving Blue a readymade out.

Blue Diamond had never been more unsure about anything in her life.

“Yes,” she whispered anyway.

And so they…

Thursday, July 12, 8:15PM:

Blue: It’s okay to be scared, Steven.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a king-sized bed that had always been meant for two.

Theirs was a sad tale.

A tragedy.

Their daughter died, and that was something that neither of them would ever entirely recover from.

But, and all the same, they could love each other nonetheless.

They could be there for each other for the rest of their dwindling days.

Holding hands.

Learning the shapes of each other’s collected and accumulated scars.

Braving the night together, one second, one minute, one fraction of a vast and incomprehensible infinity at a time.

In that dark bedroom, silent tears streamed down Blue Diamond’s face as her wife tentatively held her, her face against her shoulder, her arms encircling the softness of her gowned belly. She rested her slender hands on top of those of tall, leathery ones and didn’t know whether to be devastated that this was the first time they had shared a bed together in four years or so utterly relieved.

Yellow kissed her head.

And the back of her neck.

And her cheek.

And kept asking if she was okay? Was her hip doing fine? Did she need more space?

And Blue replied, every time, in the strongest voice she could muster, “No.”

No, she was not okay.

No, her hip was not fine.

No, she didn’t need more space.

It was all paradoxes and contradictions: grief and love and so many wasted years. The potential for a better future. The awful fear that things could eventually become worse. Blue’s softness and Yellow’s sternness. Blue’s selfishness and Yellow’s tender care.

But they went to bed together, and that was what mattered.

And when Blue Diamond finally fell asleep, for the first time in a very long time, she did not nightmare.

She did not dream.

xi.

Friday, July 13, 7:22AM:

Steven: you think so?

Blue: I know so.

Blue: Being scared is how we know that we are alive.

By the time Blue had woken up and gotten dressed and made it to the kitchen the next morning, Yellow was already gone to work according to Livia, who was fixing Blue’s choice of tea. The slightly bitter aroma sharpened the air.

“She left something for you, though, Mrs. Diamond.” The slight maid used a spoon to point towards the counter. “She asked me to tell you…”

“Thank you, Livia,” she returned gently as she proceeded to the directed area, one doleful cane clink at a time.

Laying on top of the cool marble was the manila envelope Yellow had brought out onto the balcony last night. It was clasp-side down, and the businesswoman’s squared, utilitarian penmanship had dictated a short note to Blue in black ink.

Before she had the chance to read it, though, Livia was sliding the steaming cup of earl gray across the counter, the dark liquid gently sloshing against the rim.

“Do you need anything else, ma’am?”

Blue glanced up and studied the maid’s face, which was tentative with kindness and shy with awe. It suddenly struck her then, with all the precision of a lanced sword, how hard these past four years must have been for her, too.

“No,” she murmured softly. “Thank you, Livia… I think I’m…”

But then, she remembered.

Yes, there was in fact something she required before she went to the hospital today.

“My checkbook if you would, please, Livia… I haven’t the slightest clue where I’ve last placed it.”

If Livia seemed surprised by this odd request, she didn’t betray it in her features, simply nodding with all the delicacy that her natural constitution seemed to entail.

“Yes, Mrs. Diamond.”

“Thank you again.”

And the girl fluttered off, wisp-like in her movements, towards the dark corridor, leaving Blue alone with her thoughts and her tea and the manila envelope beneath her. She looked down again, running her fingers across that familiar scrawl.

Test results. The doctors rushed to get them done. I love you. - Yellow

Blue’s harrowed heart lurched against her ribcage as she comprehended these words, as they seemingly fell to the pit of her stomach.

Sickening her.

Immediately goring her.

She flipped the envelope over and unclasped it with almost indecent haste.

There were about twenty papers in all, neatly stacked; the first sheet was the same shade of light pink that had once been their daughter’s favorite color, and the reminder nearly ruined her where she stood.

But eventually, with trembling fingers, she negotiated the papers out of their sheath, her dark eyes scanning the neatly printed words.

And when she comprehended them, when realization swept down across her body with glorious, sweeping force, Blue Diamond did something she had not an occasion to do for years upon years now.

Strangely enough, though, in these past few weeks alone, it was becoming something of a commonality.

Her lips tilted upward in the barest, most gentle of curves.

And she...

#bellow diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond #pink diamond #white diamond #steven universe #s: steven universe #mimiku #flower child #i'm going to weep #i cannot believe i completed this chapter

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rwbyvein · 3 years

Text

War of the Roses: Perturbation: Part II/II

"Lead by..." Ozpin voiced, and paused for dramatic effect, "Jaune Arc."

"Huh?" Jaune asked, "Lead by?"

* * *

Weiss looked at the podium as Professor Ozpin had called their names. Fate, it seems, could be fickle. Her heart flickered, and she was unsure if it was anticipation or longing. She breathed in deep as she approached the stage.

* * *

On one hand, the debonair chevalier who had courted her had collapsed under the weight of his own hubris, and the expectations now placed upon his shoulders. On the other, she curiously had no such expectations. She had been looked over, completely, utterly, undeniably. In favour of the young harlequinn whom seemed to have trouble counting to twenty in the presence of her overzealous boots. What had she gotten herself into? Surely, had she attended Atlas, she would have been made leader of her small team, though the thought of being both in Atlas, and a specialist brought a shudder to very core. Her eyes refocused as she found a red cloak being placed her.

"You looked cold." Ruby stated.

"I looked what?" Weiss asked, "Do you have any idea what the temperature difference is between here and Atlas?"

"Is it cold?" Ruby asked, and Weiss' eyes grew wide.

"Yes." she uttered, "Atlas is colder than Vale."

"She's saying she's fine, sis." Yang said to Ruby, and Ruby pulled off the cloak off of Weiss' shoulder. She let out a weak scoff, and then paused as the weight was lifted, literally. Exactly how heavy was her cloak?

* * *

Weiss heard the murmurs that sounded as Ruby and Jaune spoke outside their dorms, followed by Ruby loudly stating, "Nope!" in the most cheerful voice possible, followed quickly by another, "Nope." Weiss clutched her chest as she felt a momentary pertubation. She had to remind herself it was good to see her friends so enjoying themselves. Weiss looked up from her desk as that thought bore deep into her core.

* * *

His skill was improving with alarming alacrity, at least now that his involvement with Team CRDL has come to an end. His style seemed to be developing elements from his alarcitous partner. The reasons did not even require speculation. It was alarming and charming at the same time. Her chevalier was going from scorn to squire, and...

she paused as the concept of HER chevalier bore deep into her core. She paused with bated breath as she realized her compatrioate was engendering herself to him without compare. She clutched her chest as if she fear her heart would cease to beat if she were not pondering over it, so.

* * *

There, he stood, before her, having just lied to approach himself to her heart. A guitar in his hand, insincere look upon his face, and seemed to lack the very basic concepts required to partake in music. "No." she dismissiviely stated as she closed the door.

"And that's why we call you Ice Queen." Yang stated as Weiss made her way over to the window. She breathed in deep and did her best to not shudder, so embarassed by her own so-recent failure. Before she knew what was happening she found small arms about her small waist, and the effervescent warmth of her most-dear compatriot. She did not know how to react except to withhold her breath as if doing so also withheld her very being. She could do neither for very long, and oh-so-quickly she had to breathe out and lean back into the embrace. She did not have the words to describe how wonderful this was.

"Get a room, you two." Yang quiped.

Weiss huffed, and slipped out of Ruby's grasp to turn to look at her, "Need we remind you that we have a room."

"Yeah?" Yang asked, "But I'm in the room. Want me to go trade places with Jaune?" Weiss let out a terrifying scoff in reply. "Either way, I've got some energy I've got to work off. I'm going to go work out."

As Yang slipped out of the door Ruby slipped back around Weiss.

"One day." They heared Yang said from beyond the door. "You'll melt her Ice Queen heart."

This caused Weiss to let out an effervescent huff, and Ruby kissed her on the cheek. Weiss breathed in deep and reached back to gently craddle her face. "You will tell no one that we have done this."

"Does that mean you want me to let go?" Ruby asked, and Weiss said nothing, though the momentary lack of breath spoke volumes. "We both know you don't mean what you say."

Tears started to form in Weiss' eyes as she let out a whimper. "Then why do I say them?"

"Because you are afraid." Ruby said to her.

"Afraid of what?" Weiss asked.

"Jaune?" Ruby asked, and Weiss scoffed between whimpers, "Me?" Weiss sniffled a rebuff. "Then that leaves?.."

"I know very well what that leaves." Weiss sniffled, tears still falling down her face. "Just do not dare to let me go."

* * *

Ruby and Weiss cuddled into the corner as Weiss' tears finally seemed to ebb, the sniffling turning to blubbering until she finally seemed to recover. Ruby kissed her on the cheek again. Weiss' eyes flew open at the revelation at what had happened. She quickly leapt to her feet, and did her best to adjust her clothing. A look of fear appeared in her face.

Ruby quickly jumped up to her feet, "Let's get you cleaned up."

"Your reaction is more alarming." Weiss stated.

"Oh, pfft. Like I've never seen Yang cry over a boy before."

"I sincerely doubt it was because of her own reprehensible, self-destructive actions."

"Have you met Yang?" Ruby asked, "That's kind of her thing."

* * *

Weiss sat in front of the mirror as Ruby cleaned her face.

* * *

Weiss sat in front of the mirror as Ruby fixed her makeup.

* * *

Ruby put down the makeup and gave Weiss a quick kiss on the cheek.

Weiss reached up for the place she had been kissed and stared at herself for a moment. She then turned towards Ruby. "Why do you keep doing that?" she asked, and Ruby Petal Burst away up onto her bed. Weiss stood up, fixed herself in the mirror, and slowly walked over to Ruby's bed. "It was not made out of judgement. It was made out of..." she voiced, and trailed off. Ruby's eye appeared over the side of her bed, gleaming from underneath her hood.

"Of?" Ruby asked.

"A feeling I scarcely feel I have felt before."

"What's gotten into you?" Ruby asked, her face appearing from under her hood, and Weiss clutched her heart.

"A feeling forgotten that I cannot say."

"If you can't, then what makes you think I can?" Ruby asked.

"If neither of us can say, perhaps we should simply act without saying?"

* * *

Ruby and Weiss lay nude, entwinned under the blanket in Ruby's bed.

"I feel I can finally speak." Weiss stated.

"Do we have to?" Ruby whined.

"I'm afraid we do." Weiss replied, "About our good squire, and his dramatic, traumatic exploits."

"Uh?.." Ruby asked, and Weiss kissed her on the cheek.

"Jaune." Weiss simply stated. Ruby's faced turned as red as her name, and tried to look the other way if her body was not so entwinned with Weiss. "We can no longer flee from how we are feeling."

"I'm pretty good at - uh? - fleeing?" Ruby asked.

"Did you truly mean it when you said I looked like an angel?" Weiss asked.

"Well, duh, pfft." Ruby replied.

"Duh?" Weiss glibly asked. "My status as an angel is that apparent?"

"You do take really good care of yourself, and your skin is so... Weissy, and you are so beautiful. I'm nothing like..."

"Your skin is just as Weissy as mine." Weiss replied, "And you are just as beautuful."

"I am?" Ruby asked.

"You just lack confidence, something our good chevalier has developed in spades."

"Then how do we do it?" Ruby asked.

"As if I would have the foggiest idea of how to get this to work.

The two jumped as the door opened to their room. Yang walked in with Blake right behind her. "Wait?" Yang asked, as she audibly sniffed the air.

"And our lives so shortly come to an end." Weiss sarcastically said.

"I'll leave you girls..." Yang said as she turned to walk way.

"Halt." Weiss stated, causing Yang to pause in her tracks. "Now that our shame has been made so public, we need your advice"

Yang turned around, "You mean like, technique?"

"I mean with..." Weiss said, pausing to let out a great shock of breath followed by a great inhale, "Jaune."

Yang stood perfectly still as the thoughts bounced around in her head. "Do you want, like the fastest?"

"I suppose." Weiss stated.

"Give me a minute." Yang said, and turned back to the door. Blake quickly filed out. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and both Ruby and Weiss paused their breathing.

"You don't suppose?.." Weiss voiced.

"Jaune?!" Ruby called out.

"Can I come in?!" he shouted through the door.

"Simply close the door behind you!" Weiss shouted.

Jaune stepped in and turned to close the door before looking back over the room. "Hello?" he asked, and Weiss extended her arm from Ruby's bed.

#rwby #war of the roses #jaune arc #ruby rose #weiss schnee

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sirtwentyofhousegoodmen · 4 years

Note

Arcturus/Melania for a prompt?

April 3rd, 1923

Arcturus Black scowled at the sight before him.

There were dozens of them—from Hogwarts students who'd barely finished their O.W.L.'s to the despaired over daughters yet unwed and rapidly approaching the number deemed the end of an unattached pureblood woman's use (30), All the available pureblood girls (along with some rather bold, uppity half-bloods) were currently flooding the ballroom at Noire House, each about as desirable as the option that came before them.

As always, thoughts of Cedrella made his lip curl even further.

The sound of Abraxas's hiss of distaste brought the young heir to the House of Black out of what his sister would call his sulking, and he pinned down the young Malfoy heir with a questioning gaze.

"Wilhemina Selwyn is wearing the most ghastly gown I've ever seen in my life," He uttered, shuddering theatrically.

"It's not the dress that's at fault," came the smirking voice of Alexander Rowle. "It's the fact that it shows off those repugnant, veiny arms of hers."

"The gown, the veins—I care not, I'm blaming whatever's remotely involved with forcing me to witness that."

"Boys!"

Arcturus turned his head languidly at the unmistakeably deep voice of his younger brother Regulus—that somehow he still managed to make sound effeminate—and gave his brother a curt nod that the younger Black could glean the meaning off a mile away.

Arcturus was having a miserable time.

"Well, don't tell me you've started without me."

"We would never dare," Abraxas raised his glass, mockingly. "What fun is the game without the best player?"

‘The game’ being the snide comments each of them delighted in making about all the other party guests.

"Now, Archie—I know when my older brother's in a snit," Regulus smiled to himself at the eye-roll this elicited from his brother, then theatrically lowered his voice. "Tell me, which of them was it and where did they touch you?"

Arcturus's face turned bright red while Malfoy and Rowle tried—poorly—to hide their sniggers behind their goblets.

"Careful with your brother, Black," Rowle said, stamping down the last vestiges of his laughter. "The Macmillans pounced on him with their eldest twenty minutes ago and he's been in a state since."

Regulus furrowed his brow and scrunched up his nose in distaste. "Mildred Macmillan? Oh, Archie, you poor dear. Thoroughly repellant woman."

Arcturus huffed in agreement. "Too lippy by half."

"Believe me when I say I share in your misery, Arcturus." Regulus took a light sip from his sidecar. "The Crabbes just downright assaulted me with that Aligherian creature they call a daughter."

Abraxas snorted. "Aren't they speaking with your uncle about Pollux?"

"Yes, but why settle for the third-in-line when you can get the second?" He shrugged, perfectly flippant in that way only Regulus could be. "Not that it makes any difference for them, I'm afraid. Irma isn’t to my taste, ghastly personality aside.”

The others shifted their feet uncomfortably while Arcturus ground his teeth to dust. Regulus's...preferences were bad enough, but to have it alluded to in such a way! Still, Regulus' unflappable manner and his overly sharp tongue—owed to a childhood of reading everything there was in the library—tended to amuse the pureblood men in their set enough to engender a tentative kinship. If nothing else, he was a novelty—and, above all else, a Black.

"Either way, I'd still say my evening has been less miserable than yours, Arcturus. After all, you were the one this whole soireé was thrown for."

Arcturus grimaced. "I haven't forgotten. I can hardly go to the restroom without being accosted by some impudent hoyden with designs above her station. That little jape you made wasn't too far off, I'll have you know."

Regulus laughed, gaily. "I trust nothing as bad as your Hogwarts Graduation party happened yet, has it?"

Arcturus grimaced at the memory of a very drunk, very indecent Caroline Greengrass hiding underneath his bedsheets in some pie-eyed notion to make herself Mrs. Black.

"No, Thank God. Aside from the Fawleys practically throwing their plain daughter at me."

"Eugenie?" Alexander scoffed. "Quiet as a mouse and about as attractive as one to boot."

"What do you expect?" Malfoy scoffed. "She is a Fawley after all—no wonder they decided to send that sister of hers to France. Those debauched cheesemongers will take anything as long as it's got legs."

"Regardless," Arcturus said, over Rowle's chuckling and Regulus's poorly hidden laugh. "I will need to pick one by the end of the night. Won't do for my uncle to waste all this gold for nothing."

"Oh, be still my beating heart," Regulus quipped.

"What do you want from me, Regulus?" Arcturus asked, patience worn thinner than his Uncle Cygnus's hair. "This is a cattle show with ballgowns, nothing more."

Regulus lifted up his hands in mock surrender. "Down, Archie. It's only a jape—you're no fun at all tonight. Normally we all have a delightful time bullying these unfortunates and you're stewing like a...stew? Bah, I can't think of anything clever to say anymore, this sidecar really does pack a punch."

The MacMillans appeared to have caught sight of him if the matriarch—a Goyle from a secondary branch that was far too ambitious for her own good—pointing wildly in Arcturus's direction to her long-suffering husband was any sign.

"If you'll excuse me—I need to leave before that woman tears me to pieces."

Without another word in his companions' direction, he bolted from the pillar they had been hiding behind for the last half-hour, and left through the first open door for the gardens he could find. Thankfully, Arcturus neither saw nor heard any witches or wizards upon his arrival outside, and he breathed out a sigh of immense relief.

He stayed there a few seconds, fixed to the marble flooring as if it were some rendezvous point, then shook off any odd feelings and set about a brisk walk around the gardens to gather his bearings.

As always, however, God had not seen fit to make his dreadful day any easier and after a few minutes of nothing but blessed solitude, he saw a petite girl at the entrance of the greenhouse.

Arcturus frowned. Brown hair, brown eyes—similar enough in looks but less beautiful than her elder sister. Yes, it was most certainly the younger Macmillan girl—she was in Regulus’s year, if he recalled correctly.

As if he hadn’t had enough of that lot today.

“Miss Macmillan, is it?”

The slip of a girl jumped, letting out a slight yelp in surprise.

“Oh, my—Mr—Sir, I, forgive me, I was only—“

“Settle down, Miss Macmillan. I mean no harm.” Arcturus walked toward her, grateful that she seemed to calm slightly at his approach. He had no patience for dealing with a ditzy, skittish schoolgirl tonight on top of everything else.

“Arcturus Black,” He nodded at her, rather less curt than he usually did, much to his own confusion. “We met earlier, I believe.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Black. What an unexpected pleasure.”

He snorted lightly, but didn’t comment. “Have you an interest in botany?” He nodded toward the venomous tentacula plant she’d been studying before his entrance.

The girl nodded, enthusiastic. “Herbology is my best subject at Hogwarts. We haven’t taken our N.E.W.T.’s yet, but I’m sure I’ll do well.”

“Seventh year?”

The girl nodded once, tucking an errant brown curl that had slipped out of her pinned updo behind her ear.

“The last year tends to be more...difficult for some,” Arcturus said, in an attempt at conversation—not that he knew how it felt for those who were sentimental about leaving hogwarts.

The headmaster during his own years there was his very own grandfather, after all.

She seemed to hesitate, biting her lip lightly. Looking at her in this light, he thought perhaps his judgement of her beauty was rather unfair—she wasn’t as pretty as her sister, but she was the farthest thing from plain. “It’s hard to believe it’s all over in three months. I’m rather glad I have more time to garden, however. Aside from Herbology, school was never much of an interest for me. I’ll leave all those books to my husband when I marry, I’m sure.” Arcturus nodded in approval at that, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind. “And you?”

He gave her a dry look. “I’m afraid the only thing I know about plants is how to kill them.”

She smiled shyly at the jest, and bizarrely he found himself returning it. “I’m sure you’re not as bad as all that. I hear you’ve an interest in horseflesh—one needs to be somewhat proficient in herbology if they intend to keep their horses in good health.”

Arcturus blinked, rendered mute upon the first thoughtful words he’d heard anyone say all evening. “Quite,” he nodded. “Are you knowledgeable in horseflesh, Miss?”

“I’d like to think so,” She said, fiddling with her gloves. “My grandfather keeps a stable at our house in Kintyre. I’ve been riding them since I was seven.”

“Side-saddle?” Arcturus asked, probingly.

She looked slightly offended. “Of course, Mr. Black—I could hardly ride astride, it’s unseemly for a woman.”

Arcturus felt a feline grin make its way onto his face. “I quite agree, I hope I didn’t cause any offence. Please, call me Arcturus.”

She blinked, then had the grace to blush—as if his choice hadn’t already been made obvious to him, that only solidified it further. “Of course, Arcturus, none was taken. You may call me Melania, then—or Melly, if it pleases you—that’s what everyone calls me,” she supplied, holding out her hand almost hesitatingly. Arcturus, just as all pureblood men were taught, dropped a kiss to the back of it, keeping eye contact all the way through.

Modest? Demure? Beautiful, but not so much it made her unbearably impudent and overly entitled?

The only downside was having that Goyle harpy as a mother-in-law. Then again, if all the men in his family had taught him anything, it’s that every man hates his mother-in-law. Either way, at least this dreadful affair could finally come to an end—as well as the incessant stream of grasping trollops his bachelorhood brought with it.

Silver linings and all that.

#arcturus black #melania macmillan black #prompts #ask #anon #noble and most ancient house of black #harry potter #the black sheep dog #ozymandias #abraxas malfoy #regulus black

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jinmukangwrites · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 15

Science Gone Wrong

Ao3

-o-o-o-o-

It really wasn't everyday that Jason found himself teaming up with a bat. Let alone that bat being none other than Robin. But here he was, punching the noses of various villainous evil-dooers in the nose with Damian—the shortest stack to ever exist—fighting right beside him.

Jason wouldn't be one to really complain about it though. He may not have the most lovey-dovey big-bro relationship with the squirt, but recently Damian could be known to be at least civil with him. They kinda got the sibling bit down, and Jason was alright with that, he didn't want to go anymore into that.

And really, it wasn't like this team up was planned or anything. Jason simply ended up patrolling Crime Alley and happened across a group of gangsters cornering some poor hooker. He was in the middle of taking them down when Robin jumped in out of nowhere, saying it looked like Jason could use the help in his better-than-thou-but-joking-about-it tone of voice.

Which whatever. Jason could handle the brat any day. As long as him being here didn't mean the big man was around, Jason was alright with letting the kid stick around. Damian wasn't all bad. He had his quirks, yeah, but can't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when that gift horse had two swords and knew how to use them.

Jason ducked under the swinging arm of one of the gangsters, then propelled himself forward to punch them in the gut.

The gangster went down like a crashing tree, but Jason didn't stick around long enough to listen. He turned around, looking for another opponent—which there was still plenty of—but he stopped in his tracks when he saw Robin involved in a furious fight with a rather large contender, focused on the task of hand and not noticing the thug coming up from behind with a tire iron raised in his hands like a baseball bat.

"Robin!" Jason called, but it was too late. With a loud thump, the metal bar was swung into the middle of Damian's back, causing the kid to call out and fall to the ground. Jason yelled angrily and ran forward, punching the man who hit Damian hard enough to where he probably saw stars dotting the cloudy atmosphere.

Jason made quick work with the others, no longer somewhat enjoying the fight and now just wanting it to end. Soon enough, Jason returned to where Damian laid on the ground, curled up and not making any moves to get up.

Confusion settled in Jason's gut at the sight of it. He knew the kid got hit pretty hard, but not that hard… right?

"Robin?" Jason asked, kneeling down and bringing his hand out to shake his shoulders. However, the moment Jason touched Damian, the kid whimpered.

"Don't-" Damian gasped, his voice laced with so much pain that Jason pulled his hand back like he’d just burned the kid. Damian didn't move after that, just took staccato breaths.

Okay, now Jason was concerned. He left Damian alone for the moment and moved to turn on the comms. Spinal injuries were never something to disregard or ignore, no matter how badly Jason didn't want to deal with Bruce at the moment.

"Hood to Cave," he said, "we’ve got a downed Robin."

Nothing replied for a moment, but when the noise did start, it was chaos. Jason realized just as it was too late that he should have worded that a bit better.

"What happened?!" Came the first voice. Dick's, shockingly enough. Didn't know he was in Gotham. Huh.

However, before he could answer, the grumbling voice of Bruce interrupted. "I'm on my way to your location, stay where you are."

“-is he okay? Is he bleeding?" Dick sounded close to hysterical. "Should we get the medbay ready- can I talk to him-?"

"Wing," Jason snapped, a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. "Someone got a lucky swing on his back. I think something's wrong with his spine, so yeah, medbay would probably be good."

"His spine?" Dick squeaked.

"Robin's armor is heavily padded and nearly bulletproof," Batman growled, and that headache Jason was talking about earlier was spreading toward his temples now. "A hit with the swinging force of a human shouldn't have done that kind of damage."

"Yeah, well, you tell that to the kid who hasn't moved from the ground since he went down," Jason snarled. Damian hadn't moved an inch since Jason started this practically redundant conversation.

Silence fills the line; Jason, because there wasn't much more to say. Bruce, because he was single-mindedly making his way towards their location, probably with the Batmobile in tow. Dick, because… why was Dick so quiet?

"Big bird?"

A moment of silence. Then an exhale. "Jay, you remember Eduardo Flamingo? Back when I was Batman?"

Something cold slithered into Jason's chest cavity. Not because the Flamingo was any kind of particularly horrible villain, but because the whole entire fiasco that took place that short few years ago was something he wasn't proud of. At the time, Jason honestly thought he was simply doing what needed to be done. Flamingo came to Gotham looking for a fight. He shattered Jason's helmet, almost got Scarlet killed, and…

And shot Damian five times, as close to point blank as you can get, right into his back.

Jason's thoughts roared as Dick explained to Bruce what happened. At the time, he hardly even noticed Damian laying in a pool of his own blood. He was too busy getting arrested and worrying about where Scarlet ran off to. He remembered feeling a little bit of confusion seeing the kid a few months after, flipping around and fighting the same as always, but he didn't really care at the time.

"After that… Talia took Damian and surgically inserted a new, artificial spine-"

How far gone was Jason all those years ago to have noticed?

"Turned out Talia had engendered some sort of remote into his spine. She had Deathstroke control him and use him to try to kill me-"

Protecting children and innocent people. Hadn't that always been his thing? Why didn't Damian ever count as a child? He saw him in that bloody pool, yet all he did was brag to Dick about how he dumped a tractor load of rubble onto the Flamingo, like it was something to be proud of.

"But we got it fixed. Decoded. I broke the machine they were using to control him too."

"Why is it hurting him like this now?" Jason asked, his voice oddly level. "If Talia made him a new spine, it should be in mint condition."

"Spinal injuries never go away, Hood," Batman said, and as much as Jason wanted to argue he also knew he really didn't have any high ground here. Not when the man who said that had his back broken by Bane. "What I'm wondering is why Nightwing never told us."

Jason could practically feel Dick bristle. And as much as Jason would love to listen to Dick yell at Bruce about how he's never noticed, Damian was beginning to try and shift. Little whimpers escaped his mouth, which was such an un-Damian sound that he almost couldn't believe he heard them.

"Kid?" He asked, ignoring Dick snap back at Bruce in favor of checking on the young boy below him.

"I'm fine," Damian hissed through clenched teeth. There were tears escaping the bottom parts of his mask. Jason wondered if he noticed. "Sometimes… sometimes it's like this."

Jason frowned. "Hey, try not to move too much, okay? Your old man is on his way-"

"I said I'm fine," Damian snapped. His eyes flickered up to Jason in a very pain laced glare. "My mother constructed my spine and inserted it inside me with technology beyond our time. It's strong and- hnn- durable. B-but sometimes it just..."

Jason's never heard Damian cry before. And while Damian wasn't necessarily crying now, he still sounded close to it. That must be testament to how agonizing a spinal wound could be. It's probably one of the most important parts of your body… so of course once it got damaged it would never be the same again. Even if the spine was completely replaced with something new and stronger.

"What…" Jason tried, guilt gnawing at the back of his mind. He might not have shot Damian, but this might as well be his fault. Flamingo was his problem. Damian shouldn't have been involved. He swallowed. "What do you need me to do?"

Damian bit his lip, his face scrunching up into immediate uncertainty. Like he knew exactly what would make this all a little more bearable but he was too afraid to ask.

Well… ask Jason. Because everyone knew Jason wasn't the world's best older brother. Points for trying though, right?

Then, shocking Jason, Damian opened his mouth. "Could you… play with my hair?"

Of course. Dick was rubbing off on the little tyke. Jason should have expected that they'd find similar preferred ways to be comforted. Well, maybe it wasn't the whole hair thing, but the need to be touched gently. Softly. And with Damian's spine aching the way it was, Jason doubted there was any place in his body besides his scalp that didn't pulse with agony.

"Sure," Jason replied, almost shocking himself. It was awkward, initially, placing his fingers into Damian's hair and running his digits though the stands. Though, when he saw Damian close his eyes and release a shaky, almost relaxed breath, he decided he wouldn't stop no matter what.

Jason had been an awful big brother for so long. He could do this much right? Like… this was all technically his fault after all.

Okay, now he felt really guilty. He gave Dick and Damian so much shit back then. Yeah, he wasn't in his right mind back then, and honestly now he could see why Dick worked so hard to get him in Arkham. He killed a lot of people and constantly fought with Dick. He was problematic to the highest extent. Dick saw that and made sure Jason would go somewhere he'd be safe from others and himself. At the time, he hated it. He hated being in the same place they would lock the Joker up at, or Two-Face, or Killer Croc. Even though Joker wasn't even there he could still hear his laughter while laying in his private cell.

But Dick did make sure Arkham was up to standards. He was anal about it. Jason was safe, comfortable, fed, treated well by the guards. The horrors of the prison were all in his head.

And how did Jason repay him?

By letting his kid get shot in the back five times.

Jason never said sorry about that, hadn't he?

There was the sound of shrieking tires from behind, and soon enough the Batmobile came to a screeching stop. The drivers door practically shot open as Bruce ran out, dragging a backboard similar to the ones lifeguards and paramedics used with him.

"Are you alright?" Bruce asked, and Damian opened his eyes for a moment, before shaking his head ever so slightly and squeezing his eyes shut again.

Jason could feel Bruce turn his gaze toward him, but he kept his eyes on Damian. He had never seen Damian admit to pain and weakness like that before.

This was his fault.

"Let's get him back to the manor," Jason said, clearing his throat.

Bruce nodded and leaned down to explain to Damian what they were about to do, and how much it was probably going to hurt. Getting Damian into a neck brace and onto the backboard was a struggle and a half, ending up with Damian openly crying while on the road back.

And Jason hated it. Damian wasn't supposed to cry.

By the time they made it to the Batcave and Alfred rushed on to assist Bruce with x-rays, Jason's regret was practically eating him alive. He stood back near the bat computer trying to convince himself that he didn't care as much as it felt like he did. He should go, right? Go back to his home-base and pretend he didn't see and learn what he did tonight?

He was in the middle of planning his escape when Dick came up to Jason. He was on crutches, his left foot covered in a heavy cast. So that was why he was not only on Gotham, but working the computers. Jason… didn't know.

"Hey," Dick greeted, smiling. "Thanks for calling Damian's injury in."

Jason nodded sharply, but said nothing. Dick sighed and hobbled closer and placed a hand on Jason's shoulder. His face melted into sympathy and Jason remembered that Dick was the biggest empath in the entire world, second most to Raven, an actual empath.

"Neither of us blame you for what Flamingo or Talia did, Jason," he said, "I know I said some harsh stuff to you back then… but neither of us were in the right place, ya know? I'm sorry for that. I should have-"

"You did the best you could do," Jason replied, surprising himself. Jason cleared his throat and looked to the ground. "I deserved you yelling at me."

A moment of companionable silence passed, and soon Dick had Jason's shoulder a friendly squeeze then let go. "Good thing we're better now, huh? Learn from our mistakes."

Jason nodded, this ooey-gooey emotion talk becoming a little too much. Thankfully, Dick didn't push him any further or heaven forbid hug Jason.

"C'mon," Dick said, his face going back to a bright smile, "you and I are going to go to the nearest Walgreens and get some heat pads for Damian. There's also a Redbox near where we're heading, so we can grab a couple movies." Dick jerked his head over at the exit of the cave, "I'll let you drive."

"Fine," Jason grumbled, stuffing his hands into his jacket and glaring. He'd have to get dressed quick, but his old bedroom should have something stuffed in there. Jason hardly spent the night here, but Bruce did have a knack for being prepared for the impossible. "And it's not like I'll let ya drive anyway. Your whole foot is broken. How'd you do that anyway?"

Dick immediately began to launch into an exciting story about half human half ostrich hybrids that tried to take over downtown Blüdhaven and honestly? Jason didn't listen past that because of course Dick broke his foot doing something that sounded completely fake. He looked towards the medbay before he left and saw Damian laying in a cot, still curled up but looking a little more relaxed now that he's on something soft and being worried over by both Bruce and Alfred. Jason was about to walk away, but stopped in his tracks when Damian caught his eye. Green eyes stared at Jason with an intensity that had Jason keep the gaze.

Then something even more rare than Damian crying happened. Damian's lips twitched into a slight, thankful smile. A smile… directed at him. A smile that said thank you and I forgive you and don't blame yourself. Jason had never really seen fully what Dick was talking about when he said at his core, Damian was a kid like any other. He’d only catched glimpses of it.

Damian could smile huh?

Huh.

Dick called his name and he was knocked out of his thoughts. Jason cleared his throat, nodded, then broke eye contact with the kid. He walked away before he could do something crazy, like hug him goodbye. That would be too out of character for the both of them… but… maybe someday.

#damian wayne #jason todd #robin #red hood #dc #dc comics #batman comics #fic #fanfiction #jin writes #whumptober2020 #no.15 #Science Gone Wrong #past injury #body modification tw #canon typical violence

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larktb-archive · 3 years

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Hi! I'm too shy to come off anon, but I need your help understanding something. I hope I'm not bothering you!!

I don't want to interact with anyone who is a fascist, but I'm not entirely sure what makes someone fascist. Can you please explain it to me?

I know I could look it up myself, but I know that not all definitions online can be correct and I just want your perspective;;

Thanks!

Hi anon! Well, fascism comes in many forms so “sussing out who’s a fascist” is technically a little harder to do than having a simple checklist. After all, doesn’t a White Supremacist have different beliefs to a Japanese fascist? And doesn’t a Japanese fascist have different beliefs to a Wahabist? These beliefs clash don’t they? Well, yes and no. Sure the surface level beliefs are different but the underlying core beliefs of these groups are actually quite similar; it’s the specifics which are different. Even though it isn’t a “bible” on what is fascism and shouldn’t be taken as gospel, Umberto Eco has an essay called “Ur-Fascism” which contains 14 points, which can help us identify whether certain beliefs are fascist no matter the specifics of their belief system. I’ll explain the points in short and give some examples. Quick disclaimer, I am not an expert on fascism or any of the ideologies I’ll discuss by any means so if you aren’t taking Umberto Eco’s writing as the 100% correct truth, definitely don’t take mine as that either (this is how you should treat most sources tho):

1. Cult of Tradition and 2. Rejection of modernity

I put these two together because they’re kind of inseparable. This is basically the idea that there was a “glorious past” that people need to return to and modernity is a corruption of that “glorious past”. In British fascist thought, this past is generally the 19th century at the zenith of the British Empire or mid-20th century Britain. The latter is more common for people who wish to be a little more PC with their writings; instead of trying to use a by-gone era that pretty much no one alive can remember, they use a much more recent time with nostalgic ideas of “the good old days” which doesn’t seem threatening on it’s surface but is dogwhistling for a time when there weren’t as many immigrants in the country.

You may have seen the “reject modernity, embrace tradition” meme and it’s pretty much the most obvious incarnation of this idea. Similarly you may seen people online use “degenerate” as an insult. If you look at the meaning of the degenerate it means “having lost the physical, mental, or moral qualities considered normal and desirable; showing evidence of decline”; it’s microcosm of these ideas put into a single insult. This is why you tend to see conservatives use it more than progressives.

I’d also argue that terfs obsession with 2nd wave feminism and their utter rejection of intersectionality and modern feminism is another manifestation of this idea.

3. Action for actions sake

This is less detectable in terms of individuals but still important to note that these people tend to support action without a cause. Sure the insurrection at the white house earlier this year was action, but it had no substance behind it. It was action for actions sake, which is why any principled leftist didn’t support it. Fascists will tend to openly just call for action but won’t be very specific about the purposes of the action; as long as they agree with the ideology behind it they’ll support it. It’s why fascists love harassment campaigns and mindless acts of terror. Take Wahabist terrorist orgs like Al-Qaeda or ISIS, it doesn’t matter if bombing an Ariana Grande concert has no point, the only point is the action itself.

4. Disagreement is treason

This one’s pretty self explanatory, they will ostracize you if you disagree with them. Again, terfs tend to do this, and I had a long conversation with an ex-terf I called a dumbass, who basically said that she was ostracized by them and mocked for having different beliefs (hope she’s doing well actually). There’s numerous stories from ex-terfs like this.

5. Fear of difference

There’s a tendency for fascists to group people into “us” and “them”. “They” are considered to be intruders who need to be removed whereas “we” are the people who deserve to be here because it is “our” right to be here. In Zulu Nationalism, this tends to be any non-Zulu speakers who they deem to be “Shangaan” even if they aren’t actually Tsonga, it’s just a pejorative at this point. If you see vague references to the “elite” without any reference to who they are and what makes them “elite”, this is tends to be a dogwhistle for Jewish people. Western Fascists have very little issue with the workings of capitalism itself or the accumulation of wealth by capitalists, they just don’t like “them”, taking “our” stuff. Any references to “us” and “them” is pretty much a red flag.

6. Appeal to Social Frustration

Fascists will tend to brush upon actual issues faced by the poor today but will instead blame it on an outside force. You’ll see job loss being blamed on immigrants or vague “elites”. Terfs do this too. They’ll see young girls who are genuinely struggling with patriarchal issues and divert all that pent up rage towards trans people and the “q*eers” (which they do tend to use as a slur unlike what most people would have you think).

7. Obsession with a Plot

Everything is a conspiracy! The election was rigged! 9/11 was fake! that fucking pizza place/this furniture company is a sex ring! All of these are supposedly plots by the deep state who are trying to do... something or other. You’ll notice these “Plots” don’t actually have a purpose, but the fact that there is a plot itself is the issue. This is a way of engendering paranoia in the group while also feeling that there is a constant war against you even if there isn’t. This is also why, despite news sources being pro-capitalist the right will swear up and down it’s leftist media which is controlled by “them” (usually just meaning Jewish people).

8. The enemy is both strong and weak

“Trans people have infiltrated academia and the only reason people refuse to see gender as an immutable biological concept, is because they’re too afraid of the trans cabal to say anything. But also everyone can tell trans people are crazy and haha you have a high suicide rate.” It’s contradictory that’s the point. They need to feel that they’re both counterculture but also they need to be winning at all times so that contradiction is necessary. Also the use of the word “cabal” is a pretty big red flag for all forms of fascism.

9. Pacifism is trafficking with the enemy, 10. Contempt for the weak, 11. Everybody is educated to become a hero and 12. Machismo and weaponry

All of these are kind of interrelated so I’m grouping them together (also this is already fucking long as hell so I don’t wanna bore you any further). You’ll tend to see a love for the military or at least military aesthetics when looking through fascist blogs. Guns aren’t just a tool for fascists, they’re representative of masculinity and the necessity of violence. Pacifists and anyone who refuses to fight are weak and therefore are “degenerate”. If you do not fight, if you are not willing to fight, you cannot be a “hero” (an ubermensch or a matyr). This comes with the fetishization of violence instead of the recognition of violence being an means to an end, and the worship of individuals rather than of communities and organizations. Take Japanese fascists and their lionisation of the imperial military and their desire to once again have an actual army.

Terfs don’t necessarily fit these roles except for arguably 10 considering how much they seem to look down upon the mentally ill and those who commit suicide and surprisingly 11 since that involves the hatred of non-standard sexual activities and terfs hate non-standard sex (this is from the most vanilla bitch who is very uncomfortable with kink but understands its not inherently good or bad). I have a feeling this is more so because terfs are mainly women (there are male terfs ofc) whereas this was written for male led organizations.

13. Selective populism

When fascists talk about “the people” they tend to mean “the people we like”. “The working class” can be translated to “this cishet white christian man from Minnesota who owns land but hey he lives in a rural area so he’s working class right?”. They’ll also tend to have “tokens” who will suddenly become the mouth piece of the entire community they’re supposedly representing even if no one in the community asked them to (i.e. Milo Yiannopoulos).

14. Ur fascism speaks Newspeak

They speak in terms which are both inaccessible to anyone outside of their circles whilst being so simple that once you learn them it becomes easy to understand. They abhor any form of “academic” speech so you’ll rarely see them source things (unless those things happen to agree with their views, which is rare but Jordan Peterson is popular for a reason) and if they do source things they probably wouldn’t have read them fully and will rely on you also not reading them. This is to limit any critical thinking so that your brain is basically jellified into an unquestioning organ which only responds “yes” or “no” and only appeals to a higher authority without any form of reasoning involved. This is why they complain about “the lefts memes being too wordy”... because they’re used to not having to read (this is somewhat tongue in cheek but heyho if the boot fits).

And that’s the 14 main features of fascism, if anyone is displaying multiple of these ideas then they are most likely fascist, and if an organization or group continuously replicates these ideas, then they are definitely fascist. I hope this wasn’t too long but like I said... very complex topic. (Also hopefully this is written well, it’s 10 PM and I am surviving off Irn Bru energy drink). Hope this helped!

#long post #lillypad.txt #ask away #Anon

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padawanlost · 4 years

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i have to admit im still a bit confused as how Vader still carry on the chosen one prophecy through out OT. i know georges said he still is and i trust the man's vision but imo killing out sidious for selfish reasons too (luke) doesnt counterbalance the fact the force was plunged in darkness by 3 decades of genocide. what do you think? (ps: thank you so much for all the wonderful metas)

Hey! Thanks :) The Chosen One prophecy is a bit complicated as is Anakin’s role in everything so I’ll break it all down in parts:

“You have got to remember that this is one movie, and it’s meant to be seen I through VI. So, I think when you watch the actual movie in order, the story will become very clear: that Anakin is the Chosen One. And even when Anakin turns into Darth Vader, he is still the Chosen One.” - George Lucas

The prophecy of the Chosen One

The Chosen One prophecy was made thousands of years before the events of the movies. by the time TPM starts, it’s considered a myth by most so they don’t know *exactly* what it means and how they supposed to deal with it. As we saw with Anakin’s visions, prophecies are tricky.

Because some Jedi have been able to use the Force to anticipate possible future events, it is not surprising that Jedi records relate various accounts of prophecies. The Great Holocron contains many references to the prophecy of the Chosen One: A Jedi will come To destroy the Sith And bring balance to the Force. Records are unclear about this prophecy’s exact origin, or whether the above words were the actual prophecy or a concise interpretation. Several accounts indicate that the prophecy was the subject of debate as far back as twelve hundred years ago, but it may in fact be much older. However, records do establish that approximately two hundred years before the Battle of Yavin, Jedi Masters became aware of an abrupt change in the shape of the Force, and many believed that a looming sense of dread pointed to the growing power of the dark side; some Jedi suggested that the Sith had returned, while others—maintaining that the Sith were extinct—dismissed this notion. But as time passed without any indication of Sith activity, the Jedi Master Yoda proposed that the gathering darkness was a sign of the coming fulfillment of the prophecy of the Chosen One. According to Master Yoda via the Great Holocron: Fully defeated by just anyone, the dark side cannot be, but only by the Chosen One. And who might be this Jedi? Know I do not, but not yet born is he or she. This much, sense I can. A vessel of pure Force the Chosen One will be, more powerful than any Jedi in history. [Ryder’s Windham’s Jedi vs. Sith: The Essential Guide to the Force ]

Another man—even another Jedi—might have resented the rebuke, but Obi-Wan only sighed. “I suppose—he is the chosen one, after all. The prophecy says he was born to bring balance to the Force, but …” The words trailed off. He couldn’t remember what he’d been about to say. All he could remember was the look on Anakin’s face. “Yes. Always in motion, the future is.” Yoda lifted his head and his eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits. “And the prophecy, misread it could have been.” [Matthew Stover. Revenge of the Sith]

She blinked as though he’d slapped her. “Why—that seems … unlikely, doesn’t it? What about this prophecy the Jedi put so much faith in? Isn’t he the chosen one?” “Very probably. But I have scanned this prophecy; it says only that a chosen one will be born and bring balance to the Force; nowhere does it say he has to be a Jedi.” She blinked harder, fighting down a surge of desperate hope that left her breathless. “He doesn’t have to—?” “My Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, believed that it was the will of the Force that Anakin should be trained as a Jedi—and we all have a certain, oh, I suppose you could call it a Jedi-centric bias. It is a Jedi prophecy, after all.” [Matthew Stover. Revenge of the Sith]

They knew very little of the prophecy but they *assumed* the chosen one had to be a powerful Jedi and that his role was to defeat the Sith. They didn’t know fro sure what the prophecy said about what balance meant or that this chosen one had to be ONLY a Jedi. but, because they couldn’t fathom the possibility of someone who isn’t a Jedi defeating the Sith, the moment Anakin stopped being a Jedi they automatically dismissed him as the Chosen one in favor of Luke. of course, that doesn’t mean Anakin stopped being the actual Chosen One.

The Balance:

If good and evil are mixed things become blurred - there is nothing between good and evil, everything is grey. In each of us we have balanced these emotions, and in the Star Wars saga the most important point is balance, balance between everything. It is dangerous to lose this.” George Lucas

The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that the Chosen One was to bring balance but what was balance? It wasn’t 2 Sith//2 Jedi. It wasn’t a world free of evil or conflict. It was a world where good and evil could coexist without one or the other trying to dominate the Force. It wasn’t political, it wasn’t about ending wars and religious/political groups. The balance was about the Force and in this case the Sith were the ones unbalancing the Force so the Chosen one’s job was to defeat the Sith.

We know the Force was ‘unbalance’ by Plagueis and Palpatine’s experiments but ALSO by the Jedi Order’s inability/unwillingness to prevent the ever growing corrupting in the Senate and all the problems it caused in the rest of the galaxy Surprise and disbelief mingled in Sidious’s blue eyes.

“The Force?” “Yes,” Plagueis said pensively. “But I failed to exercise due caution. As we attempt to wrest the powers of life and death from the Force, as we seek to tip the balance, the Force resists our efforts. Action and reaction, Sidious. Something akin to the laws of thermodynamics. I have been audacious, and the Force has tested me the way Tenebrous sought to. Midi-chlorians are not easily persuaded to execute the dictates of one newly initiated in the mysteries. The Force needs to be won over, especially in work that involves the dark side. It must be reassured that a Sith is capable of accepting authority. Otherwise it will thwart one’s intentions. It will engineer misfortune. It will strike back.” “The Maladians—” “Perhaps. But in any case this is why the Jedi Order has descended into decadence and is dragging the Republic down with it. Because the Jedi have lost the allegiance of the Force. Yes, their ability to draw energy from the Force continues, but their ability to use the Force has diminished. Each of their actions engenders an opposite, often unrecognized consequence that elevates those attuned to the dark side; that buoys the efforts of the Sith and increases our power. Yet our use of that power requires delicacy. We must be alert to moments when the light side falters and openings are created. Then, and only then—when all the conditions have been met—can we act without fear of meeting resistance or repercussion. “To say that the Force works in mysterious ways is to admit one’s ignorance, for any mystery can be solved through the application of knowledge and unrelenting effort. As we had our way with the Senate, and as we will soon have our way with the Republic and the Jedi, we will have our way with the Force.” [ James Luceno. Darth Plagueis]

Yoda’s reinforces this idea when he says their vision is clouded by the dark side. Everything is muddled so they can no longer see clearly.

“The first film starts with the last age of the Republic; which is it’s getting tired, old, it’s getting corrupt. There’s the rise of the Sith, who are now becoming a force, and in the backdrop of this you have Anakin Skywalker: a young boy who’s destined to be a very significant player in bringing balance back to the Force and the Republic. George Lucas - from the American ANH VHS tape in the making of Episode II in the 2000 release.

To bring balance is to ‘clear’ the Force. It’s not about eradicating Sith or saving Jedi. The Force is beyond of that. the Chosen One’s job is about cleaning the slate clean, regardless of political agenda. Of course, it doesn’t mean the Jedi *had* to way. Anakin could and should’ve chosen a different path. Nothing was set in stone. but the path he did choose doesn’t mean he stopped being the chosen. The fact he accomplished his mission by making the worst possible choices doesn’t mean he didn’t accomplish his mission as the Chosen One. In the end Anakin’s saved the Jedi, destroyed the Sith and help restore the Republic. And with that, he restored the balance. It’s not about erasing what happened before it’s about making things better from that point on.

Anakin Skywalker

“What the whole story is about” is a mishmash of tales as old as tale-telling: A young boy, plucked from obscurity by elite beings who believe he is somehow blessed, who grows up under their wise tutelage, becomes corrupted by power and evil, and then must finally face his own son – equally trained, equally tempted – in a battle to the death. – George Lucas

Anakin was the chosen but the world of around him didn’t protect him and that influenced his behavior. Anakin didn’t made bad choices because he was born a bad person, he made bad choices because of how he was raised and everything that happened to him. it has nothing to do with his chosen one status. Anakin was born because of the Force but it had no control over how people treated him and how he reacted to their treatment. Everyone had free will, everyone used it and things happened as they did. It’s as true for Anakin as it’s for every other kid in world. The fact a child shows promise doesn’t mean the child shouldn’t be protected and raised right. and if the kid does grow up to do bad things it doesn’t mean the kid never had any talent.

Also, the prophecy doesn’t say Chosen One had to do anything out of the goodness of his heart. He had to bring balance. How and why he’d accomplished that wasn’t set in stone. The fact Anakin sacrificed himself to save his son doesn’t mean Anakin didn’t save the galaxy. I’d even argue that Anakin’s sacrifice wasn’t selfish. The fact he was thinking about his son doesn’t mean he was only thinking about himself. Personal sacrifice, by definition, is not a selfish act. It doesn’t mean the person is wholly selfless but the act itself is not a selfish one.

TL;DR:

The force wasn’t out of balance because the Sith were evil, because the Jedi were killed or because innocents were dying. People have been killing each other for thousands of years before the Force was considered ‘out of balance’. What changed was the Sith experimenting with it and the Jedi’s withdrawal from the galaxy. To correct that the Force created a child that would eventually fixed that. the child was called Anakin Skywalker and he corrected the situation by destroying the Sith, ensuring the survival of a new and better kind of Jedi and by ending a war that would lead to a creation of new, less corrupt government safe from the influence of the dark side.

So, yeah, Anakin was always the chosen one even when he was Darth Vader and George’s claims are backed by the lore :)

#ask #anon #anakin skywalker #sw meta #the force #meta: anakin #txt

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myjunkisyuzuruhanyu · 4 years

Photo

[ICE JEWELS VOL. 12 SPECIAL INTERVIEW - YUZURU HANYU

Translation by Juro (juroscorner.blogspot.com)

Please click on the link in the reblog to read the full interview (I put left out parts in brackets [...]) and the Yuzuru related part from Satomi Ito’s interview about her costumes! (Tumblr is acting up with a direct link in the post)

Towards a “me” who surpasses myself

The World Championship (“WC”) was cancelled, drawing the 2019-20 season to a sudden conclusion. This season, he won a title that he hasn't conquered before. The victory at 4 Continents Championship (“4CC”) established Hanyu Yuzuru’s Super Slam as he entered glorious records and memories. His reflection on this season and resolution towards the upcoming season is told as follows.

On the victory at the 4CC

Do you think of the victory at 4CC as a special memory? - I really did win that competition, so I was happy. The last titles to obtain would probably be World Champion or Olympic Champion, but in this season, so far I’ve fulfilled tasks like winning competitions (which I haven’t won until then) like Skate Canada. Rather than any competition, this very one (4CC), is where I competed and won a silver medal at 16, but from then on, I couldn’t win it for a while. It’s good that I can finally win it. We heard that after Japan National, there was a period when you couldn’t get back on your feet. How did you spend that period? Was there any specific feeling? Then, how did you recover? Please let us know some details. - I went through 3 consecutive competitions. (After JN), for I while I thought that Ahh, I’m quite tired out. I’ve been living placing pressure on myself and there was no time to recharge both my physical strength and emotion, so I let myself do whatever I felt like doing. I didn’t really pay attention to anything, so I don’t remember (what I did) clearly…

Just for now, “SEIMEI” and “Ballade no. 1”

[....about change of programs...]

You gave us a brilliant performance of “Ballade no. 1” at 4CC. It’s been previously said that you skated in absolute harmony with the pianist or as if you became the sound of the keyboard. What was your feeling this time? - This time, it seemed like my body’s movement synchronized with the music playing in my head. Every single sound and melody thoroughly soaked into my body, and I let my body be in charge of the performance. Although I was nervous when doing jumps or difficult parts and there were plenty of matters to focus on, I left more than 80% of myself in the program to the music’s guidance rather than my consciousness. About the FP, what did you have to be cautious about when editing the music, to avoid destroying the world of “SEIMEI” now that the music needs to be 30s shorter? - I found it compelling not to spoil the flow of the music or the program, so I avoided omitting any iconic part. There were parts where the tempo was quickened in the interest of time. However, even when the tempo was faster, for me, there was a certain meaning in skating [“SEIMEI”], and I had to be careful not to let the unique rhythm of my own fall apart. If the rhythm was changed too much, the true meaning of skating this program would be substantially different. Do you have any intention with SEIMEI’s new layout? To be specific, in the first 1 minute, you include 4 jumps. There was no run-up in between, only a mere turn from 3A to 3F. Please let us know how you came to engendering such a layout, something that can’t be done by anyone but Hanyu Yuzuru. - Firstly, I wanted to cherish the music cuts which make up the program as much as possible. Then, there was editing to do. I didn’t want to change the flow of the first half, so the solution was to have 3 jumps with [1.1x] bonus in the 2nd half, I must find some way to insert one more jump in the 1st half, and I came up with placing 3F there. It could be either 3Lo or 3F, but I chose 3F since it did not to disrupt the music and rhythm. I showed Shae [my idea] right after she finished shaping the whole program, but she was also pleased by it, so we went with that layout.

Is there any experience from skating “Otonal” and “Origin” that you can utilize? - “Otonal” is a piano piece but there’s also an orchestra. With the piano’s sound as the core, I was trying to express the completion of the music, and [skate] while gathering picking up various shades of music. When skating “Ballade no. 1”, because I have [experienced] expressing an orchestra, I’ve come to feel the purity and transparent quality of the piano’s echo, and the expansion of sound even more deeply. I skated “Origin” while channeling the power surging up from deep inside and I always performed it taking my own self as a (candle’s) wick. Throughout the performance, that energy became the nuclear*. In “SEIMEI”, even when receiving those energy and power, it’s important to adjust so everything is kept under control. Rather than letting the overflowing energy run loose, I want to embody floaty, airy image and philosophical insights, even with my feet on the ground.

On this season’s achievements and next season’s goals You adopted the strategy of changing jump layouts according to the competition. You also competed in the GPS, GPF, and JN. What did you achieve? - I think not getting injured is my biggest achievement.When I forcefully try to push myself from poor to peak condition, my body can’t catch up. I went through a long time with no serenity even in my heart, but this season, I think I was able to adjust well. Would you let us know how your training, for injury prevention and such, is coming along? - I think I know the where within myself the “line” (limit) at which I should stop pushing ahead is. However, I’m aware that if I can’t overcome that boundary, I can’t improve, so I think cautiously about the days when I can push beyond the limit and days when I shouldn’t.

The WC was cancelled, but how was the result of your training after 4CC, and how that will connect to next season? - I feel like I was even more attentive to practicing skating basics and jumps. I wouldn’t say everything is completed, but if I train earnestly now, I can detect what goes wrong, and that’s how the result will connect to next season in my opinion. Did the novel coronavirus affect your training and daily life in Canada? Also, what are the precautions you’re practicing? - I’ve been washing my hands and gaggling my throat. Besides, whenever I come home from practice, I disinfect various things. I think there isn’t much impact on my training. From now on, it’s off-season. Do you have any training you want to do in mind? - I want to spend time on practicing 4A, for it’s extremely difficult to train for a new jump mid-season. My home rink was already closed, so it’ll be tough from now on (Interviewer: By 3/16, Ontario had been locked down to reduce the spread of coronavirus). However, I can still make use of other methods like on-land training, etc. I think it’s helpful to build a good foundation. Please let us know your vision of next season’s program, image of music and such, to an extent that you find acceptable. - I want to do new programs. I don’t know for sure how long it would take to incorporate 4A, but that’s also my goal to work hard for next season. I haven’t had any tangible image of the programs or music for now. However, I hope to do something that is meaningful to myself.

We’ll ask you about the 4A. At GPF, you’ve given us a glimpse it for the first time. What do you think about the atmosphere in the arena at that time after you showcased the jump? - I was nervous, but because I was jumping in front of everybody, I kind of hoped I would succeed. I really enjoy the taste of climbing over the hindering wall.

[...about state of 4A...]

Finally, please let us know your resolutions for next season and send a message to fans. - I’m really thankful that you keep supporting me to the end in this season as well. I think everyone is all going through a hard time because of the novel coronavirus right now. Please be careful. For me, from now on I will keep on accumulating the training towards next season, including the 4A.

[...Bonus: Yuzu-related parts in Satomi Ito’s special interview ...] [Juro’s explanation on use of words and message by Juro]

#yuzuru hanyu #fstranslation #figure skating #yuzu

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jebazzled · 4 years

Text

Why Aren’t People Writing With Me?

Why aren't people writing with me?

Real talk: do you often find yourself waiting weeks or even months between partners replying to your posts? Do people seem to prioritize all their other threads over yours? Do people seem to be just not that jazzed about writing with you? It's the worst feeling, when you're spinning your wheels and on the outskirts, wondering why you're struggling to gain traction. Sometimes, sites just be like that - people writing with their friends, or closed groups hard for a newer member to break into, or folks writing on slow timelines, or not keeping track of how long they've kept a partner waiting. It comes with the territory. But sometimes, it might be your writing that's holding your threads back. I know what you're thinking:

But it's something everyone can genuinely stand to consider, when they're having trouble getting a thread to keep moving: how much of this is my thread partner holding me up, and how much of it is me? Is there anything I can do to keep things moving? No matter how long you've been writing or how advanced a writer you are, it can be easy to forget that writing is ultimately a game of improv, and writing well is only part of the job. Part of the job is setting your partner up for a good time, too.

This tutorial is about writing starters & replies that make your thread partner excited to write back.

We'll be covering:

Starters that stall vs. starters that enthrall (sorry! the rhyme was necessary.)

Common tactics for writing replies - and common pitfalls of them

Alternate approaches to writing replies

Hopefully, these tips and tricks will improve your rp experience - because aren't we all here for a good time?

Onward!

STARTERS

Ah, starters. The bane of every roleplayer's existence. Starters are difficult because they often require some scene-setting, leaving the writer to try to set up a premise and a vibe without powerplaying for their partner. And then, you've got to start the interaction. There's a lot to contend with, so a lot of people avoid starters at all costs.

Personally, I like starting a thread: this way, I'm not waiting on a post; I have control over when it goes up. Thread partners often appreciate you writing a starter for them, so it's an easy way to engender good will. And finally, for me, it lets me make sure the thread is off to a good, actionable start.

Starters come with pressure - the starter sets the tone for the thread. A dud starter will stump your partner on replying, and they may even grow to dread posting. Which isn't fun for either of you!

Some things to consider when crafting a starter that will get your partner excited:

PREMISE Whether you're writing an open thread or a plotted thread for a specific partner, every starter needs a premise. The premise might be simple: perhaps your character is going to pickpocket your partner's. Maybe it's two friends catching up. It could be two strangers bumping into each other in an alley. It might also be more complex: maybe you're setting up an enemies-friends-lovers-enemies-rivals-lovers-friends-enemies plot. Maybe your character is defending the teaching of evolution to schoolchildren before a jury of his peers. Maybe it's a duel.

Generally, the more specific the premise, the better. This doesn't mean you need every beat of the thread plotted out, but it is good to think about: What do we want each character to get out of the thread?

Think of this as your overall goal for the thread. Is one character seeking reassurance or advice? Is there a business transaction being made? Have you and your partner agreed to hurt one character in a duel? If you can't think of an overall goal or point for the thread, the chances of stalling are high. This is common with "catch up" threads, especially ones in which neither character has particularly exciting updates to share. If only one character is "getting something" out of the thread, be careful in your own posts to set up plenty for your partner to respond to. Not every thread will have equal actionable payoff for both characters, which isn't inherently a bad thing. But if your posts don't give your partner much to engage with, the thread can read as selfish or one-sided - which isn't anyone's intention!

How do we want the events of this thread to impact this character, moving forward?

Related to the above, if both characters can walk away from this thread without any change - perhaps reconsider the premise or necessity of your thread. There is no shame in not doing a thread when it wouldn't mean anything to character development or plot progression for either character! "Just because" threads are always the first that drop on thread priorities - why not save yourself the trouble, and plot something you will both be excited about?

What is the most reasonable entrypoint for this thread?

Reality is filled with filler - moments in which nothing interesting happens, but which carry us from point A to point B. Conversation that goes nowhere and just happens for the sake of filling silence. But this isn't reality, this is fiction, which means we can cut the boring stuff and jump straight into the meat. If your premise is Character A pickpocketing Character B, don't open with Character A just wandering around the market, waiting for Character B to wander around the market, so Character A can pickpocket them: close your starter with Character A's hand around Character B's wallet. This gives your thread partner something to respond to (the theft) and in two fewer posts than it would have taken otherwise.

ACTION Dialogue is an engine for plot progression and for character development, and there is nothing quite as satisfying as strong dialogue. But questions, greetings, and other standard ways to launch an in-character conversation aren't your only options.

All a starter needs is action, and saying "hello," "what are you doing," or "hey! That's my pod racer!" are all actions. But actions can be silent, too, so long as they trigger a reaction from your writing partner. Character A pulling their hand out of the butt pocket on Character B's jeans, wallet in hand, begs Character B to react. Character C puking into the same trash can where Character D is searching for the utility bill they need for proof of address gives Character D something to dodge. Character E speedwalking through the grocery store and destroying the greeting card aisle gives Character F something to be horrified at. Even if A, C, and E all do it without saying a word. One thing you'll notice about each of the above premises is that they involve doing something - pickpocketing, puking/dumpster diving, grocery shopping. If you suspect your starters are leaving people underwhelmed, consider building your premise around action. The action doesn't need to be dramatic like the above examples. For instance, let's say that Character G is catching up with Character H after her divorce. They can do this over coffee in Character G's living room - but if they're walking their dogs while Character G's kids are with her ex-husband, you and your partner can use the dogs as emotional stand-ins:

Hannah dug her heels into the ground as Penelope started after a squirrel. Beside her, Gloria and Fifi both seemed not to see it. Hannah had never seen Gloria so out of it, so disconnected from the world around her. It frightened her. "How's Fifi holding up?" she asked, quietly, once Penelope calmed down and they kept walking. "I know Mike wasn't great to her, but - she probably misses the routine?"

Giving the characters some sort of verb to do beyond talking gives you more lenses through which to view an interaction, plus more opportunity for body language for your partner to respond to.

STARTERS: TL;DR Now that we've talked about how to start a thread on the right foot, let's quickly review our main food for thought items. Mind Snacks, if you will:

What do we want to get out of this thread?

Start on track for that result - do not lead with a detour!

Build around action - even small ones

Is the concept of this thread important or interesting? Would we be better served skipping it and writing something else?

REPLIES

Now your thread is off the ground. Excellent! It's a few posts in but your partner doesn't seem very excited - maybe they don't message you about how much they liked your reply, or how fun the thread is so far, or maybe they don't react to the tag in the server; maybe it's radio silence from them until they reply a month and a half later, when they're caught up on the threads they seem to keep shuffling ahead of yours. How do we move your thread up in the shuffle? Make it fun to reply to, and easy to reply to.

COMMON APPROACHES An easy way to tackle a reply is by having your character react to each action and dialogue from your partner's character:

Maycey slid into the navigator's seat of the L2-47 spaceship, almost kicking over a cup of Dark Matter Decaf.

"Sorry," she said, not looking at Brooks. "Are we still checking out Planet 42601, or did General Berry have us change course?" Brooks watched Maycey enter the cockpit, snorting as she almost knocked over his coffee. Though it wouldn't be funny to see what the brew would do to the controls of the L2-47. "No problem," he said. "General Berry wants us to do a pass over 42601, but we aren't doing a full landing."

This reply covers everything Maycey did in her post, but doesn't advance the thread. What comes next? Brooks hasn't given Maycey much information to process, nothing to act on, no juicy body language to consider. Maycey's writer is fully on their own to advance the thread. To move it forward in a meaningful way, they might come up with a plot development they need to run by Brooks's writer to make sure it's not stepping on anything Brooks had planned. They may need to make up some lore. They may need to expand the premise of the thread. Brooks may or may not have helpful input, but when push comes to shove, Maycey is the one who is going to put it in their reply.

Maycey whipped her gaze to her captain, shocked. "But sir - we've come all this way to rescue 42601. Berry - sorry, General Berry wants us to abandon them? Their distress signal took three days to reach us; the atomospheric poisoning has got to be lethal by now." Her hands didn't touch the controls - she couldn't bear to take them off course to the desperate planet. "Sir, we have to do what's right." Brooks took a sip of his coffee, thinking about his own family back on Orbital Sphere 23-Y2K. They'd put out a distress signal years ago, back in his own training days. He'd seen it during radar detection class, and he'd had to ignore it. For the Good of the Galaxy. Not a day goes by that he doesn't think about the flashing signal on his screen, and about clicking the popup window. Dismiss. This, too, is for the Good of the Galaxy. He has to pretend it doesn't bother him. "The right thing is what General Berry says," he said, putting the coffee cup back in its cupholder. "For the Good of the Galaxy."

All of that work from Maycey, and Brooks only gave us one sentence to propel the plot. Yes, he had a lengthy internal monologue debating it - but that interiority means nothing to Maycey, who isn't a mind-reader. In this scenario, the focus on Brooks's tragic backstory, without giving Maycey anything actionable, sets up a very one-sided dynamic. If this happens consistently over one or many threads, the tragic backstory no longer feels tragic in a meaningful way, but just feels like a trite device to be trotted out - to tell rather than show a reader that a character has depth.

How could this post give Maycey more to work off of? Below is the same reply from Brooks, with additions made in green, rearranged wording in blue.

Brooks could feel Maycey's stare - bewildered and accusatory. He can hardly blame her, but she should know by now that this is how the Galaxy stays out of the Great Bezosian Black Hole. Sheer obedience. He avoided her eye contact, took a sip of coffee. Sheer obedience. Just like years ago - back in his own training days. He'd seen it during radar detection class, his own family's distress signal back on Orbital Sphere 23-Y2K, and he'd had to ignore it. For the Good of the Galaxy. Not a day goes by that he doesn't think about the flashing signal on his screen, and about clicking the popup window. Dismiss. This, too, is for the Good of the Galaxy. He has to pretend it doesn't bother him. "The right thing is what General Berry says," he said, putting the coffee cup back in its cupholder - his hands are shaking; it misses the rim twice, sloshes onto the knee of his parasuit. "For the Good of the Galaxy."

This version acknowledges the primary beat of Maycey's post (something we will talk about later) - that is, her accusation - and adds body language betraying his doubts. While interiority is great, externalization makes it possible for other characters to engage with your character's thoughts and motives. Brooks's new post gives Maycey more to engage with, which will better set her up to give Brooks more to engage with, and so on. When you both do the lifting, you both have a better time.

Another common method - especially in conversational threads, especially in "catching up" premises - is to lean on dialogue and, more specifically, questions. But most conversations we have in life aren't nonstop questions!

"Trudy said you got married," Annabelle said, fiddling with the edge of the linen tablecloth. "Is that true? I thought you didn't like Edgar - not like that." Sasha took an enormous bite of raw cucumber, not even bothering to slice it. "We just got engaged, we're not married yet. Don't you like Edgar?" Annabelle looked away, suddenly nervous. She didn't know why it mattered to her whether or not Sasha liked Edgar - only that it did. "He's fine, I guess. But do you like him?" "I do! I love him. Will you be my maid of honor?" Sasha grinned at her friend. She wanted nothing else in the world but for Annabelle to be part of her special day.

This series of posts involves a number of questions both stated in dialogue:

Is Sasha married?

Does Sasha like Edgar?

Does Annabelle like Edgar?

Will Annabelle be Sasha's maid of honor?

And unstated:

Why is Annabelle nervous?

Why does Annabelle care whether or not Sasha likes Edgar?

The stated questions are yes/no questions, somewhat procedural. The unstated question and its implication - that Annabelle cares about whether or not Sasha likes Edgar because she might like Sasha - is a juicier question than the minutiae of wedding planning. But Sasha's writer isn't letting Sasha notice or react to any of Annabelle's body language (her nervousness, her fiddling with the tablecloth) and focuses instead on the simple questions, which are a cover for what isn't being said. Information does not need to be voiced for it to be acted upon. Let's look at the same line of posts, with additions in green for Sasha and in pink for Annabelle.

"Trudy said you got married," Annabelle said, fiddling with the edge of the linen tablecloth. "Is that true? I thought you didn't like Edgar - not like that." Sasha had wondered when Annabelle would ask. She seems on-edge, fiddling with the tablecloth, as though they've never had a picnic outside before. She's not sure why Annabelle is out of sorts, but it's making her feel out of sorts. Sasha took an enormous bite of raw cucumber, not even bothering to slice it. "We just got engaged, we're not married yet. Don't you like Edgar?" She gently grasped Annabelle's fingers, unclenching them from the hem of the tablecloth. "Edgar thinks you're the bee's knees." Sasha's hand on hers - her stomach did a flip, palms instantly feeling clammy, like she could swoon in the summer sun. Annabelle looked away, suddenly nervous. It's worse that Edgar likes her. Makes her feel vile for resenting him like she does. She didn't know why it mattered to her whether or not Sasha liked Edgar - only that it did. "He's fine, I guess. But do you like him?" It's a silly question - of course she loves him; how could she have said yes otherwise? But Annabelle seems not to believe her. Annabelle seems to worry. Annabelle is worried so much of the time - and so much for her - she tries to be reassuring, gripping her friend by the shoulders, offering a grin. "I do! I love him. Will you be my maid of honor?" She wanted nothing else in the world but for Annabelle to be part of her special day. Annabelle is her best friend - the only person she could stand at the altar with besides Edgar.

See how much more complex the dynamic is between these two when they have things to react to other than dialogue?

REPLIES PART 1: TL;DR So now we've addressed two common approaches to replies and seen how they can fall short, and discussed tips for elevating them. Your main takeaways:

Acting is reacting - react to your partner's dialogue AND body language, and give them some to work from, too!

Dialogue is not a game of Questions Only

If you're not driving the thread forward, you're slacking - don't leave it to your partner every time!

SYNTHESIZING: YOUR NEW APPROACH TO WRITING REPLIES

Now that we've discussed the pitfalls of action-by-action responses and dialogue-only threading, let's synthesize all of the above into one methodology for writing replies. The common pitfall of action-by-action responses is that one writer ends up only ever progressing the thread one sentence at a time - thinking of a post in terms of beats helps separate what actually needs substantive response, versus what is background information to inform your response. When I write a reply, I copy and paste my partner's post into the wordcounter window where I write my posts. I read their post and identify the beats - that is, what actually happens. For example:

Getting elected student body president was no joke. Hattie had worked for eleven long years to earn the position - bossed around her peers all the way from preschool. Back then, she'd been interested in power and prestige. But by the time she'd won the election junior year, she was exhausted. Now, on her first day of senior year, she was just excited about the choice parking spot. And yet, someone had the audacity - the nerve - to cut her off on the turn into the Keppler Family Parking Pavilion and slide right into her coveted parking spot. Crooked, so they took up the access lane to the adjoining handicapped spot. Too far forward, enough that she could see the metal RESERVED FOR STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT sign shaking on top of its pole. She threw herself out of her car, aiming the sole of her left Doc Marten into the license plate of the offender's Buick. "Hey, genius, there's no fucking run-off election this year!"

Because this is a starter, much of this is scene setting, which my partner could choose to echo, but the main things for them to react to are what my character - Hattie - offers in the moment:

dramatically throwing herself out of the car

kicking their license plate

swearing at them

Once I've distilled a post to the beats I need to respond to, I work my way through them, creating beats for my partner to respond to. With this method, a reply to the above might look like this:

Aunt Mildred's car was affectionately called The Boat for the first ten years of its life. Huge and unsinkable. That had changed when Aunt Mildred died in a boating accident over the summer, leaving Mikey the Boat's captain. Now, he just called it the Buick. And he wasn't very good at driving it - already he'd been honked at twice, overshot the turn into the parking lot, tires riding up on the curb. He pulled into the first available space. Figured he was outside the lines - but it seemed like the Buick was too wide to fit between lines anyway. And Aunt Mildred had never been one to follow rules. The terrible park job was in her memory. The sound of metal crunching at the back of the car, however, was not. If it's an accident, the Boat - the Buick - always wins, so Mikey gathered his violin case and drawstring backpack from the passenger seat, opened the driver's side door, and slowly got out of the car, turning his beanie backwards as if it mattered while he shuffled in his Adidas slides to the trunk, where a very short, very angry girl driving a Smart Car was trying to put the Boat - the Buick - in its place. "The car's not moving," he said, pulling a roll of Bubble Tape out of his backpack and taking a huge bite out of it. "But thanks for telling me my voting rights."

Mikey responds to Hattie's abuse of his car, but also gives Hattie a lot to respond to - minor dialogue, but a LOT of personal eccentricities that are bound to piss her off.

The dialogue and the action contribute to the trajectory of the thread - and giving Hattie something to play with keeps the musing about Aunt Mildred from feeling self-indulgent.

It's a small shift, going from thinking of posts as paragraphs to respond to to thinking of them as specific, small, actionable moments - but it makes a difference, especially in encouraging writers to be more thoughtful about creating opportunities for their partner to react.

REPLIES PART 2: TL;DR

beats, babey! not every sentence requires a response, but be sure to write some that do, whether it be dialogue or action.

ACTING IS REACTING!!!!!! if you don't give your partner something to react to, you are letting them down!

And that's all there is to it! Hopefully these examples are helpful as you think about ways to drive your plots and threads, and how to keep your own writing great for collaboration. The most important thing is to think of your writing partner. What do they need to be able to write back? What will make this thread exciting for them? How can you make sure this thread isn't serving you alone? Cheers, and happy writing!

#christ this was annoying to format #rp guides #resources #writing resources #rp writing #posts #starters #replies

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morrigansmuses · 4 years

Text

3 Golden Rules.

On Ethical disappointments.

I was raised to be tolerant. To consider the views and opinions of others, to keep and open mind. I was a social outsider (homeschooled due to racism in the local school.) I vowed I wouldn’t ever exclude people for being different to me or having different values. I was desperate to make and keep friends. More than anything.

I was 15 in the late 1990s. Lonely as hell. I decided that I would befriend absolutely anyone who would have me. Essentially anyone who wouldn’t beat me up on sight for being foreign.

I decided that I had 3 and only 3 dealbreakers in terms of friendship.

RULE 1. They couldn’t be cruel to animals.

RULE 2. They coudn’t sexually abuse children.

RULE 3 They couldn’t be a card carrying Nazi.

If anyone in my life did any of those things I couldn’t associate with them anymore. But barring that I would try to accept them as individuals.

Thats a pretty low bar right? I mean how could anyone fail to meet those insanely low standards?

See back then I didn’t know that shades of grey existed. I knew in theory that we were all imperfect beings, but I didn’t know what that meant yet in reality.

So I began to make friends. With normal kids. Actually probably nicer than average kids because they were sweet and sensitive enough to accept me for who I was when no one else would.

So the first hurdle I came across was that some of these people I was friends with enjoyed hunting. They would say for meat. I get that. Better than factory farming right? less cruel, less wasteful.

“You shouldn’t eat meat unless you’re willing to kill it yourself” They’d say virtuously.

But then I saw them in action. Delighting in the act of killing in a way that I knew wasn’t healthy. Laughing at the kid goat’s head bursting in a shower of gore or the way an animal screamed upon being shot. Killing more than they needed… That’s an impulse I don’t believe humans should engender in themselves.

But it was for food. Right? So I overlooked it and silenced the voice in my heart.

One day my best friend shot a stray cat with his bb gun just for the laugh. It didn’t kill the cat or anything but the animal yelped and ran away. I was so upset and shocked that I burst into tears and it all came pouring out. Was he training himself to become a sociopath? I asked him.

He apologised. He never did anything like it again. He was very kind to animals, especially cats, ever since and doesn’t hunt them anymore for any reason.

I forgave.

That’s the first time I remember compromising a core value. It was like a tooth being pulled from my 15 year old head.

I don’t regret it.

We’re still best friends.

The second hurdle that started to crack my young heart was the undeniable fact that in the early 2000s almost every guy I knew in his early 20s had a girlfriend between that ages of 12 and 15. NEVER OLDER. I can’t stress this enough. They would vomit in disgust at the thought of a crone of 18 or 19. They were also VERY vocal about their desire and right to have sex with children after a few drinks. By the time I was 20 I knew I had aged out of the 20s dating pool. I wasn’t attracted to older men.

No matter. I’m asexual and prefer platonic relationships anyway.

To this day I’ve never had a romantic relationship with a man. Because once I realised that Rule 2 wasn’t one any of them could keep, the trust was broken.

It wasn’t only men either. My closest girlfriend was a 26 year old substitute teacher who fucked one of her 15 year old students on a drunk night out once…

So they both had fun and boys that age are up for anything right? I mean. He probably still boasts about it today…

Right?

Plus… She was all I had. Like the only one I had at the time. I was so scared of losing her.

I turned a blind eye and ear. I tolerated. I didn’t have to approve of their teenage girlfriends did I? After all there were so many of them that if I cut them out of my life I’d have no friends ever again. Because the whole of society looked like them…

Thats the truth.

People in my extended family have dated 17 or 18 year old girls and encouraged them to drop out of school to have their children. People I love have done that.

I once knew a handsome, intelligent and charming man. He was dating a family member for a few months. He often defended the right of adult men to date teens. “Girls mature more quickly than boys.” He’d argue. Everyone would agree. After all hadn’t my great grandmother been 12 years old when she met my great grandfather and married him on her 16th birthday (with parental permission)? He was in his 20s. Just a boy himself surely? “We all know what children boys in their 20s are right?” Said my Mother… Whom I love very much.

Excuses were made.

Years later I discovered the the handsome, intelligent and charming man had been raping a 6 year old the entire time we’d known him. He is still wanted by the police today.

My father tells that when he was a boy of 18 back in the 70s he had kicked an older German man, a respected family friend, out of his car because the man had asked him to pull over, he had something important to tell him. When he did so, the man said that the Holocaust was a myth. An exaggeration, a Zionist hoax.

My Father was dating my mother at the time. She’s Jewish. So is his uncle, a Holocaust survivor.

He yelled at the man not to talk shit and made him walk home.

I am not my father.

The first time a Holocaust denier (a respected local businessman) voiced their opinion to me I froze. Then laughed. Surely he must be kidding... I argued briefly before realising that he’d made up his mind.

My well meaning people said I’d made a mistake. It was my job, they said, to change his mind. To educate him. Otherwise how would he learn?

I didn’t speak to him again but I still nod at him in the street because he employs a few of my friends and I wouldn’t want to make things awkward for them.

And also I don’t want him to yell at me.

I have worked with Holocaust survivors and have survivors in my immediate family and I still nod in the street at a Holocaust Denier because we are raised to be polite aren’t we? Let’s not make a scene.

We’re mature adults.

Aren’t we?

People are starting to turn weirder than they used to be. Politically.

My Leftist friends are in a secret facebook group... Strenuously defending China’s Uyghur genocide because Communism can do no wrong… And at the same time saying all the Israelis need to be killed for what they’ve done to the Palestinians. One suggests a biological weapon tailored to Jews.

My Centrist friends are suggesting we “Hang up democracy for a while” in order to combat global warming and welcome a global police state and stop “kicking off” about our rights all the time. “Maybe we need a jackboot up the arse” one of them says.

And the ones that aren’t on the Left?

My facebook feed these days is getting awfully full of Rothschild memes.

“We own every bank in the world and funded both sides of every war since Waterloo.” They say, next to a grinning caricature of Jacob de Rothschild. Reminiscent of a Nazi cartoon of a “Rat Jew.”

Even a hedge fund billionaire prick doesn’t deserve that, does he?

I don’t comment. What’s the point? They’ve watched all the youtube and don’t read history books on principal.

My Brother is getting into Qanon. So is my Sister in Law.

She follows the medical teachings of a man who thinks the Jews invented Chemotherapy to kill the Germans after the war. Apparently he is becoming more and more popular.

Eccentrics.

Thats all.

I’m half Jewish. Like My Brother.

One of the Survivors I know said that 3 weeks after the Nazi propaganda came into the school he attended, he was in Bergen Belsen and half his family was dead.

His neighbour was jealous because his father had 2 more cows than he did.

I hear Marine Le Pen is neck and neck with Macron to win France.

A good friend of mine said it's because by 2030 Muslims will outnumber white people in Europe. He won’t read the articles I send him. But he sure sends me a lot of YouTubes.

I ignore them because I don’t want to hate him. Maybe he ignores my articles for the same reason.

Hey 15 year old me…. You, skinny thing with the ethics, the braces and black eyeliner…

Those compromises I made were made out of love... And also fear.

Please stop looking at me like that little girl.

“It’s true” writes my friend. They’re trying to breed us out. It’s all an elite Zionist plot.”

I close Whatsapp.

Here I go again I guess…

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cuculine-nelipot · 4 years

Text

Wish We Could

Chapter Two: London

{ Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary: After the Battle of Howgarts, Hermione and Ron start dating; their slow-burn friends to lovers arc complete. He’s nice, and she’s comfortable, and everyone is happy for them. Everyone but Fred, who can’t stop thinking that he loved her first, and Hermione, who begins to wonder if they really are as over as she thought they were. }

22nd August 1998, Night

“Well that was a colossally stupid thing to do,” George says from his old bed in The Burrow, spending the night at their mother’s insistence. Half laying down, he doesn’t look up from his magazine. Fred stands uncomfortably still, staring out the window, as though shell-shocked, even though Errol has long been out of sight.

“Yup.”

23rd August 1998, Morning

It was true that it didn’t take an awful lot to keep her up all night: a new book, a good essay, or better, a long one. Hermione had pulled her fair share of all-nighters, but none like this.

“Were you up all night reading again darling?” Her mother asks, taking stock of her daughter’s messier than usual hair, the shadows around her puffy eyes.

“Yes.” This wasn’t a lie exactly — she’d read that letter countless times.

“You look awful.” It sounds harsh, but her mother’s furrowed brow shows real concern.

“It was a sad story.”

1st July 1996

Summer had come to engender mixed emotions in Hermione. On the one hand she was of course excited to see her parents again, but on the other, she missed her friends terribly. She never had friends like Ron and Harry before; friends she saw day and night, friends she shared every meal with, friends she knew from experience would risk their lives for her as quickly as she would for them. She had no siblings, and had hardly kept in touch with the few friends from primary school. It was too difficult to keep fabricating stories about her Very Normal Boarding School Where Nothing Life-Threatening Ever Happened. So home for Hermione had become synonymous with the sort of deep-seated loneliness one only feels when one knows precisely what they are missing.

And now, to make matters worse, there was Fred. Fred who had kissed her in the hospital, and again by the lake, and again in several empty hallways while they waited for term to officially end. Fred who had, over the past year become more important to her than she ever would have expected. Fred, who didn’t look at her like he was lost and she was supposed to have the map, or make it. Fred, who so often grabbed her by the hand with a whiny come on Hermione, mischief dancing across his face, and dragged her along for some pure and honest thrill-seeking, who showed her the world as she had never seen it before.

The shrill ring of the telephone abruptly cut through her melancholia. Assuming it was only her parents phoning from work, she took her time making her way downstairs.

“Hello?”

“Hermione?”

“Fred?” She asked, her voice pitched with incredulity. “How are you calling? Why are you calling?”

“I believe it’s called a payphone and I am using one because I wanted to talk to you.” Even through the crackle and static, the teasing grin in his voice was obvious.

“Wanted?”

“Want.” He could hear the smile in her voice too.

24th August 1998, 10:17 a.m.

Perhaps George was right, and that her silence over the weekend means she isn’t coming. She is wiser than Fred after all. And George is usually right. Still, Fred waits, at an al fresco table at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, his right leg bouncing manically up and down, his eyes flitting to his watch every few seconds. He has been sitting there for forty-eight minutes.

Of course, Hermione knew at once that it was an undoubtedly bad idea, going to see Fred. Though really, it would only be a bad idea if she still has feelings for him, which she doesn’t, or if he still has feeling fore her, which she is sure isn’t true either. Then there is the fact that she had hardly made it to Florean’s all summer, and he has a lovely blackcurrant and gin ice-cream that he’s meant to stop making once Autumn rolls round. But then there is the question of why precisely Fred wants to meet her. And then there is Ron. Such thoughts chased each other in circles around her head, nipping at each other’s heals all Saturday night and most of Sunday, until another owl arrived. This one with a note from Flourish and Blotts asking her to please collect her order at her earliest convenience. Was Monday morning around 10 a.m. not her earliest convenience?

And so at eight-thirty on this almost chilly August morning, Hermione left her house for Belsize Park station, hopped on the Northern line, and alighted five stops later at Leister Square. She walked two minutes in the direction of The Leaky Cauldron, changed her mind, and instead went to Foyles, which reminded her that she did indeed need to go to Flourish and Blotts. After buying just three books and a new book bag, she again made her way to The Leaky Cauldron, then onward to Diagon Alley. This whole harrowing ordeal took over an a hour, and so apart from picking up Merlin’s Annotated Dante’s Inferno, she decided to splurge a little on some new quills, a well of peacock blue ink, and a couple of fancy leather bound notebooks.

It is perhaps this added weight that, on observing Fred Weasley’s anxious form outside Florean’s, impedes her attempted escape. Instead, before she can take two steps back the way she just came, she feels a hand pulling at her wrist.

“Hermione, wait.” She turns to see him looking imploringly at her with his bright green eyes, so wide and so close she can see flecks of gold in them, reflecting the morning sun. “It’s just ice-cream.”

Just ice-cream — who could argue with that? They order two scoops each and return to the table he had already occupied, Hermione dumping her bag on an empty chair emphatically in a show of annoyance. For a while they sit in silence; her refusing to speak first, and him not wanting to risk ruining their fragile peace. She scoops ice-cream into her mouth without looking up from her bowl, and he eats slowly, without looking away from her.

“I want the record to show that I think this is a colossally stupid thing to do,” she says suddenly, her eyes still fixed on her food.

“Well I suppose ice-cream’s never the healthiest thing in the world but Florean’s is pretty —“

“You know what I mean,” she cuts him off bitingly.

“The record will reflect that both you and George think that this is a colossally stupid thing to do. However, I would like to remind all relevant parties that it was my idea, and between the two of us I am the only Ravenclaw so therefore—“

“What do you want Fred.” She phrased it like a question, but her tone makes it abundantly clear that she would like nothing more than for him to just shut up.

“I just want to talk.” He looks abashed, or as abashed as he can look for Fred Weasley.

“I’m not sure we have anything to talk about.”

“Oh,” he says in a tone both needled and needling, “I think we have plenty to talk about.”

“Like what Frederick? You broke us up remember? Not me. You’re the one who walked away —”

“I walked away? You were the one who was leaving. You left —”

“I had to go. You’re the one who said you couldn’t —“

“And you’re the one who hung up the phone. And you’re the one who kissed —”

“I knew this was a mistake.” She grabs her bag, her chair scraping harshly on the flagstones in her haste to leave, desperate to not hear the end of that sentence.

“Hermione —“ He whines, but she doesn’t look at him. Can’t.

“Good bye Fred.”

17th July 1997

“Good bye Fred.”

“Hermione —“

A click as the phone disconnected. He stood alone in the red phone booth, in the flat above the store.

“You alright there mate?” George asked from the couch, turning from the Daily Prophet, his brows furrowed with concern.

The receiver still held to his ear. The singular, monotonous hang-up tone filled his head, his body, pervading the very fibre of his being.

2nd July 1996, Morning

“Buoyant” was the only word that came to mind as Hermione walked down Charing Cross. She felt buoyant. She had resigned herself to spending the week or so before she and her parents went on vacation wandering around Hampstead with nothing but her books for entertainment, until Fred called and asked if they could meet the following day — today — at The Leaky Cauldron. So she made her way there, buoyantly, glad for some company and more so that it was his.

“Granger!” He hailed from the curb. Of course, her heart didn’t actually skip a beat, but it felt like it did.

“Why are you waiting out here?”

“Well the Cauldron’s a bit of a dive yeah? And Diagon Alley is just the one alley and we’ve been loads so I thought maybe you could show me your London?” He says, all in one breath. She wasn’t sure but she thought his face pinked a little.

“My London?”

“You know… Muggle London.”

“Why?”

“I dunno — if I’m going to live here I should know the area. And,” he added, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. His speech became stilted. “I want to know what your world’s like.”

“Okay,” she smiled. Buoyantly.

The first place she thought to take him was of course Foyles bookstore, because it was close, and because, well, books. A whole monumental treasury of books.

“Bloody hell,” his eyes widened in child-like wonderment the second they walked through the door. The patchwork rainbow of spines and covers, the smell of new books, the sheer notion of being surrounded by so many stories, and so much knowledge. Even if it only lasted a moment, Hermione had never seen him so still or so quiet before, and she briefly wondered if she had broken him. “This place is massive,” he spun around as he spoke, taking it all in, “is everything in London this big?”

“Not everything. Just a lot of things.” She couldn’t look away from him, the spark in his eyes eliciting an adoring smile. “Did you bring any quid?”

“What’s that?” He asked, not really listening.

“Pounds, muggle money, did you bring any?”

His face blanched as he turned to look at her sheepishly. “Might have forgotten. But I have regular money.”

“‘Regular’ is a state of mind Frederick. And wizard currency far from regular. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not!”

“29 knuts to a sickle and 17 sickles to a galleon? It’s completely impractical.”

“Okay fine. Maybe you have a point.”

“Oh I definitely have a point.” Hermione retorted, grinning from ear to ear. She insisted that she had been meaning to change some money anyway, so they switched 10 galleonss for £50.

He moved further inside slowly, overwhelmed and unsure of where to start. At first he simply trailed behind her, but eventually wandered off on his own, winding through the stacks and pulling books off the shelves to peruse at length. She found him in a corner near the children’s section over an hour later, surrounded by piles of books ranging from classic literature to astrophysics. The only things he seemed sure of were a home improvement manual for Mr. Weasley, and the first two volumes of Asterix and Obelix.

“You alright there, Frederick?” She asked, crouching down beside him.

“There’s so many Hermione. How am I supposed to pick? I’ve never even heard of half these subjects before. Do I need a book about aerospace technology? Do I need seven? How should I know?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you don’t need any.”

“Help me,” he whined, looking up at her with his big, doleful green eyes. He had never in his life felt quite so distressed. She sorted through the volumes surrounding him, eventually selecting The English Patient — one of her personal favourites — A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a history of 20th century archaeological discoveries.

When they at last emerged, it was onto a London bustling with the lunch-time rush. Rather hungry themselves they went in search of sustenance and managed, with a little magical persuasion, to find a table in a small French bakery. At their window seat they split a quiche Lorraine and a croque monsieur, drank iced-chocolate, and tried to stave off the crash that inevitably follows a bookstore-high.

“You’re being awfully quiet today.”

“Hm?” He perked up. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a lot to take in, this.” He gestured vaguely to the sprawling city outside.

“But do you like it?”

He shrugged. “I love it.”

“Good.” She smiled, satisfied, settling further back in her seat.

“Do you like it?” He asked after a moment’s silence, studying her face carefully.

She picked at her food, considering. “I do but… I’m usually alone. I think I like it better with you.” She paused, then nodded as if affirming the truth of it to herself. “This quiche is pretty good.” She raised her fork but before she could take another bite, he was leaning across the table, one hand lightly holding her face, pressing his mouth to hers.

24th August 1998, Evening/Night

This time, Hermione is certain of it. She will not leave her room until the first of September. Her parents however are not on the same page.

“Hermione dear?” Her mother calls, hearing the jingle of keys in the front door. “Is that you? Come into the kitchen.” Hermione obliges, and finds her parents reading different newspapers at the kitchen table, with a steaming pot of earl grey and a plate of shortbread between them like they did everyday after work. The sight is enough to warm Hermione’s heart. She had missed this almost more than she could bear.

“How was your day darling?” Her father asks without looking up.

“Fine.”

“Did you buy any books?” Mrs. Granger does not look up either.

“I bought a few, yes.”

“That’s nice.” Her father offers, taking a sip of his tea.

Hermione lingers by the doorway, not saying anything. Eventually her mother looks at her, and observes a certain heaviness in her countenance. “Why do you look upset? Come sit down and have some tea.”

“Is this about Ron?” Mr Granger inquires, a particularly paternal brand of protectiveness evident in both his tone and in his eyes.

“Is it about the brother?” Her mother asks with hawklike instinct.

“Are you thinking about your… adventures?”

“You promised no more secrets darling.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Hermione interjects before they can pursue their line of questioning any further. They blink at her, equally taken aback. “If that’s okay with you,” she adds imploringly, unwaveringly meeting their eyes. They in turn consider their daughter carefully.

“Well alright then,” her mother says, turning back to her paper. “Dinner is in an hour. Go wash up.”

So she does, and she eats dinner with her parents, and after that she re-reads her new herbology textbook in the living room while her mother reads a le Carré and her father listens to a radio comedy. And she’s happy, honestly. She’s happy to be nestled in the warm glow of her childhood home, with her unchanging parents. She’s happy they are safe, and that for the first time in years there was nothing foreboding hovering on the horizon. She is happy, or at least, she is content.

Fred Weasley on the other hand is far from happy or content. After his rather disastrous morning he went straight back to the flat above the store, determined to spend the rest of his day off in bed. He didn’t move for hours. Rather impressively, he was still in bed when George came up after closing. His hair stuck out at odd angles as though he had been trying to pull it out, his sheets were fitfully dishevelled.

“Oh mate,” said George with an emphatically slow shake of his head, “you really need to get a grip.”

Fred looked up from Asterix and Cleopatra, shooting his brother a reproachful look.

“I’m going into London to get dinner. Do try to regain some level of composure before I get back yeah?”

That seemed like too much effort, so Fred fell asleep instead. He wakes up much later, at 1:38 a.m with London rolling round his head like a marble dipped in luminous dye, tracing webs of light. Quietly, he grabs his Nimbus 2001, climbs out the window onto the roof, and shoots off into the night. A certain frost sparks in the air, pinching at his skin. The wind whips through his hair, at his cheeks, stirs something inside his chest.

All the lights are off in the Grangers’ Hampstead home when he arrives, about 20 minutes later. All but the warm glow of a reading lamp emanating from what he knows is Hermione’s window. He hovers across the street, obscured by trees and shadow. He can see her silhouette on the sheer white curtains, sitting in bed, perfectly still, her head bowed slightly. Reading, most likely. His mind wanders to all the times he’d seen her in that exact posture, in a zen-state of complete focus; her small placid mouth, her smooth brow, the inward curve of her nose, mahogany brown ringlets framing her face. He remembers how he used to try and touch her cheek, her nose, her mouth, and how she would swat him away like she was shooing a fly.

She moves; her arms stretch above her head, her hands intertwined. She switches off the light, and Fred goes home.

2nd July 1996, Evening

“Had a good day darling?” Her mother called from the kitchen as Hermione closed the front door.

“It was alright, yes,” she said, leaning against the kitchen doorway. But the smile spread across her face suggested that it was a lot more than simply alright.

“What did you do?” Her father asked, his nose still in his paper.

“Oh you know, just went central. I met up with Fred. Went to Foyles. Had lunch. Walked around.”

“Who’s Fred?” Her father asked sharply, head snapping to face her.

“Ron’s brother,” she replied. Suddenly embarrassed, she shifted her weight nervously. “One of the twins. You’ve met him before dad.”

“Why were you with Fred?” Her mother’s stare was as piercing as her father’s tone.

“Well he and George just moved to Diagon Alley and he asked me to show him around a bit,” she replied in one breath.

“Just Fred?”

“Yes.” Her face burned under her parents’ scrutiny, and she struggled to hold their gaze, not wanting to seem guilty, like she was hiding something.

“Why?”

Hermione only shrugged in response, pursed her lips, desperate for this to be over. “I’m going to shower now.” She turned abruptly and left the room.

“Dinner’s in an hour,” Mrs. Granger called after her daughter. A door slammed shut upstairs. She turned to her husband, and they shared a look of utter disbelief.

chapter one | chapter two

taglist: @thelasttime @bchnan @lovedyouthreesummers @keoghans

#fremione #fremione fanfiction #fred x hermione #hermione granger #fred weasley #harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley fanfiction #hermione granger fanfic #fred x hermione fanfinction #can you tell that I miss foyles?

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