#someone thinking about me??! pshaw

[eemoo1o-animoo]

"#claude is apparently 6’3 while sebastian is 6’1 so lol that could be a thing I think between them" okay, i've been thinking about that tag for days. WHAT ? I did not know and how does it work bc in all illustrations i've seen, they're EXACTLY the same height

I mean, it’s a relatively similar height anyway, but I once googled “How tall is claude faustus” (for a headcanon list I once made, you know, because why else would you do such a thing?) and found this:

And whilst it isn’t the most credible source (so I do apologise in advance for wasting your time), in some frames that they are in together, Claude seems (moderately) taller?

Take this scene, for example (the scene that got me shipping them, “uwu” and all that jazz). You could argue that Sebastian was leaning or bent, slightly, but there is a gif that I would like to contrast their postures with the one above:

(Ugh, darling gif, why hath Tumblr eaten thy quality, so?)

Claude is more bent (double entendre? I think so /j). And even if my source is incorrect, I feel as though Claude is still taller, so I would like to use “6’3” as a steady estimate for his height.

Thank you for the ask! And sorry for taking up residency in your mind for the past couple of days, lmao.

(I’d quote Sebastian from when Claude had set up a room for him, but the “Claude and Sebastian being boyfriends for 5 minutes straight” clip-compilation on YouTube that I often use for quote and character ref has mysteriously disappeared, RIP).

Claudebastian titty grab for your thoughts/departure? (/j)

[yammpi3]

𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖. // 𝑾𝑪: 2.2𝑲

— feat. disassembly drone N x worker drone reader

synopsis. Since disassembly drones need oil to keep from overheating they kill other drones to consume it. But.. ever since the alliance between Disassembly and Worker Drones its been a bit difficult to acquire..It’s not a problem for V to randomly kill someone off but it’s a different situation for N now that his views have changed. AKA…reader supplies him with oil :DD

— content warning. Nothing 18+ just a few kisses, neck biting and N being in pain.. gulp?

— authors note. I fear this x reader is a bit..cringe then again that might just be me overthinking it..ANYWAYS tried my best for this, and still have no idea how to write for a robot. (N might be a little mischaracterized I’m not ENTIRELY sure)

At the end of science class, just when everyone was packing up to leave, you noticed N fidgeting more than normal at his desk.

 

"Is everything okay, N?" you asked.

 

He laughed nervously. "Who, me? Pshaw, never better!" But when he spoke, he looked anywhere but at you and the others.

Thad snickered. "Maybe his circuits are loose again." Lizzy giggled. "Lmao, he probably fried something.” Just as V was about to comment on his behavior..

N got up from his chair abruptly; he swayed unsteadily before catching himself upon another classroom desk.

 

By the time you registered what was going on, N had already ducked out of the classroom door, stumbling down the hall. "N, wait!" you called after him, hurrying to catch up. N was unsteady on his feet, swerving from side to side as he tried to put distance between the both of you.

 

His limbs shook with every step he took.

"G-Gotta...g-get a-away..." he muttered, though you weren't sure if he was even aware you could hear him. His eyes flickered erratically, barely being able to focus straight ahead as he tried to get away.

 

You picked up your pace, power walking down the corridor after him. "Slow down!!" you yelled out, but N was quicker, and before you knew it, when you reached the next corner, you lost him completely.

Your concern for N grew by the minute, so you started tracking him down since something was clearly wrong, beyond a normal glitch.

 

An hour had already passed since you last saw N, yet here he was in the maintenance unit stumbling blindly, crashing into something every few steps.

 

"S-sorry!" he slurred after bumping into a support beam for the third time. An unnatural static fuzzed the edges of his voice. Stubbornly, he scrambled back on his feet and lurched forward without seeing where he went.

 

Was he malfunctioning? But his murder drone programming should have kept him sharp, no?? Seeing him this disoriented was alarming.

 

You trailed him at a distance, hiding behind a variety of things as he walked on ahead. Where was he heading in such a panic? His vents were roaring torrents by now, and visible condensation soaked his frame.

 

Finally, he collapsed behind a supply crate, crawling the last few feet. Had he sensed you following? No, his optics were unfocused, so he couldn't have had.

 

Gingerly, you peeked around the crate to see N weakly clawing at his chest clearly in pain.

 

If you didn't act fast, he would shut down permanently. Steeling your nerves, you crawled to his side.

 

"N? Hey..hey! It's me, Y/N. Are you okay??”

 

When you gently called his name, N got startled so badly that his claws scraped sparks from the metal flooring he sat upon. His optics flashed wildly before settling on your face with a look of panic. "Y-Y-Y/N! S-sorry, but I don’t think you should be near me right now…”

 

N let out an alarmed wheeze that trailed off into a pained whine. It took visible effort for his optics to focus on you. You could tell he was losing some sort of control over his strength, but why??

"You don’t look so good..”

 

N broke into a hacking series of rushed laughter that ended in a groan. "Me? Pssh, n-no way! I'm t-totally fine, like I said earlier. Now please just leave me, yeah?” He waved dismissively, or at least tried to, but his attempt ended up flailing limply.

 

He knew he wasn't doing a great job at reassuring you when you glared at him.

"N-nothing to worry that pretty l-little processor of yours over, really.”

 

N's dismissive act was crumbling faster than his resolve. Another hacking laugh turned into a groan as his eyes started to flicker erratically once again.

 

"N, please. You're clearly not alright." You took his flailing claw gently in your hands. His plating was so hot it almost burned to the touch.

 

A whine slipped, “Crap..crap. It h-hurts,

Y/N. M-My core, it h-hurts so F̵̬̏́̏͆̀͝ų̸͙͋̿̃̌͋́̈́̆͑̕͠c̶̜̜̼̥͓̚k̷̫̺̝̈́̀̿̇͐̐͑ḭ̸̧̻̞̻͚̳̘̩̣͋̀̃́̔̊̋̚ň̵̞̪̯̼̟̗̩͈̖́g̸̩̤̩̼̘̪̀́͊͗̋͐́̇ much."

 

You've never seen N this vulnerable before…

"What can I do to help? There must be something." N trembled, fighting some inner battle. Finally, he met your gaze, his optics showing an agony of want behind the discomfort.

 

"T-there is s-something, b-but I shouldn't..." Strangely, another sound intermingled with the strain in his voice now.

Was that...hunger?

 

Stroking his plating gently, hoping to soothe, you pressed, "Please, tell me what you need." His vents hitched wildly. Then, in a strained whisper, he cracked.

"Y-your oil...I ne-need…it."

 

A shiver visibly ran through his frame. His optics darkened as they focused intently on your physic, more so your neck and wrist.

 

"I..." he began weakly, then stopped to swallow. His claws clenched tightly as if fighting the urge. You waited patiently for him to continue, showing concern but no sense of alarm.

 

After a long pause, N dragged his gaze with an effort to meet your face once more.

“T-tell me to stop," he whispered, his fangs peeking out as he talked.

 

"I so badly n-need it, but I don't w-want to hurt you.” His claws lifted toward your face but stopped only by his wavering will. You knew this would be the only way for him to cool down.

 

You looked deeply into N's eyes, past the haze of glitches that overtook his screen.

"I trust you," you said calmly without fear. His breathing became more ragged at your words.

 

In a flash, his restraint broke—but instead of lunging at your throat as you'd expected, his claws tangled in the fabric of your shirt, yanking you flush against his overheated frame. You gasped at the contact, feeling the waves of heat pouring off of him.

 

N buried his face in the crook of your neck, fangs tantalizingly. "P-please..." he stammered once more, sounding close to genuine tears. Raising a hand, you gently clasped the back of his head, threading your fingers through his silver hair.

 

"Take what you need," you told him firmly yet tenderly..After yet another hesitant pause, his screen displayed an X. Then, with a grunt of gratification, his fangs smoothly penetrated the sensitive wiring of your neck.

 

Your breath became unsteady as N's fangs pierced you. It didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would—just a little bit of a pinch. His hands gripped your shoulders for support as he drank deeply, allowing the oily fluid to course through his system.

 

For several moments the only sounds were his gulping intakes and your own measured breaths; you kept still so as not to disturb him. You watched as the pained lines on his face slowly eased, his eyes returning to normal. His plating, which was boiling hot only moments ago, cooled down to a much safer temperature against you.

 

N withdrew his fangs from your neck, making a small trickle of oil leak from your wound.

 

He leaned back in hastily, swiping his tongue along the twin marks. You shuddered at the foreign yet not unpleasant sensation. But N paused, a flushed look appearing on his screen. “Ah g-geez, is this w-weird?”

 

He glanced away, clearly embarrassed  "What I mean to say is, um, my saliva can help the wounds close up faster? If, uh, you're okay with my germy mouth touching the injury I c-caused? No funny business, I swear! J-just bros being bros, p-patching each other…um up.”

 

N winced, realizing how that sounded. "N-not that we're actually b-bros, unless you want to be? Biscuits. Just—just let me do this, kay?”

With your consenting nod, N gave a short awkward chuckle and leaned back in. His tongue swiping over the wound. It began to tingle as the mark he had left slowly began to close up.

 

"It's strange to think your spit has healing properties," you remarked softly, not wanting to break the intimacy of the moment. N hummed in agreement, laving one last swipe across the bite mark before drawing back to assess his handiwork. His optics flicked up to meet yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.

 

"How does it feel? Are you in any pain?" he asked, his tone laced with concern despite his own drained state. You shifted experimentally. "Stop worrying. Just a slight tingling.“

 

N searched your face anxiously. "Are you sure? Nothing else? No dizziness or discomfort?" His optics roved your features, taking in every subtle reaction. When you reassured him again that all was well, the tension melted from his shoulders—only to be replaced with guilt.

 

"Y/N, I could have seriously hurt you," he said quietly, horror creeping into his tone. "My systems went haywire; I had no control. If I had bitten down any harder..." He shuddered, unable to complete the thought.

 

"But you didn't," you said firmly. "You fought off the urge just enough to get the help you needed. I trusted you, N." He shook his head sadly. "Your trust may be misplaced in me. The overheating....what if next time I can't—can’t stop.”

 

N shuddered again at the dark thought. Seeking to ease his distress, you shot him a playful smile. "Well, if it happens again, we're in this together. At least now I have a cool vampire drone friend!! The whole sucking my oil thing was pretty vampirish.”

 

He cracked a hesitant chuckle. "Yeah, maybe I'll sparkle in the sun too." Feeling bold, you leaned in with a faux-dramatic voice, "I vant to suck your coolant..."

 

N actually snickered at that. You beamed, glad to lift his spirit, even if it was only for a brief moment. His smile faded as reality set back in.

 

"But seriously, what if next time I really hurt someone?” On impulse, you threw your arms around him in a hug.

 

N's eyes widened as you suddenly hugged him close. For a moment he sat stiffly, caught off guard. Then slowly, oh so carefully, his arms came up to return the embrace.

 

"Y/N...if anything happened to you because of me, I don't know what I'd do," he said quietly against your shoulder. You squeezed him tighter for reassurance. "Hey, it'll take a lot more than some murder instinct to take me out. Have a little more faith in me, will you? Stop being so edgy.”

 

“Edgy?" N scoffed, "Sorry, nearly ripping your throat out put me in a gloomy mood."

 

"Ripping my throat out?” You echoed with a wry grin. "Well, luckily that didn’t happen, did it?”

 

N huffed, “Maybe. But what if next time I lose it?"

 

You opened your mouth to respond, but he quickly shushed you.

 

“You just leaped right in like it was nothing. Do you have any idea how badly this could've ended?" He gestured vaguely to the drying wound on your neck.

 

"You drones are so..so fragile. One wrong move and I could've—" He cut off, unable to say the word. His arms flexed unconsciously, as if longing to wrap around something and squeeze. To protect, or destroy? Even he wasn't sure.

"You'd never hurt me, N. I believe in-"

 

Your words halted as he glanced up, his eyes searching yours with raw, wavering emotion. An urge welled within you, sprung from compassion more than reason. You leaned in to press your lips to his in a soft kiss.

 

"Mmmph?!" N made a muffled sound of surprise, his body locking up stiffly. Your tongue briefly caught the tang of the lingering oil before you pulled back with a slight grimace.

 

His faceplate shone a distressed yellow blush. "I-I'm so sorry, I should have wiped my mouth better!“ he stammered.

 

But you simply smiled and leaned in again, pressing your lips gently to his once more. Then, slowly, he began to relax into the kiss.

 

His screen switched to a loading screen. In that moment, all his train of thought derailed off a cliff. N's screen flickered back online, and one of his hands floated up to gently touch his mouth, eyes wide and staring blankly.

 

"Bwuh-wha...you...kissem—I mean, I kissem-no, we...kissed?" he sputtered

 

"We k-kissed. You k-kissed me," he whispered, his optics shrinking to pinpoints before dilating wide again. A nervous giggling burst out of him.

 

"Oh biscuits, what d-does this mean? Are we like..” his tone lowered to a soft whisper.

“Dating n-now?”

 

"Well, uh, I guess you could say we're kind of sort of datingish now," you replied bashfully. "If-if you want to be my boyfriend, that is."

 

N's entire face lit up. "Boyfriend..Awhh Y/N!! Id love that." He hugged you tightly, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around in excitement.

 

"N set you down gently, his optics still shining with unbridled joy. However, a hint of seriousness crept into his expression as he looked at you intently.

 

"This doesn't mean I'm not mad at you for what you did," he said, his voice low and eyes narrowed slightly. "You could have been seriously hurt, or worse. You really scared me back there."

 

You sighed and nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Next time, I'll call V or someone else—I won't try to handle things on my own and potentially get myself killed." You paused, then added with a wry smile, "I promise."

N's stern look softened, and he hummed contentedly. "Good!" Reaching out, he took your hand in his larger one and gave it a gentle squeeze.

© yammpi3 2024. All work belongs to @yammpi3. You can repost if you want to support my blog/writing! Please don't modify, translate, or plagiarize in any way on ANY platform.

[psiroller]

OkOk, so I know you’re currently in the middle of writing who knows how many more dunmeshi fics, but have you considered Tall-man x Tall-man Chillchuck and Laios yet? Maybe for a quick little drabble or something? I feel like that could go somewhere maybe.. If not this is just me rambling 😔, so feel free to ramble back and have a good day <3

oh anon. you found me juuust as i was raring up to procrastinate. you are in luck. CHILAIOS/656 WORDS/TALLCHUCKXLAIOS/CONSIDER THIS BREAK THE LOCK CANON

“Okay,” Chilchuck said, his voice deeper and rougher than Laios was used to. “What’re you staring at?”

Laios blinked. “You, obviously.”

“But aren’t you used to this shit yet? Do I look different now that you’ve changed back?”

Laios cocked his head. The changeling effect had worn off for Laios a few hours ago, but Chilchuck was still a tallman. Maybe because he was lower to the ground, he got a larger payload? Laios had made extra sure they’d scrubbed everything off him, so it was only a matter of time. Laios didn’t like to think about the possibility Chilchuck never changing back, but with his taller stature returned he could properly appreciate the differences. Chilchuck loomed over Laios as a dwarf and was still taller than him now. His cheekbones were higher, his face stretched along a taller jaw, stubble emerging so soon after a morning shave. Yet, besides the slightly sunken and tired look, Chilchuck’s eyes were still the same; pitch dark in low light, amber-brown in front of the fire, intense when met.

“You do,” Laios said, “but you don’t. I keep noticing little things.”

A blush rose on Chilchuck’s gaunt face, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Well, don’t get too invested. It’s gonna wear off soon.” He rubbed the pressure point on his temple. “Hopefully.”

“It will,” Laios assured him, and scooted closer. “But it’s fascinating… I wonder how the changeling spores decide what form to change someone into?”

“I guess whatever’s funniest,” Chilchuck said with a wry grin. “You saw Izutsumi.”

“I don’t think you’re funny looking, though,” Laios frowned, his eyebrows pinching together. Chilchuck pshawed at him and put a hand on his face when he got close. Laios pushed against it and wriggled, an over-affectionate dog held at bay.

“It’s supposed to make me look freakish to everyone else, so I die alone, right?” Chilchuck said. “Half-foot to tall-man makes sense. I’m twice the size of the biggest guy in my family. Imagine if I came home to my kids like this when they were young.”

He frowned at that, the dark humor sucked out of it by frank darkness. “And an elf to a half-foot,” he went on, trying to wipe the annoying concern off Laios’ face, “That’s gotta be a nightmare. We’re the lowest of the low to them, right?”

“Chilchuck.”

Laios was back in Chilchuck’s space, having evaded his hand, or Chilchuck had let him. It didn’t matter. Chilchuck’s hand found Laios’ shoulder but he didn’t shove. Chilchuck hated being observed so closely, but he made endless exceptions for Laios.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Chilchuck honked out a laugh. “I’m serious!” Laios barked, and Chilchuck petered out. “I mean it, Chil.”

Chilchuck rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s a shame, since you’re never gonna see this face again.”

Laios held his face and turned Chilchuck to face him, to kiss him. Their faces fit together unevenly even though they were the same size now. Laios scratched his fingers through Chilchuck’s stubble and nuzzled their noses together, did that creepy thing where he opened his eyes to watch Chilchuck as they kissed that always drove him crazy. Laios reached up to touch Chilchuck’s ear, finding a nick in his ear that Marcille could never fully heal all the way, and Chilchuck grumbled as he felt—something like it, it was doing something for him, but maddeningly dull compared to his memory.

“That’s just it, Chil,” Laios breathed. “Seeing you like this, as cool as it is…” he grinned sadly. “I miss you as you are.”

When Laios brought up his other hand to cup Chil’s head, there was a rush of something electric. As he drifted back into reality, he was engulfed in Laios’ warm shadow, and they couldn’t easily interlock their hands. Chilchuck gripped the broad gap between Laios’ middle and ring fingers, and thanked the stupid mushrooms for letting them fit together properly again.

[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls: Season 3/Ep 7: They Shoot Gilmores Don't They (Henceforth known as Dance Marathon Episode)

Original Air Date: Nov 12th 2002 This is tied with Lorelai Graduation's Day as my favorite episode, so let us begin.

"Charity". All proceeds go into Taylor Doose's pocket. We'll be getting into that shortly (again).

Heh heh. Lorelai tells a ridiculous story about how she didn't win the trophy at the previous DM. Luke declines her invitation to be her dance partner.

Thank you Luke.

THANK YOU LUKE. Allow me to put this into further perspective. *clears throat* *gets up on Bridge Rage soapbox* SO ABOUT THAT BRIDGE...

From the season 7 episode Knit, People, Knit, original air date 11/26/2006. Dance Marathon aired in November 2002. If fundraising had already been ongoing for 8 years by 2002, that means bridge repair began in 1994 and was ongoing in 2006. Therefore, one can deduce it will take a minimum of 12 years for Taylor Doose to replace a few planks of wood on a tiny bridge. Despite there being visible evidence that said bridge is still not repaired after 12 years, Luke is the only person who ever dares to question this. I'm not sure if the last plank of wood was finally paid for in KPK, I can only stick around in Seasons 6 & 7 for a few minutes at a time or I start to break out in hives and no intrepid scientist has invented a Later Seasons Gilmore Girls Vaccine yet. I get my screengrabs and get the hell out. Taylor: We're not raising money to restore the bridge. Luke: We're not? Taylor: No, we have that money, our Tennesee Williams Lookalike Contest put us over the top. This is for a tarp to cover the bridge. We can't start repair on the bridge now at the start of snow and rain season. The work will be ruined and we'll be back at square one. We need a tarp! Luke: Taylor you are asking me to donate free coffee to hundreds of people so you can raise money for a tarp! You know what, this episode is about a dance marathon and Shane Campbell's untimely demise, not political corruption in small town america and Taylor Doose's obsession with a Broken Bridge and how he's funneling town funds into his offshore bank account so he can use the money to take vacations to Maui and then tell the IRS they're just "business trips" for the Small Town Grocery Store Owners Convention. Carry on.

Lorelai managed to snag a dance partner named Stanley Appleman but she quickly loses him after his wife sees a picture of Lorelai and Mrs.A deems Lorelai too sexy to dance with her husband.

Now when has a Gilmore ever slept with someone else's husband? Where would she get such a crazy idea? Pshaw.

I was about to blast past whatever Newspaper Nonsense was about to take place next but then I noticed the background of this shot. Madelyn and Louise my slutty queens! Since Shane's demise is imminnent, going forth they will carry the slutty torch in her honor.

Jamie is about as tittilating as mayonaise on toast. Jamie will henceforth be named Mayonaise. Jaym-onaise?

Rory is right there, Paris. She’s right there. Urrgh. Why must we pretend Paris Geller is straight? Mayonaise was too busy with dullard business at Princeton for the last 3 months to contact Paris, but now he has some free time so he thought’d he come hang around at a high school with a bunch of minors.

Paris Geller's fragile remnants of heterosexuality are shaking in their boots looking at this face. I’m trying to forget that it only gets worse from here and Paris' next love interest is Asher Fleming 🤢You know what it’s fine it’s fine Jaymonaise can stick around it’s fine

SECURITY!

I thought about this weird and clunky "go find a pirate to sit on" long and hard until I think I figured out what the hell she's trying to say.: "Pirates sometimes have hooks for hands, so if you sit on a pirate's hand maybe the hook will go up your ass." That is WILD. She can't say "let go of my fucking hand you knob" on The WB, so "find a pirate to sit on" it is. Paris would say "Let go of my fucking hand you knob" on my gritty unrated realistic Gilmore Girls spinoff with a lot of swearing called The Hollow. And then immediately turn to Rory and make out with her.

Paris is hesitant to go on another date with Mayonaise, so Rory plays wingman and declares that Paris is free to go on a date, Mayonaise says we're going on a date, then Mayonaise steals her books and runs away with them, leaving Paris bewildered with the smell of "only vague consent" lingering in the air.

Dean's one brain cell is either deep in thought or he's about to soil his diaper. I'm very sorry. I'm glad someone in the Gilmore household decided Dean doesn't deserve a plate to eat from. He can eat his pizza on a napkin on top of a limp throw pillow balanced on one knee like the animal he is. What's with this show and wooden bowls full of walnuts?

According to Lane, Dean is deathly allergic to walnuts. *scooches bowl closer to the couch*

Can you even ask any other kind of question?

Can we go back to doing this, as well as going back to feeding him walnut-laced cookies? D: When did you hang up on me? R: When we first met. D:You should have said something. R: But you would have known that I was calling and therefore I liked you. D: But I liked you too! R:I know that now. D: You could have known that then... Hey, can you two shut the god damn hell up? Both of you stay the hell away from phones and answering machines for the next 15 years. Thanks.

Better declare your love quickly before he gets sucked up by the Male Gilmore Girls Character California Wormhole.

Good boy. #CaptionsFail

Dean came prepared with a pillow shield so Lorelai can't grope for his junk.

You're just a boy, you know nothing. But I'll make you a man, Dean. Just toss that pillow aside.

[phantomdoofer]

Tower Town, Chapter 20 - Leftovers

Paolo sat down on a bench in one of the college's many courtyards. He leaned back, staring at the sky, and sighed. 

The others were calling people, exchanging information, making plans. I can barely remember who I am. Fat lot of good I would be.

He felt more than heard someone sit down next to him. He said nothing. He didn't particularly want company.

“Come on big guy, what's eating you?” A perky voice said next to him.

He looked down - the strange woman with the pink bunny hood sat next to him. She was grinning happily.

He growled and leaned back again. “What do you want? I'm not really in the mood to humor you, you know."

He felt something shake the bench, and he heard a bonk that told him the woman had hit the bench with her shoes. Swinging her feet.

“Come on big guy, I know you're bothered by something. You wanna talk?”

He looked back down, fighting the urge to get up and walk away.

Then he paused. She's the first one who's really been nice to me since… whatever the hell this is happened. He nodded. “You're… the yellow guy's girlfriend, aren't you? Noisette, I think someone said?”

She grinned toothily. “That's me! I'm not his girlfriend though - we're actually married.” She leaned over and whispered, “my name's actually Hazel. I prefer Noisette, though.” She leaned back and smiled. “Ok, I told you a secret, now you tell me something about you!”

Paolo blinked. What is this woman? “I… still don't know. My past is… fuzzy. Not just the last few years, but everything. Who was I? What did I do for a living? How do I know all this stuff bouncing around in my head?” He shook his head ruefully. “I don't think I even have a home.” 

Noisette smiled up at him. “Well, that's OK! You could stay with one of us til you get back on your feet!”

Paolo thought about the open hostility the others had shown. “I doubt that.”

Noisette made a “pshaw” motion with her hand. “Noisey has all kinds of places we don't use much. You can stay in one’a them!” Her grin took on a slightly malicious edge. “I'll just talk to him.”

Paolo didn't know how to respond. He wasn't used to people being nice to him without being paid first. How do I know that? “That's, uh, very generous of you.”

Noisette's face fell just  a little. “Well… I don't blame the others for havin’ hard feelins, after all. What you did as Pizzahead was… pretty bad.” She brightened up again. “But that was this Pizzamancer guy, right? It wasn't you!”

Paolo found himself being completely truthful. “I think… part of it was me. I don't always… feel emotions right, I think.”

Noisette’s mouth made an O of surprise. “Oh. Are you one of those, what do they call them… sociopaths? Don't ya ever feel sad about anybody? Or happy?”

Paolo thought back. When have I ever had a chance to, really? I always had to put on a mask… I think?  “I… honestly don't know. It never really, er… came up.”

Suddenly a splitting headache lanced through his head. He grabbed his head with both hands.

He heard Noisette's voice, but it was echoing weirdly, distorting…

“Y-y-ou OhohooOK biiiig GuYyyY..?”

Then he was looking at a young Ninda's face, pale. Feminine.

Paolo felt a flood of warmth and safety pour through him at her face.

Look at him, for once in your life, Giorgio!

A round, greasy face hove into view. Instantly the feeling changed to fear and loathing.

He's weak an’ pathetic, is what he is! He ain't gonna amount t’ nothin’!

Don't say stuff like that in front of him! You'll twist his mind! 

Then he snapped back to reality.

Noisette was staring up at him, a look of mild horror on her face.

He felt something warm on his face… he reached up and wiped it away. Tears? And pizza sauce? “I… I remembered something. I think it was… my mother?” His head felt like it was splitting open. “Aagh.”

Noisette gently touched his arm. “You remembered somethin’? Your nose started bleeding.”

Paolo shook his head. “It felt… warm, for a second. Happy. Then my father showed up.” His brow furrowed. “Then it was hatred.”

Noisette nodded. “Maybe you repressed some stuff? An’ now that you're out from under the Pizzamancer, it's comin’ back!”

Paolo gripped his head in both hands. “I hope the rest of it isn't so painful.”

Noisette clapped her hands. “But that proves you've got emotions! Maybe you just… need to find ‘em again!” She hopped off the bench, waving for him to do the same. “Come on, come on! Let's go walk!”

Paolo hesitated. I barely know what's going on. These people hate me, and from what they're saying, it's not exactly unfounded. Then he paused again. Then again, I have no home, no life, and barely know who I am. What have I got to lose, really? 

He nodded. “All right. Not like I can be much help here.”

Noisette hopped up and down, clapping and looking ecstatic. “Yay!” She grabbed his arm and dragged him along. “Ok, first things first! Let's get you some fresh clothes! People are gonna be uneasy enough til they get used to ya without ya walkin’ around in that old clown outfit!”

Paolo looked down - he was still wearing the overalls and white shirt he'd woken up in, but they were ripped, stained, and, in a few places, burned. “Can't argue with you there.”

Noisette let go and started walking briskly. “I know just the place! Come on!”

~~~~

Paolo walked out of the clothing store, turning to examine himself. It was a simple outfit - slacks, a white cotton shirt, and a light coat. But the material was quality. “Gotta say, it's nice having fresh clothes.”

Noisette emerged behind him, festooned with bags. “I picked up some other outfits, too! We'll just drop them at the apartment I called ahead to, get you a key, and then,” she giggled, “I wanna show you the town!”

Paolo was still uneasy. Everyone was staring at him. What did I do to these people? “Uh, Noisette,” he said, “what… exactly… did Pizzahead do? I feel like I'm gonna be lynched.”

Noisette’s expression fell. “I… You'll have to talk to people to find that out, Paolo. I only know… a few things.” She squirmed. “He was always nice to me… but Noisey told me Pizzahead used to use me as leverage to get Noise to do what he wanted. And I heard… other things. Horrible things.” She looked pale. “Almost everyone here is from the Tower… and almost everyone here has a story. About Pizzahead.”

Paolo stared into the distance. Sweet pizza father, what did I do to these people? 

~~~~

Noisette opened the door, and gestured broadly. “Ta-da! Welcome to your new digs!”

Paolo stepped inside. It was a standard apartment at first glance… but he noticed the plush couch, the giant TV, the dishes in the cabinet. He put down a bag. “And you're OK with just… letting me use this?”

Noisette nodded. “We've got a few places around for guests to use. But with the Tower floatin’ around, we're not gettin’ any visitors. “She smiled up at him. “So don't worry about it! It's all paid for!”

He hung his head. “Th… thank you. You're being… so nice to me. And if what you said is true… I don't deserve it.” 

Noisette sat down, and gestured for him to do the same. “Aw, Paolo, don't be like that! It wasn't really you!”

Paolo slumped into a recliner. “That's the thing, Mrs…"

Noisette waggled a finger. “Just Noisette, Paolo.”

He nodded. “Noisette, the thing is… I don't think the Pizzamancer was totally controlling me, not until later. He was influencing me. Some of that…” he shuddered, “some of that was me. I'm not… really a good person. I…” he clutched this head. “Aagh, I can't remember who I was! It just feels like I was a bad guy!”

Noisette nodded, her smile gone. “Maybe ya were, big guy.” She hopped up, walked over, and put a hand on his knee. “Don't mean ya can't start over. Think of this as a chance to be someone else!” The toothy smile returned.

Paolo smiled back, hesitantly, then more confidently. “That's… that's a good point. Thank you.” He was silent a few moments. “I feel like you're the first person who's ever really been nice to me.”

Noisette poked him. “Maybe ya just needed a friend!”

Paolo nodded.

She grabbed his arm and dragged him to a standing position. “Come on, let me show you the Town!”

~~~~

As Paolo sat down, Noisette brought a plate of pastries over, a long with two cups of coffee. “Here ya go! My own recipes!”

He held up the pastry - he'd never seen one look so… lurid before. “Are you sure this is OK?”

She was already chewing on one. “Oh yeah,” she muttered around crumbs, “they're some of my best sellers!”

Hesitantly, he bit into one. A burst of flavors assaulted his mouth, and he stopped. He was picking up at least three different flavors of fruit - strawberry, blueberry, and… what is that? 

As he swallowed, she grinned. “You like it?”

“I… think so,” he said. “What's that third flavor?”

“Something the gnomes cooked up. Said it was a cross-breed of a bunch of different fruits. They call them flashberries, because they really make other stuff pop!” Noisette kicked her feet. “Really gives food some bite, don't it?”

“It does.” He looked around as he sipped his coffee - everyone other than Noisette in the cafe was either glaring or looked extremely uncomfortable. He hunched his shoulders. 

Noisette noticed the motion, and stood up. “Hey, everybody!” she said, “I just wanna let everybody know - I know this guy looks like Pizzahead, an’ he used to be, but he ain't Pizzahead no more! He was bein’ mind-controlled! His name's Paolo, an’ he's lost his memory! So be nice to him, OK?”

Several of the patrons’ faces shifted then, looking more sympathetic. 

“He's still trying to figure out what's goin’ on, and he's gonna be livin’ here for a while!” Suddenly the smile took on a dangerous edge. “If I hear about anyone causin’ him trouble, there'll be problems, an’ I don't want that, OK? Everybody spread the word!”

Suddenly every smile was bright and shining, and everyone nodded vigorously. Paolo was bemused. 

Someone came and whispered in the bunny woman's ear, and she waved. “Sorry, hun, got something I need to check on. Be right back!”

As she went into the back, a young Pig lady approached him. “So, you're not… not Pizzahead?”

Paolo shook his head. “No. Pizzahead was… partially me, but mostly the Pizzamancer. I think he took my dark side and made it… a lot worse.”

She nodded, sitting down. “And you can't remember any of it?”

As if on cue, his eye twitched as a shard of glassy pain shot through his head. He vaguely remembered seeing the woman's face… twisted in fear. “I…” he clutched this head. “I get… flashes. I saw… your face just now.” He shook his head. “Whatever I did to you, I'm sorry. But, could you tell me?”

The young Pig went pale. “You, you came to Pig City. You came to our cafe… you told us if we didn't clean it up you'd turn us into bacon.”

Paolo’s eyes went wide. “Oh Gods.”

The young woman quickly waved her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Oh, you didn't hurt us. And… your face is different now.” She stared into his eyes, and nodded. “You're different. I don't think I'm afraid of you.”

He nodded, and gave a weak smile. “Well, that's a good start, I guess.”

Suddenly the entire cafe seemed to be wanting to ask him questions, to tell him about his past. Words flew past faster than he could respond.

He couldn't take it. His head started aching. “Stop, please stop,” he whispered.

“Hey hey HEY! Everybody, back up!” he heard Noisette's voice say over the cacophony. Everyone backed up, and she gently touched his shoulder. “Paolo? You OK?”

He slowly took his hands off his head. “I'm… OK,” he said. “I'm sorry, it was just too much at once… AGH!” He grabbed this head again as more stabbing pain lanced through it, a series of jumbled images and feelings flashing before his mind's eye.

“Oof, overloaded, huh?” Noisette said. “Everybody, please, give him some space.”

A chorus of quiet apologies sounded around him, and everyone returned to their seats. Everyone spoke in hushed voices, occasionally glancing at him.

At least they're glances of concern, not fear.

His head slowly stopped throbbing as Noisette sat across from him. “Sorry,” he said.

Noisette reached across and grabbed his hand. “They never got to get this close to Pizzahead without risking their lives before. Now… they're curious. The real Pizzahead would've gone on a rampage if that had happened to him.”

He considered. “I just wanted them to stop.”

She nodded. “If that ain't proof yer not Pizzahead, I don't know what is.”

~~~~

Paolo flopped down in a chair in the apartment Noisette had loaned him. His head throbbed. He leaned back, covering his eyes. Impulsively he jumped up, flipping the lights off.

Immediately he felt better. 

The whole world felt like it was too bright, too loud, too sharp. Every sensation is like a knife in my head! As he sat in the quiet dark, the throbbing slowly eased, and he found himself able to think again.

Migraines, he thought, they're called migraines.

Amazing that he could forget something even that basic.

Another memory floated to the surface, a newer one: a doctor at the hospital…

~~~~

“Mr. Pizzahead…”

“Please, don't call me that,” Paolo had said. “My name is… is… Paolo. Ach.” He'd clutched his head again.

The doctor had looked nonplussed. “Well, Mr. Paolo, I've never seen a pattern quite like this before, but it's plain you've got some noticeable brain damage, mainly to your memory regions. Please, take it easy. You may experience episodes of sensory overload. Try to stay somewhere quiet for a few days.” He'd huffed. “I'd prefer to keep you here for observation…”

Paolo had gently shaken his head. “I probably can't afford it.”

The doctor had shaken his head, as well. “Well, aside from massive memory loss, I'd say you're in good health. What will you do?”

Paolo had brushed his pocket - in it was the mysterious letter, addresses to him:

Please come to the History Department of La Crosta University immediately. It’s vital to your future. You will be cared for.

“I've got somewhere to be.”

~~~~

He'd gone to the meeting, memories floating to the surface of his mind as he walked. He couldn't even begin to guess how much he'd lost, but he'd known one thing: the Pizzamancer had ruined his life.

I'll kill him.

He looked around at the darkened room. At least he was right: I got taken care of. He considered his good fortune, that he'd taken the little rabbit’s word. He had a home… for now… he had - well, maybe not friends, but allies - to be with.

Now I just have to find out who I was as a person.

He leaned back in the chair. The seat was comfortable enough he could just… nod off…

~~~~

Paolo stood patiently as the man waited on other customers. He was nervous. Hate the man as he did, the last words of the dying were not easily ignored.

“Don't let it out of your sight. I mean it, boy! If you listen to one thing I've ever said, don't let it go…”

He shivered. It was only the second time his father had sounded scared.

“Can I help you, young man?”

Paolo squared his shoulders. My turn. He walked up to the counter. he old human across from him smiled in a friendly way. “I have something I wanted to get appraised, and possibly sell.”

The man nodded. “Very well, then. Let's see it.”

Paolo carefully took the ring out of his pocket and laid it on the counter. Just as carefully, the man picked it up, carefully fitting a jeweler's loupe to his eye. He looked the ring over. “Ohh, this is quite the treasure, young man! The workmanship is…” he paused; Paolo knew he was choosing his words carefully - the more lavish the praise, the higher a price Paolo could ask. Finally he spoke again… “passable. The ruby is… is…”

The ruby, the size of a pepperoni, glistened like old blood in the light of the shop. It had never needed polishing. It seemed to beckon to him, even now.

Paolo cleared his throat, and the man jumped. “Sorry, my boy, don't know what came over me, there. It's quite an impressive piece, but I'm not sure if I could find a buyer. I'm afraid I could only give you $5000 for it.”

Paolo kept his face blank. It's worth far more than that. He shook his head. “Now now, sir, while that's quite a generous sum, I couldn't possibly part with it for that much.”

Paolo could practically smell the man's avarice. “I… I could perhaps give you 10- no, 15,000?”

Paolo tried not to smile. He wants it, but I can get more. He reached out and gently plucked it out of the man's hands. “I appreciate your time, sir, but a man offered me $50,000 at another store. I thought perhaps you would be more honest, but I see you aren't interested.”

The man was practically salivating now. He reached out and grasped Paolo’s clenched hand. “No, no! Sorry, sorry, young man, I misspoke! Not sure what I was thinking. I'll give you $100,000 for it!”

Paolo’s heart leapt. $100,000! That would be more than enough to invest and grow in the time I have! He nodded. “Deal.”

The pawnbroker nodded, smiling widely. “Come, come, let's set up the details. I assume you don't want it in cash.”

Not if I don't want to be robbed before I get to the bank. “No, sir. A direct deposit will do nicely.”

As they worked out the details, Paolo found a strange dread gnawing at his happiness. He shook his head, looking down at the ring. Can't wait to be rid of you.

And yet the idea seemed to fill him with dread.

Finally the old man hung up his phone. “Very well, young man. Simply hand over the ring, and I'll send you the money immediately.” The old man held out his hand, expectantly.

Paolo held the ring out… and hesitated. His hand seemed to want to lock up. He swore he heard his father screaming at him.

In fact, he swore he heard a cacophony of voices screaming defiance and denial at him. 

Paolo shook his head, and dropped the ring in the man's hand.

As the man smiled and cradled the ring, Paolo felt a tiny twinge of… something… in the back of his mind. As for the voices… they had gone silent.

The man reached over and tapped a few keys. “There you go, young man. $100,000. Here's your paperwork.”

Paolo took the paperwork, stood, and shook hands. “Glad to be rid of it.”

The man held the ring up to the light. “Can't imagine why! It's quite the striking piece!”

“It holds… bad memories for me.” Paolo bowed, feeling wooden and strange. “Good day, sir.”

As he walked out, Paolo felt a strange hollowness in the back of his mind. The world seemed to change and fade, growing fuzzy and distorted.

Suddenly the ground erupted, a huge, clawed hand bursting up from beneath the street.

Paolo fell backwards, screaming in terror. But the people around him said nothing, not reacting. He saw one turn…

They had no face. None of them have faces!

The hand slammed down, pulling a monstrous being up from the earth - a round, greasy body, a face picked out in pizza toppings. The strips of green pepper opened, and a roar like the furnaces of hell itself burst out. 

Paolo realized that, despite being deafening and many octaves deeper, it was his father's voice.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, BOOOOOY?” It roared. 

Paolo scrambled backwards on his hands and feet. “I - I don't know what-’

A huge hand snatched him up, holding him to the huge face. Below, the faceless masses continued about their days. The monster smashed several of them, but there was no reaction.

“I TOLD YOOOOU! DON'T LOSE THE RINNNNG!”

Paolo squirmed. “I didn't lose it! I sold it! I just- just want a life to live!”

The creatures roared in rage. “DOOMED! THE WORRRRLD IS DOOOMED BECAUSE OF YOOOOOU! HE IS IN YOU NOW! HAVE TO STOP YOOOU!”

The beast opened its maw, and flames crackled in its mouth. Paolo writhed. “NO! NO, PLEASE! I'M SORRY!”

The creature dropped him into its mouth.

As he fell for what felt like an eternity, Paolo screamed. 

“I'M SORRYYYY…!”

~~~~

Paolo rocketed up from his reclined position, gasping. Frantically he patted over his body - no burns, no scrapes. He rubbed his face - it was covered in sweat and tears. His head was pounding in time with his heart. What was that? A nightmare? A memory? 

Both?

He stood, stumbling over to the bathroom. He looked into the mirror - he looked haggard, tired. Behind his eyes, it felt like dull needles were being stabbed into his head.

And yet… he found memories there, too.

A pizzeria, full of joy and laughter.

Mechanical figures, dancing and singing, as he watched from the shadows, proud that the mechanical aptitude he'd hated had been useful, after all.

A growing unease, an inability to let go of the memory of the ring…

His employees, finally abandoning him after all his abuse…

Paolo grabbed his head as the throbbing got worse. Too much at once. The dream seemed to have been a catalyst, though. He was catching bits and pieces of his time as Pizzahead.

The blood, the pain, the enjoyment he'd taken in it…

All with a smile. That same damn smile.

Paolo fought not to vomit.

He glanced over at the shower. Shower would do me good.

~~~~

Paolo wandered into Noisette's cafe. A few customers cautiously waved and smiled, and he waved back, though his smile was probably a little sickly.

The memories were still surfacing, and none of them were pleasant.

Noisette herself bounced over. “Hello, Paolo! How're you…” she paused, noticing his pallor. She sat down, concerned. “Actually, maybe I should take you to the doctor or somethin’. You OK, big guy?”

Paolo grimaced. “I had… a nightmare. Last night. I remembered… selling that ring. And then my father appeared as a monster, telling me I'd doomed us all… and he ate me, dropping me in a pit of fire.”

Noisette looked horrified. “That's terrible! Let me get you some coffee and something to eat!”

He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Nothing too sweet, please. I don't think my stomach could take it.”

She nodded, and jogged off. Shortly she arrived with the aforementioned coffee, and a pair of bagels. He sipped the coffee - it had cream, but little sugar. He nodded. “Perfect.” He held up the bagels - there were small dark spots. He looked more closely. “Raisins?”

Noisette nodded, looking down. “One of the only times Pizzahead was actually nice to me was one time he came into my place inn the Tower, asking for raisins. He seemed so happy…”

Paolo felt a twinge, and he remembered - he had loved raisins as a kid. He took a huge bite of a bagel, and immediately smiled. “Guess a bit of me was coming through there. Good call, Hazel.”

Noisette immediately perked up. “So, you're remembering more about yourself?”

He nodded. “Bits and fragments. Most of it is… nauseating.” He stared at the bagel. “It's, it's giving me an idea of what the Pizzamancer is like.”

“Oh?” Noisette leaned forward.

“I thought I had trouble feeling emotions, but…” he paused. “He's… he's a complete monster. The worst kind. He's a narcissist, a sociopath, a murderer more times than I want to think about.” His stomach roiled, and he took a shot of coffee. “Honestly, it really doesn't matter how it happens, but… we can't let him stay around. We can't let him live.”

Noisette made an “O” of surprise. “That bad?”

Paolo shuddered. “Hazel, whatever you thinking is the worst that can happen… he's capable of so much worse. I was thinking he brought out my dark side, and he did, but… I think I was holding him back.” He paused, practically inhaling the other bagel in his nervousness. “Please tell me the others have found a way to find this guy.”

Noisette twiddled her thumbs. “I don't think they're havin' much luck. Giuseppe and Anita's government and criminal connections, Vigi’s old bounty hunter buddies… even Noisey’s been talking to other media people.” She shook her head. “It's like findin’ a ghost.”

Paolo slapped his hands down on the table, angry. “We have to find him! I don't- AGH!” His head felt like it was being stabbed again. Noisette jumped up, running to his side, but he held up his hand. “We can't give him time! He'll… he'll…” Paolo sat back down.

Noisette sat back down. “But, what can we do that ain't being done? We-”

A huge shadow fell over the two of them, and Noisette gasped. Paolo looked up…

A giant stood in front of him. He was enormous, a good nine feet tall, made of purple stone. He was wearing patched pants, and oddly, a small flat hat. He was looking down at Paolo with a stern expression.

Noisette gasped. “Huh? John? Pillar John? What are you doing here?”

John bent slowly, looking Paolo in the eyes. He'd heard of Litha before, but he'd never met one. They were even more rare than his own kind - it was thought there were less than a thousand left in the world. He cringed back. “Can… can I help you, Mr… John?”

John stared into his eyes, saying nothing. It felt like the giant stone man was digging into the deepest parts of his soul. Finally, he nodded. “There's a lotta damage there, but yer you again. Looks like th’ bastard really truly ditched ya.” The Litha gently sat down next to the table, gesturing for them to sit down. “I'm here fer you, pizza man. Or rather, you and yer friends.”

“My… friends?” Paolo repeated. He was so off-balance all he could do was parrot.

John nodded. “We tol’ Peppino we'd be there when he needed us, an’ he needs us. But firs’, I gotta let ya in on a lil’ secret.” He leaned closer. “Sorry, but this is gonna hurt. A lot.”

John reached out and gently grasped Paolo's head.

Paolo felt something snap inside his head, and he stood, then fell to his knees, clutching his head. Tears boiled out of his eyes. The pain was indescribable.

Noisette crouched beside him. “Oh, no! Paolo? Paolo!” She turned to a bystander. “Someone call an ambulance, quick!”

His hand shot out and gripped her arm. “N-no! No! Wa… wait…”

The pain was lessening, and a memory surfaced….

~~~~

Pillar John stood next to him, grinning.

“Now watch this, buddy.” John gently grabbed Pizzahead's arm… there was a feeling of the world bending…

And then they were standing beside Gerome.

Pizzahead was impressed. “Well, well, how'd you do that?”

Pillar John laughed. “Ah, we can do stuff like that. I can move us here ‘cause I always know where Gerome is. I can move ‘im around, too!”

Pizzahead grinned inside. He already knew it, but he'd wanted to be sure the two Litha had that level of power before he continued. It had been so long since his ‘death,’ the Litha making up the tower had all gone moribund. They were slowly falling apart. But with a fresh Litha, split up amongst the different parts of the Tower… he could have his invincible, unfindable fortress again. “Well, that's good, old rock! I've got a good job for you, then…

~~~~

Suddenly his vision snapped back to a circle of concerned bystanders… and John, who looked more solemn than he'd ever been.

Paolo reached towards him. “John… I'm so sorry. Where is Gerome?”

John nodded. “Inside the Tower.”

Paolo grabbed Noisette's arm. “Noisette, call the others. I know how to get to the Tower.”

Noisette gaped for a moment, then nodded, and quickly dialed a number. The crowd around them backed up, murmuring.

John stared at him, saying nothing.

Paolo was shaking. “John. John. The Tower. It's made out of… out of Litha, isn't it? Thousands of Litha…!”

The giant nodded. “Yeah. I talked to ‘em while I was stuck there. That's why there's so few of us now. The Pizzamancer turned ‘em all into that thing. That's why it can do some o’ the things it can do.”

Paolo felt like vomiting again. “That's… that's sick.”

John nodded again. “Now ya know why we been keepin’ an eye on th’ Tower. An’ you.”

Noisette clicked off her phone. “All right, they're in their way.”

John stood up. “I'll wait for ya where the Tower used t’ be. Lemme know when you're all ready.”

As the Litha ambled off, Noisette grabbed Paolo's arm. “You really know how to get us there?”

Paolo nodded. “I do.” He clapped his hands together. “I just hope we can finish this when we get there.”

[novankenn]

Cherry Pie - Nine -

(Master Chapter List)

As Pyrrha and Cardin were having their very public fight. Yang was just leaving the bathroom after having a shower, and Jaune was hunched over a bowl of Pumpkin Pete's Marshmallow Crunch. Jaune grunted a greeting to Yang between spoonfuls, and the blond brawler entered the kitchenette and grabbed a mug of coffee.

Yang: (Taking a seat across from Jaune) Are you good?

Jaune: I'm fine.

Yang: Jaune don't bullshit me. This twice now that asshat has taken a shot at you.

Jaune: I think he was aiming for his ex.

Yang: You know what I mean. So, are you okay?

Jaune: I'm fine, Yang. You're worse than my sisters.

Yang: Hey, I have strict orders from them to watch your ass, or it's my ass... and my bountiful booty is only for Kitty-Kat, so suck it up.

Jaune: I should never have agreed for you to come, the last time I went home for a visit.

Yang: Why? Is it because I'm basically been adopted by your family, and that means you are still living with family?

Jaune: No, it's because four of them think me and you should have babies, and the other three are blaming me for the fact you won't ever be a true sister.

Before Yang could react or spout a comeback, Jaune flicked his spoon in her direction, splattering her recently showered face with milk.

Yang: (Noticing Jaune smiling) Oh, you son of a bitch!

Jaune: Oh, oh, oh! Mom's not going to like what you just insinuated about her.

Yang: You wouldn't?

Jaune: I will if you and Blake don't stop trying to set me up with people.

Yang: What are you talking about?

Jaune: Pyrrha. She seems like a great person, but...

Yang: (Laughing) That was not a setup! P-Money had a cheating ex and Blake was trying to cheer her up! You egotistical prick! Thinking that was about you and your wasteland of a love life!

Jaune: Okay, so I miss read the situation. It's not like you guys HAVEN'T tried doing that before.

Yang: And we apologized and swore we wouldn't do it again, after what's her name?

Jaune: Her name was Scarlet David, and she was a guy.

Yang: Well, you did have a fun date with Scarlet, so it didn't end that badly for you.

Jaune: He's a good guy. Last time we talked, he was dating someone new, and it sounded serious.

Yang: Good for him.

Jaune got up and put his dishes into the sink, before grabbing his own mug of coffee and returning to his seat. He took a sip from his mug and was enjoying the silence, until he saw the Cheshire grin on Yang's face.

Jaune: What are you planning?

Yang: Me? Moi? Plan something, pshaw, I would never...

Jaune: Yang we've been roommates for over a year, I know your tells just as well as you know mine. We work together every few nights, so please don't insult me like that.

Yang: Spoil sport.

Jaune: Thank you.

Yang: So... what did you think of P-Money?

Jaune: You said it wasn't...

Yang: It wasn't. I just was wondering what you thought of her.

[ask-annie-edison]

annie i have a very important question. who do you think the asscrack bandit was ??

Oh, pshaw, are we really still talking about that whole thing?? I mean it was silly… but whoever the bandit was must’ve been really clever if they never got caught… And they left absolutely no trail behind! I mean, the ACB was probably one of the smartest people at Greendale, someone who memorized all the shortcuts AND the most efficient routes to get from class to class with time to spare, because everyone knows the best way to be prepared is to show up five minutes before the teacher even gets there… I mean it’s just common sense!

…Anyways, I have no idea who the bandit was. All I know is that it definitely, definitely was not me. Britta was pretty suspicious…

[inkher0]

I got more thoughts about this beef I swear I do. This is my corn on the cob

For anyone that doesn't know, Kdot and his partner Whitney have been together since they were young. She's been with him throughout his entire career. They were engaged in 2018, but haven't had a ceremony yet. Now, the average person hears "they've been engaged for six years" and think that means they're not working, but that's completely wrong. They just don't know what its like to grow up with the person you're in love with.

In a relationship like that, there is literally no rush for legal marriage. You guys may already have kids and share a home by the time you remember you're not on the record. That kind of security in your relationship means that you stop giving a fuck about big gestures, because you don't need to prove anything to anyone, including yourself. You Know. The wedding is something for everyone else to enjoy, because you already won, baby!!! You're already happy!!

Also, the way that people can't even fathom the idea of someone not wanting to be constantly on social media. Why the everloving fuck would I, a person secure in their own self, wanna post just so YOU know I exist. If my husband was a world famous rapper, you ain't NEVER seeing me. You think I want your dusty crusty ass running up to me like "ahh give this to your husband its fire" PSHAW

[lets-talk-spirituality]

Hi can you give me some advice on how to be more confrontational instead of ignoring the problem completely ? I feel like this is something I need to work on, being someone whose really scared of rejection or abandonment and I feel like its actually blocking me from having stable relationships with people. Thank you in advance for your insight! ⛵️

Girlllll (genderless) I struggle very much with speaking up for myself at times. In certain situations I just shut down because I have this overwhelming physical response. Sometimes I think it’s my intuition signaling this person isn’t safe to open up to, and my trauma saying it too. But ultimately what I’m learning is that by not speaking up, I’m hiding myself from them and I’m trying to control how they perceive me which is a form of manipulation (don’t take it as you’re manipulative, we all manipulate things to a degree). So sometimes it’s about feeling the fear and speaking up. Not always, you need to still use discernment and assess the situation but many times the fear is in our body and minds. What if you said what needed to be said and let whatever that person chooses be their choice. All you can do is be you and they can take it or leave it.

My advice is feel the fear and do it anyway. Be afraid of speaking up but still do it. It will help you heal your trust in yourself when you show up to defend yourself. You may shake when you do it but still do it. I had a super toxic boss before my current job and it was the hardest thing for me to speak up for myself in the exit interview but I’m glad I did it. I couldn’t look at him but I did it. Because sometimes if you don’t speak up, the person will never know and can never change. That means people after you may be hurt by them too.

I also recommend writing it out. Sometimes writing helps clear your thoughts and you can communicate more clearly that way. Try handling confrontations over text or email or by letter sometimes. You can even say, I struggle speaking up for myself but am trying to practice saying hard things and at this stage I can write it out, please read this letter in its entirety and let’s find a time to talk about it.

When it comes to tasks or things I need to handle, sometimes I just can’t handle them but I write out to do lists a lot so I don’t forget. If you don’t address it, eventually you will be forced to and then that hurts even more. I’ve also been learning that when you don’t handle things it stays in your mind and fogs up space you could be using for other things so sometimes it’s just, I need to get this done. Most of the time I say follow your feelings but sometimes you have to do stuff you don’t feel like doing because it needs to get done.

I have to pep talk myself for this stuff sometimes like, “come on bitch! You got this, 500 words pshaw, knock it out” Stuff like that. I find talking to myself like I’m a friend is very helpful in motivating myself.

Hope some of this helps you! It’s a learning process but the more you do it, the better you become at it.

[zmediaoutlet]

happy wincest wednesday z! my brain is pudding today so the only thing i can think of is related to naked sam and dean, mea culpa. do you think that sam and dean ever send nudes or sexts to each other or do they have too much trouble taking it seriously to really get into it?

eve do not have a brain of either tapioca or butterscotch with dippin' sticks on this happiest wincest wednesday <3

buuuuuut I mean I think you know what my answer is gonna be, right. How do you take sexy nakey selfies when you know the recipient is your brother who made fun of your hip mole when you were nine. But maybe this is the unfair headcanon of someone who can't take sexy selfies seriously from anyone! Still -- I feel like Sam reacted so "pshaw, are you fuckin' kidding" to Dean's dating profile (with its very mild pic! with its minimal sexiness!) that he canNOT deal with Dean being like, ooh, I'm so hot for your bod. For one thing, that's not news. C'mon, Dean.

That said I feel like there could be a very drunk evening some time when Sam's gone to Indianapolis for a grimoire or whatever and Dean's bored at home that Dean does start boredly texting him while he's breaking into the library's special collections room, and the thing is that Dean is an absolutely charming vanillamuffin half the time but the other half he is totally frank about sex, and Sam could text back like oh my god, how are you this bored, and Dean might just straight up go already jerked off twice, what else am I supposed to do? And then Sam's standing there in the dark in a library with the image of Dean all sweaty and sated there behind his eyes and he might -- maybe -- just ask some questions. I TRULY CANNOT BUY THEM BEING LIKE oh baby, what are you wearing, are you hot for me, blah blah, buuuut some information might get exchanged. Possibly some instructions. And then, finally, Dean might send a picture, which is badly lit and weirdly framed and he included balled tissues and his half-drunk beer in the background, and Sam is still in the goddamn library and he gets a very inappropriate boner in the medieval religious literature section.

So. A one off, maybe. (Sam does not jerk off in the medieval religious literature section but it is a long long drive back to his motel that night.)

[lauvra]

I was listening to an audio reading of poetry last night, someone said that Edgar Allan Poe is rarely considered a funny writer -- I paused the audio, stewing in the comment. What? I think from the first time I read him in "The Cask of Amontillado" as a teenager realised he was, albeit darkly; very funny. It was also the first time I realised men could be as socially devious as women. The work that reignited my enjoyment of his humour recently was while reading "Some Passages in the Life of a Lion" -- here's a section of only one example of how fucking funny while deep and darkly he writes:

“Will you go to Almacks, pretty creature?” she said, tapping me under the chin.

“Upon honor,” said I.

“Nose and all?” she asked.

“As I live,” I replied.

“Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?”

“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”

“Pshaw, no! — but with all your nose?”

“Every bit of it, my love,” said I: — so I gave it a twist or two, and found myself at Almacks. Maybe that passage doesn't do my insinuation justice. Earlier, he writes:

When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step with him into his study.

“My son” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of your existence?”

“My father,” I answer, “it is the study of Nosology.:

“And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a nose?” “A nose, my father,” I relied, greatly softened, “has been various defined by about a thousand different authors (here I pulled out my watch.) “It is now noon or thereabouts -- We shall have time to enough to get through with them all before midnight. To commence then:--The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance--that bump--that excrescence--that--” __”Will do, Robert, “ interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am thunderstruck at the extent of your information--I am positively--upon my soul.”

A FRAUD, and so am I, so that I may spot one. The character counts on his father valuing his time and wanting evidence of what he already wants. He has proven nothing. There's so so so much more I can say about this piece (I say, tapping on my watch), the ending, the ending, but my point is he's so funny. Have I made my point? It's subjective? Bah!

[dmwrites]

Okay, okay, so maybe, just maybe, hypothetically even, Zedaph had spent just a little too many diamonds on golden carrots and stupid enchantment books for his wooden tools. Hypothetically. And maybe he was out of diamonds now. Maybe.

“You know what, it’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just a little down on my luck right now.” Zed said to a local chicken that had fallen into his giant hole. The chicken clucked. “How dare you say I should just mine for more! I am a man of science and extreme feats! Mine? Pshaw!” The chicken hadn’t actually said anything, so where Zed was getting this back and forth conversation from is a mystery to all. “I just need a way to make money is all. Everyone had shops… what can I do?” Zed paced back and forth. “Redstone shop? No no I need redstone. Oh, I could have people pay me to watch me do my achievements! No, bad, no one will pay for that.” Zedaph sighed. Then his eyes lit up. “I am a man of science! That’s it! I’ll have redstone science lessons! That people pay for! Perfect!”

Zedaph dusted off the old lab coat and set out a few chairs and desks by his rock. He’d told the hermits to come at noon. Perhaps a few builders would come by.

Noon came. One minute passed. Then two. Zedaph began sweating under his safety glasses.

“Hey dude!” Cub appeared over the hill.

“Oh, Cub! Hello my lovely man how are you! Are you here for redstone science?”

“Indeed I am.” Cub smiled. “Always good to have a refresher course.” He pushed a diamond across the table to Zed, who took it gratefully.

“Oh Cub, my favorite eboy scientist, what a guy you are! And I think you’re also my only student.” Zed pocketed the diamond. “Well, I guess we’ll get started then.” Cub took out a notebook, and Zed consulted his clipboard. “Firstly, there are two important rules to science. One: always write things down, or it isn’t considered science. And two, always keep your lab coat securely buttoned.”

Someone snorted. Zed looked up to see Doc leaning against a tree, watching them.

“Can I help you, DocM?” Zed asked.

“Just was passing by and couldn’t help but overhear your science rules.” Doc replied, smirking. “Do you have an issue with how i wear my lab coat?” He looked down at himself, then up at Zed, and winked.

Zed huffed. “Class, I-”

“You can call me Cub, I’m the only one here.” Cub said.

“Cub, I want you to take a good look at Doc over there. He is a poster child for bad lab coat wearing behavior and unsafe practices. His lab coat is unbuttoned, a tits-out approach, some may say, rendering it essentially useless in the name of science! And he isn’t even wearing a shirt! No protection to the chest and stomach! Redstone is an aggressive material when met with skin! Nothing to be laughing about!” Zed said loudly at Doc, who was laughing now.

Cub scribbled furiously.

“Now, Doc, I appreciate you being an anti-model for us. Now either you can trot along your merry way and go be shirtless somewhere else, or you can join my redstone science class for one diamond.” Zed said.

Doc chuckled. “Sure. Fuck it, I’ll take your class.” He sat down next to Cub. “I don’t have any paper though.”

“Here you go.” Cub gave him a piece.

“Or a pen.”

“Here you go.” Cub handed him a pen.

“Wait, this is my pen.”

“Is it? Oh yeah I think I took it from your house.”

“When were you in my house?”

“I think you were asleep.”

“Why were you in my house while I was as-”

“Students!” Zed interrupted, now holding two vials of redstone. “Now that we have the two basic rules of science, it’s time for our first experiment! With this redstone and these pistons, I’d like you both to make the pistons move.”

Cub nodded. Doc rolled his eyes. They both placed down the piston and the redstone.

“SURPRISE FIRE!” Zed shouted suddenly, pulling a flamethrower out of who knows where and blasting the desk with it. Cub ducked under the table, but Doc wasn’t so lucky. The now on-fire redstone dust hit him right in the chest. Doc screamed. Zed panicked, dropping the still-lit flamethrower, and pushed Doc into the river. Cub ran around the table and turned off the flamethrower.

“BRO what the FUCK?” Doc coughed, emerging from the river.

Zedaph’s land was on fire, Cub’s notebook was nothing more then ash, and Doc was already developing a nasty burn on his chest.

Zed picked up his clipboard with shaky hands. “So, students, you see, that’s why you should always wear your lab coats correctly.”

“Zed, I’m going to fucking kill you.” Doc said.

[facesofone]

I've always hated that saying. Here is my attempt to turn it into something that means something for someone like me.

[ID]

Panel 1: A person says to Jak in a bright and bubbly voice, "Remember! You can't love anyone else until you love yourself first!" To which Jak says "Pshaw! Get outta here with that nonsense. You don't know how low my self-esteem can go or my capacity to love!"

Panel 2: Jak walks along thinking about what was just said, he thinks "I always hated this saying. It told me "Fix your depression or else nobody will love you." as well as "What you think is love is false because you don't even love yourself." It's tough to hear when you are struggling with both.

Panel 3: Jak is standing in the middle of a bridge, looking at Kyra who is sitting on the the other side of the safety wall. Jak continues to say "It was when I faced my own death alone and had to bring myself back did I realize there's some truth in it. However, I altered it. "You can't rely on others to save you if you don't try yourself." Because change comes from within, nobody can make anyone choose life except the person faced with the choice."

Panel 4: Jak is helping Kyra come back to the safe side of the bridge. He concludes "In those moments, being there for yourself IS an act of love."

[END ID]

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

The Power of Storytelling: Listen Closely

listen nonny i wanna put the full ask here but it's so long so i'm just gonna link it here

Read on Ao3 Masterlist

Warnings: none for this part

Pairings: anxceit, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 3864

It’s easy to fall into a routine; Tobias won’t attend every one of Invoq’s shows—there’s only so many times he can be in a place of such sensory levels, after all—but without fail, he will wait at the tree outside the tent for Invoq to emerge before escorting him to the tavern for a drink. Invoq will tell him about what went especially spectacular about that night’s performance, Tobias will respond with gentle jibes about who he’s managed to scare this time, and they’ll happily drink until the tavern gets too overrun by drunks to hear each other. 

Pepper remarks about how close they seem to be when he goes to pick up his bread. “You and that magician have gotten awfully cozy with each other, haven’t you?”

“He says it’s good to have a friend in the towns he stays in,” Tobias says as he picks up a sack of flour, “I’m simply offering my services.”

“Mm, and since when do you offer services without expecting anything in exchange?”

He indicates the sack he’s carrying and Pepper snorts. 

“You don’t pay for my bread anymore, boy.”

“At your insistence!”

“Yes, ever since I learned you were paying me double what the rate should be.” She wags a floury finger in his direction. “And don’t think I don’t notice you sneaking coins into the mason jar when my back is turned.”

He raises his hands. “If people found out I wasn’t paying—“

“Pshaw if people found out, they’re the ones who helped me insist, you stubborn boy. You’re the one who can’t stand the idea of unpaid debts.”

“Well, my lady,” he grunts as he hefts another sack, “when you earn a living the way I do, I’m afraid some things can’t be avoided.”

“Which makes it all the more interesting that you’re willingly associating with a man whose career is fooling people out of their coin.”

Tobias’s head jerks up. “That is not what he does.”

“No?” Pepper perches her elbows on the table. “Is that not what street magic is? Fooling your senses and when you’ve been fooled, demanding coin for the fooling?”

“People pay to see what impresses them, Invoq impresses them.”

“You know his name too?”

“It’s on the flyers scattered about town. I read.”

Pepper laughs, reaching out and patting his shoulder. A puff of flour lingers where she touches him. “I’m just needling you, poor boy.”

“Hmph.”

“I’m glad Invoq has a friend such as you,” Pepper continues, softer now, “someone to show him around and keep him out of trouble.”

Tobias snorts, setting down the sack of flour and dusting his hands off. “I don’t think I could keep him out of trouble if I tied him down and held him at knifepoint.”

“Hm, no, and he’d probably enjoy that.”

Tobias splutters. “Pepper!”

“What? Is not part of his act daring escapes? He’d probably figure out how to make an act out of it.”

Oh, that’s what she meant. 

“Really, boy, he’s good for you.” Pepper claps him on the back. “It’s been too long since there’s been someone in town to focus your attention on for more than a day or so.”

“I always have time for you, my lady.”

“Point that somewhere else,” she scolds, shooing him out of her back room, “I’m far too old and far too tired of your nonsense.”

“I’d never dream of calling you old, my lady.”

“Out!” She shoos him away, still smiling. “Out, out, go practice on your magician!”

“Your magician?” Of course Invoq has to be right there. “What’s this I’m hearing, is there another performer competing for your affections?”

Tobias sighs, putting his package over his shoulder and shaking his head. “Pepper likes to needle me about things.”

“She’s old enough to be your mother, I believe that’s her job.”

“Grandmother, perhaps.”

Invoq slaps him on the arm. “Have some respect! She isn’t old enough to be your grandmother, you scullion.”

“Of course, of course, how rude of me.”

“I can still hear you both,” comes Pepper’s voice from inside, “get off my stoop!”

“Apologies, my lady.”

“Right away, my lady.”

“I’ll sic the cat on you!”

“Oh, shit,” Tobias says, grabbing Invoq’s hand, “we really should go. I don’t want to tangle with Winston.”

“Winston?”

“Little black menace. I swear he knows how annoying he is and makes it a point to be more annoying than you think he’s going to be.”

Invoq chuckles. “The mighty sellsword, bested by a fur ball.”

“He’d shred your sequins and leave you in a pile of fabric and glitter. I wouldn’t test him.”

“I wouldn’t need to,” Invoq smirks, using their joined hands to tug Tobias closer, “I’ve got a big strong sellsword to protect me.”

“You’d have to hire me to get me to protect you from Winston.”

“Oh?” They come to a stop near the fountain. “And how much would that cost me?”

“More than a drink, that’s for sure.”

Invoq pouts—he totally pouts—and looks down at him. “What, no discount? Not even for me?”

“If I went around giving discounts out to every pretty face, I’d be poorer than a piece of wood.”

Before he can blink, Invoq’s leaning way into his space and he’s sitting on the edge of the fountain with the grinning man looming over him. 

“You think my face is pretty?” A gloved finger runs along his cheek. “Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment.”

“Come on, that can’t be the first time someone’s told you you’re pretty.”

“No, but it is the first time it’s coming from someone as pretty as you.”

“Oh, so that’s why you want to hire me,” Tobias sighs, “you just want to look at my face.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Invoq says, “the rest of you isn’t bad to look at either. Perhaps I should hire you as my assistant.”

“I don’t think sequins really suit me.”

“You’ll never know until you try it. I’ve got an—oh!”

Invoq suddenly topples forward and only Tobias’s quick reflexes keep them both from toppling into the fountain. It does have the unintended consequence of Invoq landing a bit awkwardly in Tobias’s lap, but there are worse fates. 

“Sorry,” the children holler behind them as they keep running down the road. Tobias rolls his eyes and helps Invoq sit back up. 

“Are you okay? They can be kind of oblivious about their surroundings.” Only then does he realize Invoq’s gone red. “Invoq? You okay? Are you hurt?”

Invoq blinks up at him, his lips slightly parted. “Y-yes, yes, I’m—I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”

“You sure? You look a bit…flushed.” He reaches up to feel his face only to grin when Invoq lets out a small noise. “Oh, I see…”

“Shut up.”

“What, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

“Don’t quote me at me,” he grumbles, fidgeting a little only for Tobias to hold him tighter. “Hey!”

“Don’t want you falling in,” he says softly, sitting him back up slowly, “easy does it, there we go.”

“Get off of me,” Invoq all but whines, still blushing furiously. 

“Actually, you’re the one who’s on me, Invoq.”

“Let me go, please.”

Tobias lets him go without further protest, looking to where the kids ran off to give Invoq a moment to get himself together. “I wonder where they were going in such a hurry.”

“No idea. Maybe we should ask?”

Before they can get up to figure it out, however, another group of people walk down the street, a little less explosive than the kids but still muttering excitedly to each other. 

“It’s been so long since he’s come back!”

“I know, I’ve still got memories of the last stories he told.”

“You think he’s got new ones?”

“I hope so, I’d love to hear what else he can come up with!”

“Oh, but I miss hearing the old ones! I hope he does both.”

“I can’t wait!”

They watch as they make their way down the road too, before Tobias whistles, long and low. 

“What,” Invoq asks, “do you know what’s going on?”

“I think Conras is coming to town.”

“Who?”

“I’ve never seen him,” Tobias says, shaking his head, “I’ve only heard from him. Apparently, he’s this really old storytelling that lives over the valley’s edge. He only comes once in a blue moon.”

“He’s just a storyteller?”

“Well, according to Pepper, he’s the best storyteller she’s ever heard. All the kids love him, or they love his stories.”

“If he doesn’t come very often, how come they remember him?”

“Because they grow up with his stories and when they’re older, he still recognizes them when he comes back. Or so Pepper says.”

Invoq hums. “And he’s supposed to be coming tonight?”

“I think so.” He turns to him. “What do you think, interested?”

“I don’t have a show tonight,” Invoq agrees as they stand, “I suppose it can’t hurt to see my competition.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he won’t be nearly as sparkly as you.”

“Hey!”

Tobias is certainly right, the place where people gather for Conras isn’t nearly as opulent or formal as Invoq’s tent. Instead, there’s an old fire pit that looks like it hasn’t seen a spark in decades and a collection of logs around it. It’s quite near the forest’s edge, something Tobias gives a quick once-over before settling near one of the outermost logs. Invoq takes a seat next to him, forced to press against his shoulder as more people sit. It’s far from the worse seating Tobias has ever been forced into. 

“How do we know he’s coming,” Invoq murmurs, “I didn’t see any flyers.”

“There never are any,” one of the townspeople whispers back, “but one of the shoemaker’s daughters said she saw him coming this afternoon and told the whole town.”

“He always comes at sundown like this,” another says, “so if he’s coming, we’ll know in a little bit.”

“I see him!” One of the children gets up and darts into the treelike, quickly followed by half a dozen more. “Conras! Conras!”

“Easy, my little ones,” an old voice laughs as a figure begins to emerge, “I am not so strong as you, I must take a while.”

An old man, a weathered and worn cloak about his shoulders, comes into the dusk near the fire pit with the children flitting eagerly about him. He reaches toward the singular stone at the apex of the curved logs and one of the little girls helps him find it. 

“Ah, thank you, my dear. I’m afraid my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Conras,” she chirps, “we can see! We’re happy to help.”

“So kind, my dear.” He pats her shoulder. “Well, shall we light this fire so I may see all of your faces?”

Someone strikes a flint and steel and the fire catches, revealing a kindly old face with bushy eyebrows, a gently sloped forehead, and eyes that dance with the flames. Conras looks around at the townspeople, greeting a few of them and teasing the children that scurry closer to sit on the ground near the bonfire. 

“Mind you don’t get too close, now, my dear, your dress is far too lovely.” He urges a few of them further back, a few of them closer to avoid the worst of the flames, before he lays his staff to the side. “Well, now, I’m sure you didn’t drag yourselves to the edge of town just to hear an old man mumble to himself, did you?”

“We came to hear your stories,” the children cry and he laughs. 

“Then my stories you shall hear.”

He shifts and the night quiets. Even the bonfire snaps and crackles quietly as he draws a slow breath. When he speaks, his voice is low and hypnotic, coaxing them closer even as no one moves. 

“When the sun was young and the grass was just learning to grow, there was a tree that grew and grew toward the sky, reaching its branches into the air as you would spread your fingers. This tree grew close to a small family of people, whose houses were made out of stone and wood, so seamlessly it was as if they grew out of the ground.”

Conras shifts, holding his hands out in front of him. 

“The smallest house could fit in your hands, just like this, and the people who lived inside them learned to listen to the earth to shape it, to build their houses and grow their food and live their lives.”

“How do you control stone and wood,” one of the children asks, “isn’t it impossible?”

“For these people, no, it was not. And they did not control it, they simply learned how to ask it for what they needed. All of this was taught to them by the tree, and their parents, and their parents before them. Trees are very wise, you know, it is important to listen to them.”

The children nod. 

“But as all trees do, sometimes, they have problems. And this tree, which had sustained this family for so long, had begun to grow weary.”

“Trees can get tired?” Another child shakes their head. “I didn’t know that.”

“Anything that loans itself out to help another grows weary,” Conras says, “and for this tree, who had loaned bits and pieces of itself over many generations, it was very weary indeed.”

He shifts again, his hands coming to rest on his knees. 

“And for this family, who had lived in the shadow of the tree so long that they had forgotten how much it taught them, did not realize why the tree began to droop, and they did not notice when the sun’s light began to grow brighter.”

The grove is quiet. 

“One day, one of the children walked outside and asked his door to open for him. And he was surprised when it would not open. He tried again and again, asking and asking, but he could not do it. So he asked his sister, who could not open it, and he asked his parents, who could not open it. None of them could ask their door to open, and they did not know why.”

“Why?”

“Patience, my little one, I will tell you.” The flames dance around Conras’s figure. “They got outside by climbing out of their windows, thinking perhaps that something had stopped the door, only to look around and realize that no one had been able to come outside. They helped everyone climb out their windows and they all puzzled about why things had stopped working.”

Conras cups his hands in front of him. 

“You see, the tree had taught them how to ask so long ago, but they had forgotten that something you must expect when you ask is for the answer to be ‘no.’ And so, because they had all lived so long with the understanding that if they asked, they would receive, they did not know what to do.”

“Does that mean they were never able to get inside their houses ever again?”

Conras smiles down at the little girl. “No, my dear, they were able to fix their doors so they could get in and out. But they could not build anything new, and so they decided they had to talk to the tree and make sure it was fixed.”

“Did it work?”

Conras merely smiles and continues. “The little boy asked why they couldn’t ask the tree if it would be fixed. After all, that is what they had been taught. And all the village elders were consulted and they said yes, the little boy will go up to the tree and ask for things to be better. He would ask what to do, how to learn, and he would start the cycle of learning anew so something like this would never happen again.”

The dark settles around the campfire as Conras speaks. 

“So the little boy asked the tree what he might do to make it work again. And he was surprised when the tree said nothing. Please, he asked, my family doesn’t understand. What did we do? Why won’t you help us?”

Shadows lengthen around Conras. The children shuffle. 

“And the tree showed him. It showed him how tired it was, how hurt it was, and how weary. I am old, the tree said, I am old and I am tired and you could not understand how much it hurts to keep giving like this.”

“But…but the boy did understand, right?” One of the children raises their hand. “And was able to fix it?”

“If a tree spoke to you, would you understand it? And would you know what to do to help?” When the children shake their heads sadly, Conras nods. “No, the little boy heard, but he could not understand. But he was only a boy, and the tree older than his great grandparents, it was not his fault that he did not understand. And so the boy cried there, under the tree, and the salt in his tears made the leaves turn toward him, for a tree has no arms and cannot hug a crying child.”

Several children scoot a little closer to each other. 

“But a family always has arms to embrace a crying child, and so the child’s cries summoned the family up to the base of the tree and they listened as the child wept and told them about how the tree hurt. And while they could not understand why the child was crying so, they understood that their problem would not be fixed by asking the tree for help.”

Conras pauses. The wind rustles the leaves. One of the children hiccups. “So what did they do?”

“The boy was exhausted and fell asleep at the base of the tree. The tree and the boy rested there, for several moons, as the family began to try and live their lives without the help that had been there for their entire lives. And the boy slept, and the family lived, and the tree rested. It is always good to rest.”

The fire flickers as if to agree.

“And one day, when the sun was high, the tree asked the boy to wake.”

Several children gasp. 

“The boy opened his eyes as a new flower bloomed before his eyes and he smiled. He reached out and touched it and the dew rolled onto his hand. The tree looked down at him and told him we have rested, child. And he asked the tree if he could have the flower.”

“Did the tree give it to him?”

“Does he get the flower?”

“The tree gave him the flower and he ran home to show it to his parents.” Conras smiles. “And they thanked the tree for taking such good care of their little boy while he rested.”

“What happened to the tree, Conras?”

“What happened to the family?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you,” Conras sighs, “I am far too old to remember every tree’s story.”

And just like that, the hypnotic trance is broken. The townspeople rustle back and forth, murmuring to each other. The children rush to huddle around Conras, asking for more, more, more, and he laughs softly. 

Invoq stirs and frowns. “That…wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“No,” Tobias agrees, “me neither.”

“It wasn’t a particularly happy story, was it?”

“Not really.”

“It was good, though,” he muses, “I’ve never been so entranced by a story before. The way he spoke, it was like I could see it, even though there’s nothing to see.”

“Mm.”

Invoq nudges him. “Not pleased?”

“I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“What’s wrong with a simple happy ending?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” Conras says suddenly, startling the two of them, “a happy ending is as good an ending as another.”

He looks up, gaze latching onto Tobias’s with unerring accuracy. 

“Though I have a feeling that is not all, hmm?”

Tobias shrugs. “Feels a little…hopeless to me, that’s all.”

“Hopeless?” Conras tilts his head. “The family learns how to live, the tree learns how much it is appreciated, the boy asks for something and gets it. It is a story of compassion, of healing.”

“But it didn’t work the way it was supposed to.”

Conras laughs. “I believe you’ll find that life very rarely works the way it’s supposed to.”

“I guess.”

Conras looks at him, eyes roving over his form. Something about it is unsettling, and yet…and yet. “I would suppose you like a story with a bit of a gentler resolution, hmm?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something where all the tree wanted was to be acknowledged, or the boy sleeping miraculously made everything work again, or that the boy was the one to bring the magic back, hmm? Something where the hero emerges unbroken, hmm?”

He shifts. That had been what he’d been thinking. 

“I understand,” Conras says gently, “especially when the opposite is so often true for you. A story is good to help you work through the things you can’t in reality. And yes, there is something appealing in someone seeing your worst side, your worst self, and choosing to believe in you anyway.”

His gaze sharpens. 

“And something appealing about something far stronger than you shouldering the burden, protecting you, so that you know what it feels like to let go for a second.”

Tobias’s breath catches in his throat. Next to him, Invoq tightens his grip on his hand. But then Conras looks away and the murmur of the townspeople swells once more. 

“Conras, will you tell us another story?”

“Of course, my dear, have I told you the one of the moon and the stars?”

Virgil crawls into bed that night and stares at the ceiling. What was that all about? The story was creepy, and weird, and not at all happy, no matter what that storyteller said. Even if he was really good at telling stories and all the other ones were much happier and even funny, that didn’t make the first one good too. 

Even if it was right and he hit a little too close to home. Even then. 

…how did he know all that? There’s no way it could be that obvious, right? No, no, Tobias isn’t even real, he’s a fictional character. He’s someone Virgil made up. It’s fine. Virgil’s fine. 

…he really hopes Conras isn’t going to be at the ball. 

Janus sits on the edge of the bed and tugs at his gloves. The stories ring in his head as he tries to get ready to go to sleep, but Conras’s voice still whispers in his head. Lessons, bits of wisdom, snuck into the spaces between words. He thinks of how much Conras was able to tell about Tobias just from how he reacted to the story, and he thinks about what the Imagination might be able to tell about him. 

And he resolutely does not think about what the lies and stories he chooses to tell say about him and what the other’s reactions to them say about them.

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[cutesilyo]

no place in the world (like manila) — an amephil fanfic

A few months after the outbreak of the Philippine-American War, Alfred falls in love with and is betrayed by a bright-eyed teenager with the prettiest smile on this side of the Orient in a single night. 

This is not a love story.

Also available on AO3.

—

"Sir, I don't think it's safe for you to leave the camp," Major-General MacArthur warned. "I don't know how, but the revolutionaries know your face. They could attack you!"

"Pshaw," Alfred snorted. "I'm a nation. What could they do that could take me down, huh?"

MacArthur's mustache bristled in displeasure. "Be that as it may sir, might I remind you that you only arrived in Manila a week ago? Knowing you, you'd just get lost and I'd have to put together a whole squad of troops just to hunt you down. You could get captured, Alfred. I don't know how to tell you just how badly that would bring down morale."

Alfred just wagged his fingers, a bright grin on his face. "Look, if I get captured, I'd bust out of whatever crappy holding place they'd put me in without barely breaking a sweat! And knowing our soldiers, that's just the stuff that would make a great story to tell at dinnertime. How's that for morale?"

The way that MacArthur simply stared at him blankly told Alfred that this was not a convincing argument.

"I hate it when you do that," he groaned, slumping back on his seat. The leather was hot with the heat of the tropical sun and it stuck uncomfortably to his skin. Oh, how badly he wanted to just finally get up and leave. "I'm just saying, I can't stay inside here forever just waiting for you to dictate our next move."

"It's part of our strategy—"

"And it's boring. I'm bored, Major-General. I might as well look around." Alfred's eyes glinted dangerously. "Besides, you'll capture the whole nation for me soon enough, won't you? No harm in wanting to see what we're winning once this war is over."

The silence lasted for a few seconds before the major-general sighed in defeat.

—

Private Patton R. Wilkes was assigned to “accompany” Alfred while he roamed around Manila, but he knew that MacArthur just wanted someone to make sure he would actually return to camp instead of getting lost or, God forbid, taking the next ship back to America. Though the both of them were dressed in civilian clothing, the private carried himself with a strict stiffness that just screamed hardened military man. If Alfred wanted any chance of escape, it looked like the private would be hard to shake off.

Alfred tried to stay optimistic about the trip anyway. He hadn't paid much attention to the city while he was on the way to the American camp, but he certainly expected it to have an air of exoticness. He was a bit disappointed not to see anything like the palaces of Japan or the distinctly oriental architecture of China. Instead, he found street signs written in Spanish, the excited chatter of fast-talking brown-skinned people, and the cacophony of guitars, church bells, and the sound of horse-drawn carriages trotting along the stoned roads. Walking around Manila was like looking at a funhouse mirror version of Mexico: more or less the same, but with just enough differences to make his head spin.

"Uh, you alright there, sir?" Patton asked.

"Was just thinking about a bad memory, is all," Alfred grimaced. He's sure that Alejandro would have his head once he returned to the continent. He's been pissing off a lot of Spanish-speaking nations recently, that's for sure. "Come to think of it, the Philippine Islands must have its own personification too, right?"

The private's face darkened. "He's a force to reckon with, sire. Haven't seen no hide nor hair of him myself, but some guys in the other squadron barely survived after fighting with the kid."

"A kid?" Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't know there were still nations out there who were that young. Then again, he was only a teenager himself, and he was even younger when he fought against Arthur as well. "I don't know how I feel about fighting a kid. Couldn't I just give him a lollipop or something and this could all just work itself out?"

He meant it as a joke, but Patton seemed to take it seriously and started furiously shaking his head. "Don't think you could even try negotiating with him sir, the kid's a savage. Hacked and slashed his way through the guys with some kind of golden knife, they said. We're lucky our medics are so darned fast, otherwise, we would've been down almost a dozen men from him alone."

Something in Alfred's resolve hardened at the thought of losing his soldiers to someone so brutal. He clapped the other man on the shoulder and said, "Don't you worry, Pat. We'll end this soon, and when we win, we'll make sure that nobody from these islands ever lays a hand on any of our own."

That seemed to comfort Patton somewhat, though he was still shaking with anger. "I'll give them a good walloping right by your side, sire."

"Now that's the kind of patriotic determination I wanna see!" Alfred crowed. He then immediately scrambled for his wallet and hurriedly gave the private a wad of bills. Some onlookers openly gawked at seeing the number of dollar bills in his hand. "Tell you what, why don't you buy some booze, head back to camp, and inspire your fellow soldiers, eh? God knows we need some fun around here."

"Um," Patton blinked, caught off-guard. "I don't know if Major-General MacArthur—"

"Tell Major-General MacArthur that I'm just trying to boost morale," Alfred winked. "Also, tell him I'll back by next morning!"

He didn't get to hear Patton's response as he took off running wildly in the opposite direction. He barely registered running past the stores, wet market, and the cathedral; he just wanted to be alone and independent, exploring this new land to his heart's content. The buildings were shorter and the roads were narrower here than in his own country, but Alfred was just so glad to finally be in a place filled with people just like he was used to.

Alfred collapsed on his knees, winded. When he looked up, he was surprised to see that he had apparently made it to one of Manila's many ports. Past the numerous small fishing boats and trading boats, he could see that the sun was already beginning to set. The sky was painted in a pretty combination of pinks and oranges in contrast to the ocean's blue, the stars already starting to twinkle faintly into appearance one by one. The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the rocks seemed louder than everything else around him — a stark reminder that no matter where he went, there was always something bigger to discover.

He stood there for a moment, mesmerized when a loud grunt startled him out of his stupor.

He turned to find some kind of bull staring at him with its beady eyes, its long horns curving towards the back instead of to the front. It was pulling a wagon full of leafy vegetables that Alfred couldn't recognize, and the old man riding it looked startled to come across a foreigner.

"Hijo, padaan naman po," he said, with a strained smile.

"Oh, sorry, I don't know what you mean," Alfred tried, but the man just continued smiling at him. He was starting to think that maybe abandoning Patton, who wasn't fluent but at the very least conversational in Tagalog, was a bad idea.

Luckily, someone came to his rescue. A teenager with bright eyes approached him, an amused twitch of the lips on his sharp face. He was dressed simply: unlike the suit and tie ensemble of the richer Filipinos he'd come across or the pale blue uniform of the Philippine Army, he wore a thin white top and trousers cut just above his ankles. The scabbard on his hip would have been concerning if Alfred didn't know just how many Filipinos carried knives in their daily lives. All in all, he looked just like any other street vendor, but the red handkerchief tied around his neck was vibrant enough to make him stand out. "You are American, yes?"

"Ah yeah," Alfred flushed, a bit flustered. The way the stranger leaned in was a little too close for comfort, but he looked harmless and at least he spoke English. "Can you help me? I think that man is talking to me, but I can't understand what he's saying."

The teenager grabbed his arm to pull him to the side. The old man tipped his straw hat in thanks, and the teenager smiled, saying: "Pasensya na po, lolo! Hindi kasi taga-rito."

The two of them watched the wagon pass them by. They stood there in silence for a moment, and then Alfred blurted out, "I didn't know I was in the way, I swear."

"You did seem quite distracted." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy laugh. The both of them turned to each other at the same time, a small smile on each other's faces. "Not that I blame you. I am sure you have sunsets in America, but it is different here than in other countries. I think the colors are more vibrant, do you agree?"

"Certainly takes my breath away," he admitted. "I do have to ask, how come you speak English so well? I've only been in Manila for a few days but I don't think I've met another Filipino that's as good as you are."

The teenager only laughed again and held on to Alfred's arm tighter. As he looked up at him, his eyes and grin were equally bright with mirth; and despite himself, Alfred was a bit charmed. "Us Filipinos are not as stupid as you think, señorito. Now, you say you are a stranger to Manila, yes? Come with me, and let me show you around my city."

—

They ended up hailing a tranvia, a carriage made to carry a whole group of people instead of just a pair. Alfred found it small and quaint, making an internal note to build tram lines in the city once he was able. Yet the energy that the teenager had with him was larger than life. He had apparently noticed the other passengers giving Alfred a suspicious side-eye, and immediately launched into a round of jokes to dispel the tension. Though he barely understood the jokes due to them being told in a mix of Spanish and Tagalog, the way that the whole tranvia burst into loud laughter was enough to assure him that his companion was quite the comedic performer.

When they got off, the driver even thanked them for the entertainment and told them not to pay the fare anymore. Alfred let out an excited whoo! as the teenager did an exaggerated bow.

As the carriage rode off, Alfred turned to his new friend and exclaimed, "Wow! The way you handled that was amazing! I mean, I've been through worse than an awkward train ride, but you definitely saved my ass back there."

The teenager blushed slightly. "Think nothing of it. I would rather see my companions happy and comfortable in my care than anything else."

"Still, that thing you did was certainly a swell sight." Alfred breathed in the cold evening air and let it out with a contented sigh. He looked straight into the other boy's eyes as he said, "And it's really nice that you're going through all the trouble to be with me tonight too! Like, we don't even know each other's names but you just whisked me away like some kind of fairytale hero! That was really awesome of you, I have to say."

"You are a man of sweet words," the teenager said, with a smile that looked almost bittersweet. Then, as if he had completely forgotten about his melancholy, he grabbed Alfred's arm again and dragged him towards the next street corner. "But let us not waste time talking! Most of these shops close soon, and I would hate for us to miss them!"

Helpless, Alfred let himself be strung along.

Sadly, most of the shops they went past had already closed for the day. Still, the teenager cheerily talked his ear off about what wares they sold and the local gossip about the people who ran those stores — like Pepito, owner of the clay pottery store, who had apparently given away all his lotto winnings to the next city's blacksmith. The one time that they had actually been able to buy something was when they came across a small, brightly-colored cart that apparently sold the Filipino version of ice cream. Both the vendor — Mang Tomas, as he was introduced — and the teenager had chuckled when he brought out a wallet full of dollars, so the teenager had to reach into his own pocket to pay with a few coins. As they walked past yet another cathedral, Alfred caught his friend singing the hymns under his breath. When they reached the plaza, the teenager then asked the lady standing nearby — Aling Nena, he was told — to give him a jasmine garland, the scent of the white flowers so powerful that it immediately made Alfred sneeze on his friend's face when he put them around his neck. Yet instead of getting mad like he expected, the teenager had only laughed and told him he looked handsome.

No matter where they went or who they talked to, his friend always seemed to know everyone's names. Alfred had no idea how he had the time to possibly get so familiar with all the people around him, but he certainly understood the sentiment; he loved talking with all the Americans that he came across with too. Personally getting to know the people who made his nation always made him feel more connected with them in a way that war and politics never could.

And if the Philippine Islands was truly to be his someday, Alfred knew he wanted to treat them similarly. More than anything or anyone else though, nobody in the archipelago had intrigued him most than the young man beside him whose smile was brighter than any star.

Yet all his experience in small talk failed him tonight, and not for lack of trying. Every time he asked questions about his friend, he was always diverted away from the topic.

Which part of the city are you from? was met with a vague Do you ask the flower which vine it came from? You are better off simply enjoying the whole garden.

Where is your family? had been completely ignored as his friend said You must be hungry, yes? I know a place with the best empanadas this side of Binondo.

What is your name? earned him a cheeky wink and a teasing If your mind still ventures to inane questions like that, then I am not doing very well in completely impressing you.

How old are you? made the teenager burst out into loud, hearty laughter that lasted for more than a minute. Alfred didn't even bother to try asking anything else after that, choosing to focus on his empanadas and arroz a la valenciana for the rest of the meal.

Later, when they were served a bottle of gin to share along with a bowl of peanuts, his friend had the grace to apologize for his behavior.

"I truly am sorry," he said, but the playful grin on his face made it difficult to take his apology seriously. "I simply do not think that you knowing more about me is more important than us having a good time together."

"How am I supposed to find you again if I don't know who you are, huh?" Alfred couldn't stop himself from whining. He ignored the glass in front of him, taking a swig straight from the bottle and letting the alcohol burn down his throat. His friend watched him in bemusement. "This has been the best night of my life in a long time. And if this is the last time we see each other, I don't think I'm going to forgive myself if I don't push you into giving me a hint."

This time, it was his friend's turn to take a drink: he filled his glass half-full and downed it all in one go. "You are certainly bold, señorito, I will give you that. A good friend of mine warned me about how loud and annoying Americans were, but it seems he neglected to tell me about how forward you all were as well."

Alfred resisted the urge to roll his eyes; of course, he would get deflected yet again. "Alright, I'll bite. Tell me more about your friend."

The teenager looked surprised. "You wish to know more about a man that insulted you?"

"If this is the closest I get to you telling me more about yourself, I'll take it," he shrugged. "Besides, I'd love to know how this friend of yours thinks. Americans are the greatest people in the world! He must be stupid if he doesn't know that."

The other boy laughed. "Of course you would say that, you biased brute. And I will have you know that my friend was quite smart, actually. One of the smartest men I have ever known."

Alfred felt like he wouldn't like the answer, but he asked anyway: "Was?"

All traces of laughter from his friend's face faded away into a hollow smile. "Killed by firing squad a few years ago."

Silently, Alfred poured gin into both of their glasses. They drank in solemn solidarity.

"My sincere condolences," said Alfred, and he meant it: he had lost too many friends himself over the centuries. "And I'm sorry I called him stupid."

His friend waved it off. "No worries. Pepe was incredibly intelligent, but he definitely had his fair share of stupid moments — you wouldn't believe how many times that man fell in love over the course of his short lifetime. Still, I miss him terribly and I wish he was still around. God only knows what he would have thought about everything happening at present."

"Oh, I know the feeling." Despite him dying decades prior, Alfred still longed for George Washington's steadfast guidance sometimes. He reached, a bit messily, for another drink. "It's uncanny, yeah? Some people just have this weird ability to analyze the present and predict the future. I certainly don't know how they do anything like it, really. I kind of just talk big and hope for the best."

"Funny that you talk about the future," the teenager chuckled. "Somehow, my friend even managed to predict that you would come here, Alfred. I did not believe him at the time, of course, but here you are."

"Here I am," Alfred repeated faintly. "Hold on, how did you know my—"

"Why were you all alone in my city, señorito?" His friend interrupted, looking up at him through his eyelashes. He leaned closer, close enough for the skin of their arms to touch, and Alfred suddenly forgot about all his worries. "I was very surprised to see you on your own, looking every bit like a lost little lamb. You are very lucky that I found you."

"Lucky indeed," he murmured, adjusting the collar of his shirt. It felt like the temperature in the room had risen by a dozen degrees. "Just wanted to explore, is all. MacArthur told me we had to stay low for a few more weeks, I got bored, and he let me out."

Those bright eyes were practically glittering as the teenager looked up at him, his fingers slowly tracing up his arm. "And you were alone? I always thought American soldiers traveled in pairs, but perhaps I was mistaken."

"No! No, you're right, you're definitely right," Alfred stammered out. He was sure his face was completely red by now. "I was with Private Wilkes earlier, but we, ah, got separated. He must be on the way back to Bulacan by now."

"How unfortunate," the other practically purred, clearly delighted. "Say, tell me, how did this Wilkes look like? Because I am sure that he does not look as handsome as you do."

That damned smile, now coy instead of kind and sweet, was tantalizingly close. If only he had the courage to lean down—

Alfred, trying desperately to distract himself, grabbed the bottle again and took a long swig.

There were about a million promises that threatened to spill from Alfred's lips, each one more outrageous than the other: Come with me. Stay with me. I'll keep you safe. I'll love you. Yet at the moment, he found himself tongue-tied. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or the atmosphere or the way the young boy across the table had so effortlessly allured him, but he felt like he was about to go insane. He barely registered the both of them standing up to leave, didn't question why they didn't need to pay at the restaurant, paid no heed to what his friend had whispered to the men standing guard by the door. His mind was in a muddy haze, and all he could focus on was the fact that his friend was holding his hand as he was led into the dark streets.

Dimly, Alfred thought that however striking he looked by the setting sun, he looked much more ethereal bathed in moonlight.

He must have said this aloud because the teenager laughed.

"You are a man of sweet words," he said, and there's that oddly bittersweet smile again. "And I wish we could have met in better circumstances."

"What's wrong with the way we met today? I had fun," Alfred argued. He swayed slightly on his feet, and his friend held on to him to keep him from falling. "Didn't you have fun?"

"You forget we are at war, señorito. And you forget that you are seeking to control me and my people, not find a lover." Despite the harsh words, the way his friend said this was soft and sad. Almost like he was somehow hurt. "It does not matter what we feel today if we are bound to fight each other tomorrow. Should you not know this by now?"

They walked together in silence, each supporting the other. Slowly, Alfred's alcohol-induced dizziness began to subside. It was replaced by a growing emptiness in his chest — and a heavy, heavy realization.

"You knew I was America this entire time." When his friend deigned to respond, he continued. "Then, why...?"

At this, the teenager laughed — broken and wistful and desperate, all at once. "I do not know myself. I was ready to attack you, but for some reason, the look in your eyes as you watched the sunset stopped me. I thought, if you could look at my country with such amazement, then you could see that this war is unnecessary. That if you could know my land and my people the way I knew them, full of vibrancy and color and light, then you could realize that they did not deserve to die.

"Yet as the night went on I began to realize my efforts were fruitless. It was not them you were looking at anymore, but me." Here, his friend faced him; Alfred barely catching a glimpse of his wet eyes before the teenager looked away. "Believe me, I would love to spend another night like this with you. But you have your responsibilities and so do I."

"Fruitless," Alfred repeated hollowly. The cold night wind was in stark contrast to the hot rage he felt bubbling inside him. He forcefully wrenched himself away from his friend, yelling: "You made me tell you classified information!"

In seconds, he watched the teenager's face go from shock to hurt to an angry glare.

"Do you not understand how badly I need to win this war? My people did not give their lives to free me from Spain just so you could swoop in and take over! So forgive me, señorito," his friend spat mockingly, "for trying to find whatever advantages my poor nation can get against such an imperialistic nation like you!"

"And do you not understand what we're trying to do here?" Alfred shouted. "We are fighting this war to save you! Don't you see that your country is a mess? That you're underdeveloped, uneducated, and unfit for self-rule? I was the hero who helped save your people from Spain, jackass, and—"

"—and you promised to give us independence, and yet all your countrymen seem to do is kill." The teenager finished, both his eyes and the hilt of his knife glinting golden under the moonlight. "Is that what freedom means to you, America? I beg to differ."

As Alfred stepped away from him in furious, furious betrayal, all he could think about was that the other boy looked so small.

"I thought of you as my friend," he said.

"And I thought of you as my liberator," the teenager said coolly. "I see we were both wrong."

A harsh whinny interrupted them both. Alfred turned to find Patton riding a chestnut brown horse, his face red from exhaustion but seemingly unharmed. The private stopped in front of him, dismounting without grace on the pavement. His face was red from exhaustion and his clothes looked considerably ruffled, but otherwise, he looked unharmed.

"It ain't my position to say this sire, but don't you dare ever try to run away from me like that again," Patton panted, giving a quick side-eye to the other teenager before dismissing him. "We best hurry now, because those two won't be happy about their stolen horse."

Just as he was about to ask who those two were, a pair of Filipinos with muskets turned the corner and ran towards them. He vaguely recognized them as the same two men who were standing guard at the restaurant. They shouted loudly, a mix of Tagalog and Spanish expletives that Alfred could barely recognize, and a phrase distinct enough that he felt like it was something significant: amang bayan.

Patton evidently recognized the words. He looked at him in a wide-eyed panic, saying, "Sire, we need to leave—"

And as quick as lightning, Patton fell to the ground with a sickening crack. Caught completely off-guard and his arms restrained, he was helpless against the teenager who had a knife at his throat: a knife that, as Alfred began to realize with a horrified lurch of his stomach, was engraved with golden flowers and the insignia of an eight-rayed sun.

"You must be Private Wilkes," the Philippines smiled. "I do hope you are enjoying my country."

"Get off him or else!" Alfred screamed, the combined events of the night making him feel like he was about to reach his breaking point. He reached for the pistol he kept hidden on his belt and took aim, hoping to God that the other nation wouldn't force him to shoot. Even after everything, he didn't feel like he had the nerve to hurt Philippines after the hours they spent together; maybe some other day, but not tonight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the two men had caught up to them. They angled their muskets at him from a distance. The horse, which Alfred had been planning to use for escape, had already taken off running in the commotion.

Patton stared up at him with fear in his eyes, a bleeding gash on his forehead, and Alfred's hands began to shake.

Above all else, Philippines was still smiling: eyes bright, amused twitch of the lips on his sharp face. Slowly, he stood to approach him.

Like a switch had been flicked, his features turned soft and kind again — more like the boy that Alfred had met earlier, the boy who had dragged him around the streets of Manila with lighthearted laughter, the boy whose smile was brighter than any star. All Alfred could do was stand there, mesmerized once again, as his hand was gently pried away from the gun.

"Alfred," Philippines said this quietly, almost like he was invoking a prayer. He motioned the men to stand down. "I do not wish to fight."

"I don't want to either," Alfred admitted. Maybe there was hope... "C'mon, we can talk this through, right? Look, we haven't had a battle in months. It should be really easy to negotiate, yeah? I'll set up a meeting with your generals and mine, we'll have a civil discussion with no weapons allowed, and we'll reach a compromise."

The other nation was leaning in, and this time, Alfred took his chance. He held Philippines' cheek in his hands and they kissed, soft and quick and chaste.

"Of course," Alfred said, as he pulled away. "I would need your complete surrender—"

He was swiftly kneed in the stomach, disarmed, and shot.

"Alfred, I do not wish to fight," Philippines said, as he watched Alfred collapse to the ground. "But I have to. I hope you understand."

He vaguely registered Patton reaching out to him as his eyes closed and the blood pooled around him, but all he could focus on was watching the other nation walk away into the darkness.

—

When Alfred came to, he was already back at camp. Without thinking, he immediately trudged to the general's war office.

"Good morning, Major-General MacArthur," he smiled, bright and cheery. "Gather the troops. I want to destroy Manila immediately."

—

Notes:

This is set in October 1899, during those months when there were no battles or skirmishes between the two armies. On the first day of November, the Americans launched a major attack on the Filipinos. This attack happened in San Fabian, Pangasinan, not in Manila, but let's forget about that.

Major-General MacArthur is, of course, Arthur MacArthur Jr., who was a major military figure during the Philippine-American War. I also claim artistic license in hinting that the American camp was in Bulacan because it probably wasn't.

Alfred's comments about Manila looking like Mexico are based on a comment by former president Manuel L. Quezon when he visited Mexico back in 1937: "Everything was the same." He meant that very, very affectionately.

Here's a nifty map of modern Manila. Alfred and Patton start out in Quiapo, which is basically the heart of downtown Manila. Alfred runs all the way to Muelle del Rey, which, coincidentally, happens to be the same place where the Jones Bridge stands today. Alfred and Phili take the tranvia to Binondo, Manila's business district and home to the world's oldest Chinatown.

The names of the store owners and vendors that Phili talks about are references to assorted media in Philippine pop culture. Pepito is a reference to Pepito Manaloto, a long-time comedy show about a man who won the lotto. Mang Tomas (Mang being an informal way to refer to a male adult older than you) is the name of a popular brand of gravy. Aling Nena (Aling being an informal way to refer to a female adult older than you) is a reference to the song Tindahan ni Aling Nena, about a boy who falls in love with a storeowner's daughter.

The garland of white jasmines that Phili puts around Alfred's neck are supposed to be sampaguitas, our national flower. They're usually sold near churches and are given as a sign of respect.

I have no idea if there are actually empanadas and valenciana sold somewhere in Binondo, but let's jot that down to artistic license. But these are very much Filipino foods that were adapted from Spanish foods, which is why Phili brings it up when Alfred asks about his family.

The old friend that Phili keeps talking about is Jose Rizal, our national hero. He is primarily known for being a great writer, whose novels inspired the Philippine War for Independence, and for being killed for it. He is also known for being having a long list of lovers, many of them not even Filipino. Lesser known is the fact that he visited America, hated it, went on a train ride with an American, and hated it. He wrote a whole diary entry about how much he didn't like America and Americans. He had also predicted that out of all the world powers, it would be America who would probably take an interest in conquering the Philippines when Spain was out of the picture. Go figure. Rizal was also affectionately known by his nickname, Pepe.

I imagine Phili to be particularly proficient in arnis, which is also known as kali or eskrima. It's a kind of Filipino martial art, most easily recognizable as that one martial art where everyone is dual-wielding a pair of sticks. The sticks are actually for training. Traditionally, arnis is fought by dual-wielding knives or swords, and it's meant to be quick and efficient in defending, attacking, disarming, and killing. Phili's fictional ornately designed knife is inspired by this very real ornately designed knife. The detail of the eight-rayed sun is a reference to the eight-rayed sun in the Philippine flag.

Lastly (phew!), some Tagalog to English translations!

Hijo, padaan naman po - Young boy, kindly let me pass Pasensya na po, lolo! Hindi kasi taga-rito - Sorry, grandfather*! He's not from around here. Lolo literally means grandfather but is a general way to refer to any elderly man regardless of any actual blood relation. Amang bayan - Fatherland

[peaceoutofthepieces]

Tracing Time

Sunday, 15:48

Song: Glass Animals - Heat Waves

Sander starts as fingers snap in front of his face.

His focus returns slowly to settle on Emilie’s hand, where her dark skin is patchy with even darker pencil stains. His eyes skip up her arm and over her shoulder to her face, where she’s watching him with amusement. She’s sat with her back to the low stone wall across from where he’s slouched on the grass, legs stretched out in front of her and kicking against Gilles’s ass. They’re at the park, clustered together on a free patch of grass in the sun.

“You still with us, rocketman?” she asks.

“It’s Starman,” Thomas corrects, without once breaking his gaze away from his book, hazel eyes intensely focused behind his glasses. His long form is tucked so tightly from back to toe between two trees that Sander winced at the sight of him, but Thomas seems completely content.

Emilie pulls a face at Sander, as if he should also be annoyed that Thomas remembers this Bowie fact, and Sander huffs as he smiles.

Gilles rolls over onto their back and effectively dislodges Emilie’s feet from their perch atop their backside. “Either way, we can all agree you’re up in space.” They gesture at Sander, then leave their hand hovering in midair. Sander smacks it in a high-five just to watch Gilles shoot him a dark, unimpressed look.

“You didn’t hear any of the conversation we just had,” Emilie says, gentler than usual. “What were you thinking about?”

What a question. He doesn’t remember the last thing he’d been thinking about, or the first, but there are a few lingering snippets from in between. He remembers thinking about his project, worrying over the details he summoned in his head and telling himself he’d gotten it done and it was fine. He was thinking about the dream he’d had last night, where he’d been chasing a wolf through a forest and fell right down deep into a puddle, and how he’d woken up in the late morning damp not from drowning but from sweat. Then he’d gone back, at some point, to where his mind always goes.

“Just, where Robbe and I can go for dinner when he’s back.”

Gilles groans dramatically and Emilie sighs dramatically and Thomas smiles slightly, at them or at Sander or at whatever he’s reading, Sander isn’t sure.

“Dude, you are with your friends, you need to learn to daydream about your boyfriend on your own damn time,” Gilles complains, rolling over this time until they’re lying atop Sander’s feet, gazing up at him plaintively. Sander’s boots are bound to be a literal pain in their side, but Gilles gives no indication of it as they wrap their arms around Sander’s raised knee. “Love us.”

Sander snorts, wiggling the leg his friend is holding just to hear a whine of protest. “Sure.”

Emilie flips her cornrow braids over her shoulder and pops a crisp in her mouth. “So where are you taking him for dinner?”

Gilles snaps their head around to glare at her. “Don’t encourage him,” they complain.

“But it annoys you,” she says, “which amuses me.”

Sander bites down a smirk as Gilles’s expression flips into one of betrayal and they pull away from Sander to curse at her in rapid French. Emilie listens calmly, although her lips are also curved in amusement as Gilles’s tan cheeks darken further and puff out in frustration. Somewhere amidst the rant Emilie’s brows raise, and then she responds to Gilles smugly in the same language, with what Sander knows is only slightly less fluency. He could understand most of the interaction if he wanted to, but instead he just absorbs words here and there and meets Thomas’s eyes before pulling a face.

Thomas’s lips quirk in response, and he gives a tiny shake of his head. He gestures subtly between their arguing friends and then makes a heart shape with his hands, mouthing ‘sickening’ for Sander’s eyes only.

Or so they think, until Gilles raises their voice and returns to Flemish to warn, “I saw that, Aarden.”

Thomas just blinks his eyes innocently, and Gilles scoffs as Sander snorts again.

“Can we come with you to the station?” Emilie asks suddenly, and Sander looks to her to find that she’s already staring back with her damn puppy eyes.

Nice try, he thinks. He’s immune to those by now. There’s only one set of doe eyes that still gets to him, and they know it. Well, maybe two, but Lucas is basically a Dutch Robbe and doesn’t count, really.

Emilie tries anyway, expression completely innocent as she pushes, “You are going to the station to meet him, right?”

Sander narrows his eyes. They know he is; of course he is. There’s no point in being apart from Robbe for longer than necessary. But he’s not going to say this out loud for them all to start up again.

“Come on,” Gilles whines again. “You can’t let him encroach on all our friend time and then not let us encroach on your Robbe time. And you never let us meet his friends! Who are also your friends!”

“We basically know them already from how much he talks about them,” Thomas points out, rather neutrally.

“Exactly! He talks about them all the time and I don’t even know what they look like. That’s a crime, Sander, a crime! Especially if they’re hot!”

“Shouldn’t matter, considering they’re all taken.” Sander raises a brow.

Gilles makes a ‘pshaw’ sound. “I don’t mind just joining in.” They wiggle their brows pointedly at Sander, then wink, and Sander finally lets out a full laugh. Thomas makes a disappointed noise and Emilie mock gags, but Gilles simply butt-scooches across the grass and tosses an arm around Sander’s shoulders, pinching Sander’s cheek with the same hand. “There it is,” they say, triumphantly.

Sander rolls his eyes. Warmth filters into his cheeks, and he blames it on the pinch. “I’m always laughing at you, you need to stop thinking of it as a reward.”

Emilie slides down enough that when she stretches her leg, her toes tap against Sander’s. “We just like seeing you happy. Accept it.”

“Your happiness is my favourite,” Thomas agrees. “Emilie’s is too smug and Gilles gets even more annoying.”

Gilles protests indignantly and Thomas finally blows them a kiss to settle them. Emilie accepts it with a small shrug while adjusting to trap Sander’s foot between her own. Sander simultaneously zones it all out and sinks into the warmth creeping around him that has nothing to do with Gilles pressed against his side. (Well, it’s maybe a little to do with it, but because of the easy affection, not the body heat.) Gilles is like Sander in the tactile sense, giving touch freely and yearning for it just as much. But whereas Gilles uses it to joke around and often gets shoved away for their efforts, Emilie is frequently offering Sander the comfort of some casual contact and Thomas always allows Sander to lean against his side or overlap their legs where he shies away from the others. It’s a small thing on the long list of reasons that he loves these three people, but it warms him every time.

He knows it’s likely influenced by the fact that he’s the younger one in the group. That even though Gilles and Emilie are barely a year older than him and Thomas almost a year older than that, he’s the baby of the group. It’s a sharp contrast to spending time with Robbe’s friends, and Sander has found he likes being able to bounce between the two dynamics.

Even though none of the youngins treat him anything like an adult, he thinks petulantly. Except, possibly, Aaron.

He’s known this group for longer, however, all of them since his first two weeks in the Academy. It just took a while for them all to gel together into the close-knit framework they are now, and Sander has gotten over the fact that it took them all rallying around after one of his episodes to make it so.

He was grateful they were there then, and nothing has changed.

Still. “I have to go if I want to be there in time to meet them,” he sighs.

Cue more dramatic, petulant groaning.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to just walk with you?” Thomas questions, tilting his head up to follow Sander as he gets to his feet.

Sander grins. “Always the gentleman.” Thomas flushes and stammers slightly and Sander huffs, shaking his head. “No, I’ll be fine. Can’t let this one get too close or someone might get infected.” He reaches down to tug Gilles’s hair.

Gilles releases Sander’s leg from where they’d been clinging on like a child to slap his ass, smiling brightly when Sander jolts and curses. “Fuck you too,” they say cheerfully.

Sander allows one last laugh before grabbing the strap of his bag and hoisting it onto his shoulder. He winks at Thomas and pauses by Emilie to lean down and kiss her head, allowing her to kiss his cheek in return before saying his goodbyes. They all call after him, Emilie throwing in a few woots and suggestive teasing while Gilles shouts dramatic terms of endearments until Sander flips them off. He hears their laughter as he gets farther away and doesn’t bother hiding his own smile, shaking his head fondly as he slips his phone out of his pocket to check for messages.

There’s nothing new, Robbe having been silent after telling Sander they’d made the train and what time they would be back, allowing him uninterrupted time with his friends. He wonders if Robbe had been busy with his as well, or if he’d spent most of the journey in his own world. If the couple was anyone but Lucas and Jens, Sander would assume the latter, but it’s more likely the two kept Robbe tied in with their bickering. His smile widens at the thought.

He makes it to the station before the train gets in, and simply takes out an earphone as he leans against the wall so he won’t miss their approach. He still ends up lost in his thoughts to the point that he only sees Robbe when he’s already weaving his way towards him.

Robbe doesn’t barrel into him or squeal or jump into his arms; they aren’t that bad. But he does neatly sidestep everyone without a single glance and sidles right into Sander’s space when he’s close enough, smiling his brilliant smile and leaving Sander’s heart shaking and stuttering.

He pushes away from the wall and they reach for each other at once, his arms engulfing Robbe’s waist as Robbe’s fingers slide into his hair and pull him down into a kiss. Sander hums, smirking slightly against Robbe’s lips when the boy shivers at the vibrations. He doesn’t let himself get entirely lost in it, not in the crowded public space, but he allows himself to indulge a little more than he usually would. He holds Robbe flush against him and sucks Robbe’s bottom lip between his own and swallows the surprised, pleased little noise he gets in return.

“Aww, it’s great to see how much you missed us.” Lucas interrupts them loudly, and Sander drops his head to Robbe’s shoulder with a bit-off groan, ignoring Robbe’s quiet giggle. “You know, all three of us, who I’m sure you’re here to see.”

Sander drags his head up to look over Robbe’s shoulder, immediately catching sight of Lucas’s shit-eating grin where he and Jens have joined them. Sander responds, very simply, with, “Fuck you.”

Lucas’s grin merely widens, and he steps away from Jens’s side long enough for Sander to pull him into a quick hug. Robbe leans back against the wall in his place, shaking his head as Lucas kisses Sander’s cheek with his cheeky smile still in place.

“One of these days, he’s not going to let you get away with that,” Jens warns, though he’s smiling as he tucks Lucas back under his arm. He clasps Sander’s hand in greeting as Lucas scoffs.

“I think he always will,” Lucas decides, tilting his head at Sander. Sander flicks his forehead, amused when Lucas is a few seconds too late in his attempt to bat him away. “And he deserves it. Asshole,” he complains.

Sander blows him a kiss and ignores Jens’s noise of protest. Then his attention is easily diverted once more as Robbe grips his arm and gives a small tug. Sander falls back next to him and immediately looks over, but Robbe just presses a kiss to his shoulder before resting his cheek there. He’s wearing his earring today, and he’s careful not to smush it between them. Sander would rather have it between his teeth.

“I missed you,” Robbe sighs. He wrinkles his nose and gestures at his friends before leaning up close to Sander, to make his stage-whisper that bit more dramatic. “They’re so gross.”

Jens immediately gapes, as they both knew he would, while Lucas simply shakes his head, resigned to what’s to come. “Bullshit,” Jens protests. “And even if it was true, you don’t get to comment, because I have been putting up with this—“ he gestures between the two of them “—for way longer already. And you are the epitome of gross.”

Lucas winces, nodding slightly. “He does have a point.”

“You’re disowned,” Robbe tells him, offended.

Sander huffs. “He’s an asshole, is what he is.”

Lucas places a hand on his chest and, in the most deadpan tone he can manage, says, “I am a fucking delight.”

Jens snorts.

Then Lucas gapes and pointedly steps away from him.

This is exactly what Sander loves about them. The pointless banter, the predictability stemming from familiarity, the easy camaraderie that bounces between them. He hadn’t thought about wriggling his way in with Robbe’s friends when he’d first sought the boy out; he hadn’t cared. But since they got together, he’s been constantly feeling the need to try. He doesn’t want to be a part of Robbe’s life separate to all the rest, and he’d recognised that fairly quickly, but had gotten lucky with Milan.

The others all took to him with their own enthusiasm, which he was relieved about, but like everything else in his life, it took a little more time.

To have this now feels like a blessing. But he marvels, once again, about how Robbe has been his one and only surety from first sight.

It makes him tug the boy closer as Jens goes about placating his own boyfriend; of course, at Sander’s expense. “Chill, we all know he’s actually the asshole.” He waves a hand, giving Sander a lopsided smile.

Sander smirks at him. “Jesus, stop flirting, so obsessed with my ass.”

“Nope, lost your chance, you were hotter as a blond,” Jens immediately snarks back.

Now Sander is the one placing a hand on his chest, jaw dropping, as Robbe makes a sound somewhere between admonishment towards Jens and comfort for Sander. Lucas tilts his head and gazes at Sander critically. Sander zeroes in on this reaction and jabs a finger at him. “You better not agree with him when you clearly have a thing for brunets.”

Lucas purses his lips, then rubs his hand over them to wipe away a smile. “Yeah, but, not everyone can pull off the bleached look like you do.”

“But you still think I’m hot now, right?” Sander presses.

“Oh yeah, definitely.”

Sander makes a triumphant noise as Jens tosses his hands up.

“I’m literally right here,” Jens reminds Lucas.

Lucas shrugs. “You flirted with him first.”

“I did not flirt, you know that is not my flirting.”

“Okay but then, what is your flirting?”

Robbe clears his throat, finally picking his head up off Sander’s shoulder to blink his doe eyes at all of them, lips quirked up adorably after listening silently to their bickering. “Hey, guys? Yeah, as much as I’ve enjoyed listening to this the past couple days, I’m fucking starving. Can we at least continue this somewhere with food?”

Jens immediately abandons his argument to nod, setting a hand on his stomach as if suddenly realising his own hunger. “Something greasy.”

“Then sweet,” Lucas requests, molding himself to Jens’s side again.

Sander tilts his head back to sigh at the ceiling, acknowledging the fact that his idea of a romantic dinner with Robbe has just been thwarted. Then he picks up Robbe’s bag and slings it over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s nose. “Fine, but Robbe chooses.”

Robbe beams at him and takes his hand again, then immediately starts to tow him away.

As always, Sander lets him.

~^~

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