#that shit's hard to cram into a rhyme!

[larrylimericks]

5Sep23

Products change but the method’s alike: Hype new girl on a tailor-made hike, Get Loewe in favor, And Styles’ new fruit of labor? Making green on a rented Lime bike.

[earlgreytea68]

Regarding Evening out with your Girlfriend, I had this thought today re-listening to it that if I was someone who believed in fate and shit, I just feel like peterick were meant to create together. Listening to Patrick's old lyrics, some of them jump out with like Pete-isms, even without Pete being heavily involved in the lyrics yet. "What meant the world imploded, faded and demoted All my oxygen to product gas, suffocated my last chance" has the cadence of how patrick will eventually cram every last bit of pete's lyrics into the shortest amount of lines and just the overall imagery & romaticism of it all. Part of patrick's song writing is so suited for Pete's lyrics and vice versa 🐉

YES. I was also thinking this as I listened. I had mistakenly thought that Patrick on Soul Punk sounded like Pete because, you know, he'd just been immersed in Pete's words for so long, so I was kind of amazed to learn that he's always sort of sounded like Pete, that he's been into, as you say, lyrical lines crowded with words and little bits of wordplay (rhyming "defensive" with "offensive" stood out to me on "Honorable Mention"). The Genius annotations say that Pete wrote the song, but I don't trust them and the song itself is, as usual with them, just credited to "Fall Out Boy," so it's unclear how much influence Pete had at this very early date in their partnership. I'm sure it was some, because I have a hard time believing Pete didn't fiddle with any of the lyrics at all, but the way Patrick talks about how Pete came to write the lyrics, I'm also sure it wasn't a ton at this point.

Which leads me to believe that yeah, to at least some extent, Patrick's preference for the lyrics he wanted in songs suited perfectly the kind of lyrics that Pete writes (which is to say, Pete doesn't actually write lyrics, he writes poems). This also makes me think again of that Joel Madden interview where JM kind of said something like, oh, maybe Pete and Patrick work so well together because they met so young that they grew up to fit into each other perfectly. The way it's phrased makes it sound like Pete didn't need to meet Patrick, he just needed to meet any young songwriter and he would have gotten to this creative point. Pete kind of doesn't seem convinced by this, and I don't blame him, because I think Pete does believe in fate lol, and I think Pete thinks he wouldn't have gotten to this point with anyone else but Patrick, and I think he's right based on how Patrick was already ready for him, before he even knew him.

[fates-theysband]

no fighting wars, no ringing chimes

i have to STOP getting fic ideas after 10 PM dude i always know where it leads.

anyway. two bros who are kinda into each other but aren't in a good place to acknowledge it rn chillin' in a motel room doing sleepover shit. maybe this will sate my desire to braid kian stone's hair.

cws: one mildly suggestive joke

word count: 757

--

The only sounds in the room were the whir of the air conditioner and the almost inaudible dialogue of some sitcom rerun–neither party had looked up to see what was actually on, but the laugh track was just barely perceptible–playing on the shitty motel TV. It was the first time in a while things had been this close to completely silent, and Kian found it…less uncomfortable than he’d expected. He was used to situations where it was never silent, or filling silences himself if necessary, but after the week he’d had–the week that everyone crammed into this seedy roadside motel room, as far out from Galloway city limits as they could get before none of them were in any shape for driving, had had–a moment of quiet was welcome. Besides, anything was better than having that damn song in his head.

Speaking of songs, he looked over the notepad braced against his knees, pen to his lips in thought, poring over the lyrics he’d been writing. Couldn’t devise a melody quite yet–he’d have to buy a new guitar once they’d reached another town, although he doubted he’d find another one like his dearly departed Black Betty–but lyrics were still on the table.

He felt a shifting on the bed he was sitting against, followed by a soft, apparently unintentional brushing of an arm against his shoulder and the shadow of a head peering over his shoulder. Shiloh must have noticed what he was doing. “Wouldn’t it be more comfortable to use the desk for that?” they asked softly.

Kian chuckled. “Yeah, but like…this is how the real rock stars do it, you know? You don’t find your most bitchin’ lines when you’re sittin’ at a desk.” It was a statement he could back up. The writer’s block since he became a stockbroker had been nightmarish.

Shiloh only responded with a “hm” of understanding, and continued to watch him. It was the first time he’d been alone with them since high school–Rolan and Rand had left to go fill up the car, in preparation for the next leg in the four’s escape from what had been and probably would never again be Galloway, leaving Kian and Shiloh to hold the fort in the motel–and it was only slightly less awkward than it was back then, during those brief eternities when Becky would leave the room and abandon her boyfriend and best friend to attempt half-assed small talk absent the one thing (the one person, really) that they seemingly had in common.

He shook his head at that last thought, pushing it out of his mind. Now that the shock of everything that had happened had begun to reside, he was not in any shape to think about Becky right now. He went back to the lyrics, wracking his brain for a good rhyme for “fire”--wire? liar? Nothing seemed to suit the rhythm he was going for–in a desperate attempt to focus on anything else. It wasn’t until he finally scribbled down “higher” that he noticed what was going on. He could feel small, barely noticeable tugs on his hair, and the person-shaped shadow had moved from his left to directly behind him. Tilting his head backward to regard the person sitting on the bed behind him, he asked, “Dude, are you braiding my hair?”

Shiloh practically jumped out of their skin, an extremely guilty look coloring their face. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just…saw a little section and got this weird impulse, you know? If it’s weirding you out, I can stop.”

Kian laughed softly, tilting his head back forward. “Nah, you’re good, bro. Just don’t pull too hard or I might start weirding you out, you know?” He glanced back at them with a cockeyed grin.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shiloh amusedly responded as they gathered Kian’s hair up and began braiding it properly. “Your hair’s really soft,” they murmured as they worked.

“It’s all about the routine, man,” he replied, scribbling out a few rejected lines on his notepad. “So many guys use that two-in-one shit, but you gotta actually condition.”

“I guess so,” they answered, the smile in their voice apparent. The conversation tapered off from there but the silence between the two was more comforting than it had been before. It wasn’t until their friends returned, car full of gas and arms full of gas station snacks, that either of them spoke again, but that was alright. If anything, this particular eternity had been too brief.

[rodotio]

i want to write

every time i try to write, globs of pain squeeze out. like a tube of toothpaste on its last legs, i push the goop starting from the bottom, smoothing it in an upward fashion, making my way to the top. or the opening, whatever it might be.

how interesting to think whether peripherals such as top and bottom are applicable to a tube of toothpaste. i suppose it’s really not all that interesting, though it is a curious thing, the ways that constants are not a constant thing at all when we produce meaning in specific contexts. 

every time i try to write, i am never particularly moved, no see, i only write when i have time, and i only have time once everything from the day seems to dissipate and condense, calm down, and ghost around in another realm. it is never convenient to write, it is never easy to simply stop all i’m doing and let myself ride the waves of a whim. this scares me i think, the thought of making something again. i had been oh so convinced that the world needn’t hear more of my voice. i was ashamed and embarrassed for the mishaps i spotted before anyone could point them out, ashamed and embarrassed of all my shortcomings and lacks, the ways i fail to construct beautiful and eloquent sentences, the tangents i seem to fall into, only to ungracefully and abruptly pull myself out of. 

i think writing has been able to prove to me that i know nothing, that i am virtually nothing and also everything and there is no possible way to make any meaning of it but we try and try and oh god i fucking try so hard, i try to cram it into a fucking box and make the most pungent and unkempt meaning i can make! you better believe that all i create is sharp and serves a particular punch, has a specific edge, produces meaning in such a way that it demands and screams to be heard-and the reality is no ones cares much, and i begin to not care much. 

i think writing embarrassed me, i thought it was something i was good at, i thought my voice needed to be heard, dare i say i think my voice needs to be heard, or rather it has a particular wont to be recognized. oh the humiliation of existence! oh how humiliating, how bratty it is to exist and have desires, to plan and have goals, to daydream, oh this is the worst fucking sin of them all!! 

every time i try to write, globs of pain come out. i’m not quite sure how to tell a story anymore, nothing feels linear, nothing makes sense, there is too much too fast too soon always, as if the storage system that my mind employs has begun to shift into a cloud, no rhyme or reason or schema i once made sense of, no i see now that there is absolutely nothing and absolutely everything to make sense of! something new and uncertain.

oh it is painful to think of pain, oh it is even more painful to think of pain that i cause, and have caused. it is painful to think of writing, all that i have, and all that it has lent itself to. it paints a stark picture of my black and white reality. it paints a brilliant picture of my feeble little mind trying to make sense of the big fucking world that overwhelms me at every turn. there is some specific flavor, no signature, in my writing, a telling-card or whatever it’s called if you will. it demands to be attended to, it demands to be recognized. it demands to let you know that within it lies all the answers, within itself all responsibility is diverted, within itself all the weight of the world therein you can find! oh the resentment this builds, the task of carrying a world i claim to understand and can actually do nothing of the sort, the resentment this builds, carrying a world that begs me to put it down and take my head out of my mother fucking asshole. 

fuck fuck fuck! im so tired of trying to write, im so tired of being scared, im so tired of being so fucking tired. shit. what the fuck is wrong with me?

i have these ideas, albeit some born of grandeur, i talk myself out of each as soon as they enter, dismiss as soon as they are conceived. i write myself off before i can have the chance to embarrass myself anymore than i already have. i used to not mind the embarrassment. i used to love to laugh and learn and correct and misstep and overstep and do it all over again. i used to love to fall to the ground, brush against the grass and get a mouthful of fucking dirt crammed between my jaws. and get red, oh so red, my face paints in a manner similar to that which my words can be observed doing; it hides absolutely nothing. oh so red, so fucking red and flushed and heated, hotter than i have ever felt in my life. and then i cool down, and then i spit it out-the dirt and the grass and the earth, and then i am calm, and then i observe, and then i continue to learn and laugh and love; oh god i miss fucking loving in the ways i used to. is this gone forever? am i so far removed from my child self. why do i want to go back? why do i want to regress. everyone keeps telling me to grow up, it’s the only sensible thing, grow the fuck up you selfish little fucking prick faggot. grow up.

oh god i don’t want to grow up. i want to stop and pause and smell the stupid damn flowers i can barely smell because my allergies are so fucking bad all the time and i so often forget to take my medicine. i want to cry and laugh and let the world flow through me once more. i think i knew more about things then, than i can even muster enough pretenses to mask that of which i do not know now. and yet. i don’t know. the stream stopped. i think i am done writing for now. 

or am i? i supposedly know that knowing absolutely nothing is indicative that i know more than i might imagine, isn’t that the way it works? we humble ourselves before the world because we understand it all, or something. we understand the ease and uneasiness of life. i’m just waiting for the rest of me to follow suit. i am waiting waiting waiting to be able to write. i think i’ll wait so long as to be on my bed of death and proclaim that i will wait a bit more.

oh look at these jumbled messes, look at the beauty of nonsense and meaningless spouts. look look look! listen perceive conceive. i am tired of denying myself a sense of self. where can i find one that does not belittle the selves of others? because that is all i was taught, and i fear further embarrassment of trying to start anew.

[knox-knocks]

Such Stuff as Dreams are Made

this is my fic written for @justadreamfox for the spring exchange!! it got a lot longer than I expected, but here’s a magic library au!! i had a blast working with your prompts and i hope you enjoy! :D

~

Andrew needed a cigarette. He had a pack in his pocket, and he itched to light it and taste the bitter nicotine, but being chased by two squad cars full of pigs and four delinquents that wanted Andrew’s head on a pike left him with little opportunity. He hadn’t been the one to tip off the police about their little gatherings, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the road was ending and Andrew was coming up on a dead end.

He ducked behind a dumpster, bending over to catch his breath in an attempt not to pass out. He might be able to pack a punch, but running had never been his forte.

Red and blue lights flashed across the wall as one of the cop cars crawled past, the pigs scanning for any sign of Andrew or any of the other guys that had scattered after the raid. Andrew knew to give it a couple minutes before leaving his stinking sanctuary, and he waited a few more in case they circled back or one of his former associates tried to ambush him. Hopefully the pigs would arrest them and leave Andrew to get caught street-fighting another day.

When the coast was clear, Andrew left the alley and started back to the dilapidated house he shared with his deadbeat mother and sick brother. He needed to be home before Tilda got back from whatever gutter she had spent the night in, or before Aaron woke up and needed his meds. Aside from Andrew’s late-night escapade, the streets were silent as Andrew walked through the city he had lived in his entire life, but was never able to call home.

Andrew had picked up his street-fighting habit halfway through his junior year of high school, when Aaron’s condition had worsened and Andrew’s mounting responsibilities had grown too much, even for him. If it weren’t for Aaron, Andrew was sure he’d have run away and headed somewhere east, anywhere but California. But he would never abandon his brother; he was unwillingly to break the promise he made to him when they were children and leave him, sick and vulnerable, to Tilda’s negligent care.

It was on nights like these, when the breeze made Andrew’s skin prickle with left-over humidity, that he waited until Aaron was sound asleep in his bed and Tilda was long gone before he left their ramshackle little house with its sagging gray walls and peeling white paint for the night. The street-fighting provided some money that Andrew used to put food on the table and meds for Aaron, though not that much. Mostly it was a way to let off a little steam. Apparently, beating the shit out of people and getting beat in return was a great stress reliever. Though, Andrew supposed, now he’d have to find another venue. He doubted he’d be welcomed back to the old one, even if it didn’t get shut down by the pigs.

Andrew flexed his hand until his knuckles ached. They were bruised, he’d need to ice them when he got home. Andrew was so preoccupied with cataloging his injuries, that he almost walked right past something that shouldn’t have been there.

Situated in a vacant lot that had been empty for years was a building, tall and impossible against the inky black of the sky. It was square and blocky, blending into the neighborhood in the way all abandoned buildings did. Drab paint that coated the outside had chipped away in spots to reveal faded, crumbling brickwork underneath. On the inside, the windows were covered with thick, red curtains that stifled faint yellow light Andrew could see creeping from behind them. Andrew stepped over tiny flowers and leafy weeds that grew out of cracked concrete stairs that led to double doors at the front of the building and was struck with the sudden urge to knock, though the place looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

Light seeped in from under the door and when Andrew pressed his ear to its splintered wood, he could hear a faint humming coming from the other side. It reminded him of a bit of a heartbeat. He took a step back, craning his neck to see the whole front of the ugly thing. A sign hung above him, faded letters painted onto rough wood.

Foxhole’s Traveling Library. Around it was a carving of a leaping fox, front legs touching its tail to encircle the words.

“What the fuck,” Andrew whispered.

The thing was, the lot the library sat on was next to the 24-hour convenience store that Andrew liked to stop by for snacks and cigarettes before his matches, and it had definitely been empty two hours ago when Andrew passed it. It looked as if someone had dropped a giant building in the middle of the lot and just left it there.

Before Andrew could think too hard about it, he heard the wail of sirens and saw the flashing red and blue of police cars rounding the corner. He couldn’t go to the convenience store since the owner, Mick, didn’t like him very much and would turn him over in a heartbeat. That left one last option.

Andrew shoved his shoulder against the boarded-up doors of the library, expecting more resistance, but the doors gave easily and he tumbled inside.

The library on the inside was a completely different sort of strange than the outside. While the outside was all crumbling infrastructure and OSHA violations, the inside was something straight out of a dream. It seemed a lot bigger than the outside could have hinted, with rows upon rows of shelves stuffed with thousands of books, stretching as far as Andrew could see. He was pretty sure he could get lost in this place, even with a memory as good as his.

A gilded spiral staircase gave off a burnished glow in the warm light that emanated from various dimly-lit lamps on the walls. They were old-fashioned, oil-lamps cast in iron that gleamed in the flickering light. Andrew craned his neck upwards and counted eight floors that looked identical to the one he stood on. There were paintings too – delicate oils of people hung in gold frames on walls painted white and masterfully-crafted marble busts of long-forgotten people tucked between the bookshelves. They were fanciful and detailed in a library that seemed to be made up entirely of fancy and detail.

Andrew drew closer the bookshelves and inspected the books. Most of them were leather-bound and embossed with gold foil and several were in different languages. He ran his finger down the spines, feeling the rough bumps from the binding and wondered how they got there. It seemed an innocuous question; someone had to have put them there. But Andrew couldn’t help but think that the books had always been there, that there was no other place for them to be.

He walked around for a bit, wandering through the shelves and studying the strange books in them. There were no markers that indicated what genre was in, but occasionally he passed tiny golden placards that listed names and places. One simply read, Forgotten Books.

As far as Andrew knew, the library was empty. He hadn’t seen a soul in the hours he’d been there; no one perusing the shelves of books or studying the artwork like he would have expected. He supposed they could have been on the upper levels, but there was no one at the help desk behind the stairs, either. But Andrew couldn’t help noticing that there was no dust that coated the shelves. The place seemed well-kept, so someone must have been attending them.

Andrew could spend hours here – days, if he really wanted to. But if Tilda found that he had snuck out again, he’d have more to worry about than a dust-free counter in a seemingly-abandoned library. He retraced his steps through the maze of shelves, noting that it took more time finding his way out of the library, and was outside before the sun had fully begun its assent into the dull gray of the morning sky.

The next day, the library pervaded his thoughts. After his shift at the warehouse, he went to visit the library again, except the lot was empty when he arrived. There was no sign of the huge building that had been there hours prior, not even the skeletal remains of it. Weeds swayed in the breeze where the library was supposed to be and Andrew was left wondering if he had simply dreamt it all.

~

The second time Andrew saw the library, he found it by accident, tucked in an alley about two miles from his house. It was a lot narrower than the library in the lot, and it sat crammed between two apartment buildings and a back wall. Andrew would not have recognized it if it weren’t for the sign that read, Foxhole’s Traveling Library fixed above the doorway.

The inside, Andrew discovered, looked exactly as it had when he first saw it. The same shelves with their strange labeling system were where he’d found them that first night, and Andrew was greeted with that familiar humming sound, like a thousand tiny wings beating in unison. The library still seemed impossibly huge compared to the outside, and Andrew swore he felt a buzzing beneath his skin.

It greeted him like an old friend, far too familiar for only seeing it once before. He’d stumbled across the library weeks ago, but Andrew felt like he had known this place for years.

The second level was almost identical to the bottom one, and Andrew spent his night circling the section of shelves labeled “Books Well-Traveled.” He expected to see maps and atlas’, depictions of the world and places Andrew would never see – and there were a couple – but most of the shelves held books with tattered covers and heavily-creased spines. As far as Andrew could tell, there was no rhyme or reason to the organization of the books. On one shelf, he found Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone slotted next to a near-unrecognizable copy of The Great Gatsby.

“You’re new.”

Andrew almost dropping the books he held in his arms to the carpeted ground below as someone spoke behind him. He whipped around to see a man standing at the end of the shelf. After spending hours alone in the library during his first visit, Andrew hadn’t expected to be interrupted by anyone.

The man wasn’t much taller than Andrew, or much older, with dark red hair that fell around an impish face in lose curls. He regarded Andrew warily, assessing him with a sharp quirk of an eyebrow. His face was covered in thin and circular scars and his eyes were shrewd and blue like a summer’s sky. He was very pretty, Andrew noticed.

His heart was still beating much too fast, as if he’d been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. He shoved the books back onto the shelf. “Who are you?”

“Neil,” the man said after a long pause.

Andrew blinked. He glanced at the plaque that was supposed to tell him what genre he was in, but simply stated Books Well-Traveled instead. Right underneath it, inscribed in tiny letters, was Neil Josten. Baltimore 2008 – Dublin 2010.

“That’s my shelf,” Neil confirmed, correctly guessing Andrew’s line of thought. His eyes narrowed. “What’s your name?”

“Andrew.”

Neil scrutinized him for a long moment, as if trying to puzzle something out. Then his expression turned sly. He slid next to Andrew beside the bookcase and pointed to the novels Andrew had hastily put away.

“You put them in the wrong spot,” he said. He reached around him and rearranged three of the books. “They’re chronological.”

Andrew frowned at the three novels Neil had sorted. “Hamlet was written before John Steinbeck was even born,” he felt the need to point out.

Neil looked at him with a strange quirk to his lips, as if there were something Andrew didn’t get. Obviously, he didn’t feel the need to explain because he ignored Andrew’s comment. “You can read the books, but you need to log it with Wymack first,” he said. “He’s the one in charge here.”

Then he plucked a seemingly-random book off the shelf and handed it to Andrew. He turned on his heel and disappeared before Andrew could even get a word in, navigating through the bookcases with an ease that spoke of true familiarity. Andrew glared after him, intrigued despite himself and irritated about it.

The book Neil had given him was a battered edition of Watership Down. Andrew rubbed his thumb over the hard cover, feeling the small tears and scratches in the plastic covering. Watership Down had been Andrew’s favorite book as a kid. He hadn’t read it in years, but he still had his own copy safely hidden under his bed. He didn’t know why Neil had given him this book in particular, or why he had seemed so wily about it. Andrew flipped through the pages, skimming through passages he had long since read and memorized, before replacing it on the shelf in its nonsensically designated spot.

Andrew passed the help desk on his way downstairs, and noticed that it was no longer unattended. The man standing behind the desk was a hulking bear of a man, with thick muscles the size of Andrew’s head and flame tattoos crawling up his forearms. He hunched over what looked like a log of names and book titles. He didn’t look like what Andrew would picture as a librarian.

“Welcome back,” the man – Wymack, Andrew assumed – sighed. He glanced up at Andrew and squinted at him. “You’re not taking another book, are you? You’re supposed to return them afterwards. This is a library, not a charity.”

Andrew stared at him. His hands were empty, and he hadn’t taken anything when he left the library two weeks ago. Rather than parse the meaning, Andrew asked, “What is this place?”

“Foxhole’s Traveling Library,” recited Wymack. “The sign’s outside. I thought you’d have learned to read by now.”

Apparently, no one in this weird library was going to give him a straight answer. The old quack behind the desk leveled him one last stern look before returning to his log. He scribbled something at the bottom of the page and said, “Stay as long as you’d like, but we close at sunrise. No taking any more books until you learn how to use a library.”

“I haven’t taken anything,” Andrew said and Wymack glared at him.

“I changed my mind,” he said gruffly, snapping his book shut and placing it flat on the desk in front of him. “We’re closing now. Goodbye.”

Not seeing the point in arguing, Andrew gave him a sarcastic two-finger salute and turned around. As he was leaving, he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes watching him. The prickling in the back of his neck grew too much as Andrew was crossing the threshold to the alley outside so he glanced back. He saw something small dart behind one of the bookcases, a flash of red before disappearing again. Andrew stared hard at the shelf, but detected no other movement.

The sense of someone watching him followed Andrew home, but he couldn’t see anyone around whenever he scanned the street. His fingers brushed the armband of his left arm, taking comfort from the outline of his pocket knife. The hard ridge of his knife beneath his fingertips gave him more semblance of security, but Andrew didn’t feel completely safe until the door was firmly shut and locked behind him.

He didn’t know what to make of the library. It wasn’t normal, that much was obvious, but Andrew was hard-pressed to call it magic. He didn’t believe in superstition or something as stupid as magic. Things that bent the laws of time and physics didn’t fit into Andrew’s worldview, and a shapeshifting-traveling-not-magical library certainly wasn’t allowed. Andrew rubbed his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a migraine starting behind his eyes.

Maybe the sleep-deprivation and stress were finally catching up and he was losing it. The library and its strange inhabitants were simply a figment of Andrew’s imagination and all he needed was to sleep it off. He checked the clock that still hung in the kitchen, despite being about two hours off, and climbed up the stairs to the room he shared with Aaron. If he went to bed now, he’d still have a couple hours before he had to clock in at the grocery store.

When he stepped into his room, he noticed that the window was wide open. Aaron was asleep in his bed across the room, dead to the world for another couple hours before he’d wake up, but the latch was unlocked and the moth-bitten curtains shifted in the wind. Andrew frowned; he definitely hadn’t left the window open when he left. Aaron must have woken up and opened it himself.

That’s when Andrew heard the scratching from under his bed. He went immediately to Aaron, making a barrier between his sleeping brother and whoever was under his bed. But no one emerged. All Andrew heard was some more scratching, and then a quiet snuffling sound that reminded Andrew of a small animal.

For a moment, Andrew was relieved he wouldn’t have to fend off a would-be attacker, but then he thought of his books. The three novels he hid under his bed were the only things he truly owned besides the clothes on his back, and he’d kept them with him all these years. He wasn’t about to let them get chewed up by a wild animal.

Andrew looked for anything he could use and grabbed a ruler off of Aaron’s desk. The first thing he saw when he ducked his head under the bed was a shrewd pair of eyes, glowing in the darkness. Andrew jabbed at it with the ruler, and it leapt at him with snarl, making Andrew fall backwards.

It was a fox, russet-colored fur and bright blue eyes that seemed far too clever to belong to an animal. Andrew stared at it, dumbfounded, and it took him a few seconds to realize that one of his books was trapped in its jaws. He couldn’t see the cover but he didn’t need to – he would recognize this book anywhere. It was his copy of Watership Down.

“Hey – fuck.” Andrew scrambled to his feet, snatching for his book, but the fox darted out of his reach and jumped out the window. He rushed after it but was too late. He saw a bushy red tail disappearing around the corner, book in tow.

“You fucking asshole,” Andrew shouted, as loud as he dared. Tilda would be getting home any minute now, and Andrew couldn’t risk her hearing him.

Andrew shut the window and locked it, booking it down the stairs as quietly as he could. It didn’t take long to find the fox. Andrew chased after it, but it always stayed two steps ahead of him. It led him back to the dead-end alley the library had been in. Andrew rounded the corner triumphantly, expecting to see the trapped fox with his book. Instead he found a couple of trash bins and rotting cardboard boxes. No library.

Behind him, the sun was already beginning to rise. The library, and the fox with his book, were gone.

~

By the time Andrew made it back home, Aaron was already up and about. Andrew found him wandering around the kitchen in his pajama bottoms, rummaging through the cupboards for breakfast. He seemed okay enough, and Andrew was glad to see him out of bed.

“There’s no fucking food in this house,” Aaron grumbled before rounding on Andrew. “And you’re lucky you didn’t get caught sneaking out.”

“Did you take your meds?” Andrew asked without acknowledging the statement.

He brushed past Aaron on the way to the fridge. There wasn’t anything in there except an old bottle of ketchup and an empty pizza box. Andrew made a mental note to grab some groceries when he was done with his shift. They really didn’t have the money, but Tilda wasn’t going to do it and Andrew could ask for an advance on his next paycheck if he really needed to. Maybe he should find a new ring to fight in at night.

“Obviously.” Aaron crossed his arms. “And Mom’s passed out upstairs. She’ll be out for a couple hours but I’ll check on her in a bit to make sure she’s not drowning in her own vomit.”

“Let her drown.” Andrew slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Maybe then we’ll have money for groceries.”

“Fuck you,” Aaron said, but he sounded too tired to be angry.

~

Andrew tried really, really hard not to think of the library, but it slipped in and out of his thoughts almost constantly throughout the next four days. Even Aaron seemed to notice his distraction, shooting him concerned looks whenever Andrew was near. Andrew waved him off. The last thing Aaron needed was to be worrying about him.

“Is it a boy?” Aaron asked one night. He was already dressed for bed in sweats and an old t-shirt, furiously brushing his teeth as he analyzed Andrew in the mirror. Andrew shot him an annoyed look while he combed his wet hair out into something manageable.

“Mind your business,” he said, yanking at a particularly stubborn knot.

“You’re being weird,” Aaron wheedled. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

What could Andrew tell him; that he’d found a magic library not once, but twice? That he’d chased a fox that had stolen his book? That the library had practically disappeared in front of his eyes? Aaron would think he was insane. Andrew wasn’t entirely sure he’d be wrong.

Andrew practically shoved him out of the bathroom. “Bedtime, little Aaron,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Aaron scowled at him.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the older twin,” he said.

“Bullshit.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, then his expression turned solemn. “Seriously, though,” he said. “Are you in trouble?”

Andrew sighed. He knew Aaron’s concern wasn’t entirely misplaced; Andrew had been picked up twice by the police and had gotten himself into deep shit more than once. There used to be a time where Andrew and Aaron told each other everything, but that had been years ago.

“I’m not in trouble,” he said, only to ease the tension from his brother’s expression. “I found a new fighting ring that I’m going to try out tonight.”

Aaron seemed hesitant, but he let the subject drop. “Do you want me to go with?”

Andrew shook his head. “I won’t stay out long tonight, just testing the waters.”

“First-aid kit is under the sink. For when you get your ass beat,” Aaron teased.

“Oh ye of little faith.” Andrew slung his jacket over his shoulder and flipped Aaron off as he left. He saw Aaron return the gesture as the door closed behind him.

The new ring was only about four blocks away from the lot the library had first appeared in, but Andrew shoved any thoughts of the traveling library firmly out of his head. Eden’s Twilight was packed when Andrew showed up, and the first round had already begun. He pushed his way through the crowd, jabbing his elbow into anyone who got too close. The place smelled of beer and sweat and the ground was sticky and covered in suspicious stains.

Andrew found a vantage point in a small alcove above the main mass of the crowd that surround the ring. Only a few people hung out on the upper deck so it wasn’t as crowded as it was below. Inside the ring, the two fighters circled each other as the audience cheered and placed bets. Andrew mentally placed a few of his own, though he didn’t put money on it or voice them out loud.

The first guy was huge, tall and muscular and covered in tattoos. He beat his fists together to the screams of his fans. Andrew was pretty sure he’d seen him fight in another ring before. It only took him a second to place his name. Gorilla. Gorilla was known for his brutal punches and strength, but he was slow and tired easily.

His challenger was at least two heads shorter than him. She was wiry and thin, with her white-blonde hair pulled into a short ponytail at the back of her head. Andrew watched her circle the ring and sat up with interest. He was too far to see clearly, but he thought he recognized the dangerous glint in her eye as she sized up her opponent. Andrew didn’t think this match would be as cut-and-dry as it seemed.

He was right.

Gorilla attacked first, lunging at the women with a loud cry, but the women dodged easily and aimed two sharp jabs to his ribs. She was fast and deadly, with precise punches and kicks that wore her larger opponent down. She fought dirty too, striking hard at sensitive places. The match was over in a matter of minutes, when the women dug her knee in the back of Gorilla’s leg and forced him down, pinning his arm behind his back until he tapped out.

The audience roared and Andrew felt impressed despite himself. The blonde women gave a sweet wave that was at odds with the way she fought and exited the ring. Andrew hopped down from his perch before the next match started and shoved around looking for someone who could sign him up for a future match. He almost slammed right into the women collecting her winnings.

There was a bruise already starting to swell on her chin from where Gorilla had punched her, but she smiled when she saw Andrew. She was dressed conservatively and her white-blonde hair was dyed into a pastel rainbow at the tips. A tiny silver cross hung from her neck, catching the flashing lights around them. It was hard reconciling the fighter Andrew saw in the ring with the sweet Christian girl in front of him.

“Hi,” she said, waving with a hand taped with bandages. “Are you Andrew?”

“What,” Andrew said. He wondered how the hell she knew his name, and if he should get out of there. If some of the people from his old ring were here, they might still be looking for someone to blame. And Andrew didn’t think he’d want to be on the receiving end of this women’s punches.

“Sorry.” The women smiled apologetically. She put her hand out for Andrew to shake. “Renee. My friend pointed you out.”

That didn’t make Andrew feel any better. His eyes slid past Renee, looking for anyone that might have recognized him. His eyes caught on red hair, a scarred face, and clever blue eyes.

“You,” Andrew said and started towards Neil. “Your fucking pet stole my book.”

Somehow, Neil looked both amused and annoyed. “Are you following me or something?”

“I want my book back,” Andrew said.

“It’s not yours. And I don’t have a pet.”

“Bullshit it’s not mine,” Andrew said, but Neil was already turning away. Andrew wasn’t about to let him get away with his cryptic bullshit again, so he followed him outside.

“Leave me alone,” Neil shouted over his shoulder but Andrew grabbed his arm and spun him around. He got a hold of Neil’s shirt and shoved him bodily against the wall.

“What the fuck is going on?” he snapped. Neil blinked at him, unimpressed.

“Why should I give you anything,” Neil said, “when you’ll just take it?”

Andrew was so fed up with people accusing him of shit. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Neil snatched at Andrew’s wrist, trying to wrench free, but Andrew held fast, “go fuck yourself.”

“You tell me the truth, and I’ll let you go,” Andrew said. “Truth for a truth.”

“Well, you can’t keep me pinned all night,” Neil snarked. “Eventually you’ll have to let me go.”

Andrew glared at him, but Neil only snorted with derision.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he sneered. “Fine. Truth for a truth.”

Andrew released him and Neil straightened, smoothing his hands down his shirt where Andrew had ruffled it. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“What, exactly, is Foxhole’s Traveling Library?”

Neil looked dumbfounded. “You don’t remember? Wymack said he already explained.”

“Humor me.”

“It’s exactly as it sounds,” Neil said, “a traveling library. Wymack founded it…I don’t know. It’s old. Older than any of us. We – me and the rest of the foxes – collect books and things for it. Anyone’s welcome, but usually only those who need it can find it.”

Andrew took a moment to process that. “It’s magic?”

“Obviously,” Neil said. “Do most libraries you know move every night?”

Andrew ignored him. “You said only people who need it can find it, yet I keep finding it. I don’t need anything.”

“For the record, I don’t believe you. But,” Neil said when Andrew clenched his fist. “you keep finding it because it’s here to collect those books you took.”

Andrew could feel his frustration rising again. He took a few breaths to calm himself down, forcing any traces of emotion off his face. “I didn’t take anything,” he said, once he’d gotten everything under control. Neil snorted again, but Andrew didn’t react.

“Okay, my turn,” he said. “How old were you when you first visited the library?”

Andrew frowned. He’d only found out about the place a couple weeks ago. “Nineteen.”

Neil shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think that’s right. You showed up before Wymack took me in, but he told me about you. Andrew Minyard. You’re the kid who kept sneaking in. He offered you a place there, but you didn’t want to stay. You took a bunch of books and ran with them.”

Andrew stared hard at him, trying to detect the lie. It was impossible – hell, the whole fucking library was impossible – but Neil didn’t seem to be lying. But as Neil’s words began to sink it, Andrew realized that he did remember it. He’d thought it was a dream, but he remembered picking up a book from a shelf and thinking Aaron would like it. He remembered stuffing it in his shirt and running home. He could never forget the bruises Tilda left on him for sneaking out of the house.

It seemed odd that Andrew had almost forgotten, given his perfect memory. But now he couldn’t stop remembering. Rough hands and tears trailing down his face, running through the streets at night looking for the library - his library. With its strange books and gruff librarian who always gave him a book to hold even though he couldn’t read it yet. The librarian had offered to shelter him after he showed up with a bruised and tear-streaked face, but Andrew had refused.

He wouldn’t leave Aaron. That’s why he wouldn’t stay. He’d taken the books because he wanted to bring a piece of the library with him, so he’d never forget. But he’d forgotten anyway.

“It’s your turn,” Neil said.

Before Andrew could sort through his tumultuous thoughts, he heard a shout behind him.

“Neil!” Andrew turned to see a large man with spiky hair jogging toward them. He wore gym shorts and a sweaty black tank top with the logo of some metal band Andrew didn’t recognize. Behind him stood Renee and a woman with short, curly hair, her arms crossed over her chest. The man regarded Andrew with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, but he addressed Neil. “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m fine, Matt,” Neil replied. The man groaned but Neil waved him off. “Really. We were just talking.”

“Alright,” Matt said, not sounding entirely convinced. “Dan was saying it’s about time we head back, yeah?”

Neil nodded and met Andrew’s eyes for a moment. Andrew would have to wait to take his turn, which meant he had time to think of what he wanted to ask. There was so much he wanted to know; it was like a strange itch spreading under his skin. Andrew hadn’t felt so interested in anything in ages. It exhilarated him, and he kind of hated it.

“It was nice meeting you, Andrew,” Renee said sweetly, giving a little wave. “Wymack has said a lot about you.”

Andrew didn’t know what to say to that, so he let them leave without a word. He dug in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lit one. He felt oddly drained and he didn’t particularly want to stick around and watch the last few fights of the night. So, he leaned against the wall, one foot kicked up against the patchwork of brick and mortar, and smoked his cigarette to the filter while he did his best to sort out his thoughts and newfound memories into something more comprehensible.

After he finished his first cigarette, he lit another. He was still uncertain, but he thought, perhaps, that he would like to see the library again.

~

There was a smudge of ink on the inside-cover of The Giver. Andrew brushed his fingers over it, wondering why he had never put much thought to it before. It was black and nearly-illegible, but he could make out the words “Fox” and “Library” where the water damage wasn’t so bad. He flipped open his last book, a beaten-up copy of Charlotte’s Web to find a similar ink-stain inside. The words were almost completely obliterated, but he could still see the stamp of a tiny fox that Andrew had seen on the sign hanging in front of the library.

The books that Andrew had kept with him for almost fifteen years belonged to Foxhole’s Traveling Library.

When Andrew and Aaron were eight and Aaron first started getting sick, Andrew would read Charlotte’s Web to him until he fell asleep. He told him about The Giver and how he would have hated to have his emotions taken away from him like that. All this time, they were from the library that Andrew had loved and forgotten. And he didn’t even know.

Andrew slammed his books shut and shoved them under his bed. He watched his sleeping brother for a moment, listened to his steady breathing, and left.

He needed to find Neil.

~

The streets were empty, despite it not being that late out. Andrew didn’t really know where he was going, but he pointed his feet in a direction and walked. It seemed like ages before he found the library, sitting in the middle of an In-N-Out parking lot. But when Andrew tried the door, he found that it was locked.

He waited for someone to show for an hour before he left again. He wandered around until he heard shouting and what sounded like an animal crying out in pain. When Andrew went to investigate, he found two guys smelling of booze. They were shouting incoherently, and throwing bottles at a spitting-mad fox cornered against the wall.

The guy with a white hoodie moved to kick it, but Andrew ran forward and kicked him in the back of the knee before he could. There was a horrible pop and Hoodie fell to the ground in a heap of flailing limbs with an agonized scream. Andrew grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and slammed him to the ground but before he could do it again, Hoodie’s friend wrenched him away and pushed him back. Andrew withdrew his knife, but he was unbalanced and caught a nasty right-hook to the side of his face. His knife fell somewhere to the side, but Andrew didn’t have time to reach for it before the man smashed a bottle against the side of his head. Andrew’s vision went white and he crumbled to the ground.

“Asshole,” the man spat. Andrew flipped him off but he couldn’t see much through the blood streaming into his eyes. The man pulled his arm back for another swing, but movement by the wall caught both his and Andrew’s attention.

Neil staggered over to them, bruised and battered and looking absolutely worse for wear. “Leave him alone,” he snarled and launched himself at the man. Neil was smaller than him, but that didn’t stop him from getting a few good punches in and buying Andrew enough time to get off the ground. He was unsteady on his feet, but he got his balance and grabbed a hold on Neil’s shirt.

“Come on,” he said, yanking him away from getting punched into oblivion. His head was throbbing and he still had trouble seeing, but Neil gripped him under the arm and supported some of his weight while they ran.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at fighting,” Neil panted once they were far enough away. It only took Andrew a second to realize that Neil had led them back to the library.

“Shut up,” Andrew replied, breathing heavily. He used his sleeve to wipe some of the blood from his face. He didn’t think the cut was that bad, but he’d probably need stitches. “You’re the fox?”

Neil flexed his hand, wincing when his knuckles twinged. “I thought that was obvious.”

Andrew stared at him in disbelief. “Yes, because that makes total sense.”

“Magic library. Shape-shifting foxes.” Neil shrugged, and then wrapped his arm around his ribs with a pained groan. “Shit,” he said and slumped to the ground.

Andrew followed him down. He motioned for Neil to sit cross-legged and checked his knuckles. He swiped his finger over them, wiping away some of the blood, and Neil let out a pained hiss.

“Friends of yours?” Andrew asked.

Neil shook his head with barely-suppressed anger. “Just a couple assholes who like to hurt animals.”

“Well,” Andrew said. “I hope I broke that guy’s knee, then.”

“Thanks,” Neil said. He met Andrew eyes. His lips pursed when he saw the mess the asshole made of Andrew’s face, but he held his gaze. “You saved me.”

Andrew shrugged it off. He didn’t know why Neil was looking at him like that, or why it terrified him and made something jolt in his chest at the same time. He looked away, smoothing over his expression into something that resembled boredom. “You look like a punching bag,” he said. “There’s a first-aid kit at the house.”

“No need.” Neil pushed to his feet with a grunt. “The library will do just fine. Coming in?”

Andrew didn’t know what he meant by that, but he followed Neil through the doors all the same. They weren’t unlocked anymore – or at least they weren’t locked for Neil.

The cuts on Neil’s face and hands began to heal as soon he stepped over the threshold. Andrew really shouldn’t have been surprised, but he couldn’t look away as the bruises faded as if they were never there.

“Nothing can hurt us here,” Neil said as Andrew felt his own wounds begin to heal.

They walked through the library, neither wanting to leave their quiet sanctuary. Andrew was sure the other foxes were hanging around somewhere, but the place was huge enough to get lost in and Andrew knew that they would not be bothered. He didn’t really know why he was still here, just a couple weeks ago he had been furious at Neil for stealing his book. But now a small part of him kind of wanted to hold his hand. Andrew shoved that very small part to the back of his mind before he could do something stupid like actually reach out for Neil.

They were on the third floor of the library, in a section labeled Unwritten Books, when Neil rocked to a halt beside Andrew. He turned to him and reach out, stopping his hand just short of Andrew’s face.

Andrew swallowed. He didn’t know what Neil planned to do, but he met Neil’s eyes and nodded once in permission. Neil brushed his fingers over Andrew’s temple, where the bottle had hit him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his fingers pressed to the spot where the gash would have been. “Sometimes it doesn’t heal all of it.”

Andrew touched his temple and felt a bump from a scar. It hadn’t been there before. Andrew grabbed Neil’s hand and moved it away from his face. He squeezed once and Neil tucked his hands in his pockets.

“Do not apologize,” Andrew ordered. It wasn’t Neil’s fault, and Andrew didn’t like the sad expression in Neil’s eyes. “And don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Neil asked.

Andrew ignored the question. It was his turn, and he told Neil so. He’d been thinking of what he wanted to ask, and now he thought he was ready.

“Why are you here?”

Neil looked surprised at the question, but then he motioned for Andrew to sit. Andrew sat with his back to the bookshelf and his arms draped over his knees. Neil mirrored him. He was quiet for a long time before he spoke.

“I was running from my father.” He motioned to his face. “He’s the one that did this. To say that he was a shitty father would be an understatement. He was a monster.”

Andrew knew plenty about monsters that pretended to be human. He’s had monsters of his own. Some being Tilda and her string of boyfriends that varied from strung-out drug addicts to heavy-handed abusers. Sometimes they were worse, but Andrew tried not to think about them. He wasn’t familiar with Neil’s sort of monster, but he stayed quiet and gave Neil his full attention.

Neil rubbed at the circular burn scars on his cheek. “A couple years back, he killed my mother. Beat her to death with a metal pipe. He would have killed me, but I ran. I just kept running, and somehow I ended up here. If Wymack hadn’t taken me in, I would have died.”

Andrew thought of offering Andrew a place to stay, so many years ago. “He takes in a lot of strays,” he noted.

“The old man is soft,” Neil said, fondly. Then he frowned. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Andrew exhaled heavily. “My brother,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave him. This was before he got sick, but he was always mine to protect. If I left him, I am not sure he would have survived.”

“He’s sick?”

Andrew grit his teeth until his jaw ached and gave a jerky nod. “It’s worse these days,” is all he said. He really didn’t want to talk about it.

“Andrew,” Neil whispered. “The library probably won’t come back once you return the rest of your books.”

“I know.”

Neil’s voice had an edge to it but Andrew couldn’t tell if it was from anger or from something else. Something closer to desperation. “You can’t keep them forever.”

“I know.” Ever since Andrew rediscovered the library, he knew he would not be allowed to keep it. The library, Wymack, even the beginnings of this something between him and Neil. Soon enough, Andrew was going to have to say goodbye.

~

Aaron’s condition worsened few weeks into December. San Jose was not a city that froze over during its winters, but the cold months always made him struggle more and the sudden temperature drop this year had been merciless. Andrew checked on him regularly, but Aaron would always make him leave the room. Andrew had a sneaking suspicion it was because Aaron didn’t want to get him sick, too.

When Tilda got home a little after two in the morning, Andrew was fuming. He confronted her in the kitchen while she tottered around looking for food. Her eyes were red and unfocused and Andrew wasn’t entirely sure if she was aware that he was there at all.

Andrew hated her.

“Aaron’s sick,” he said, forcing his voice to be even. Despite his best efforts, his words trembled with rage.

Tilda turned to him, leaning against the counter so she wouldn’t topple over, and regarded him with bleary eyes. “Make him better, then,” she slurred.

Andrew had spent the last decade of his life trying to make him better, with no help from Tilda. Andrew worked two jobs and got into illegal street-fighting to pay the bills while Tilda got drunk and high for days at a time. Her son was dying and she did not care.

Andrew clenched his hands into fists to stop the shaking, but Tilda didn’t notice. She dug around in her purse and withdrew a prescription bottle full of various pills. She shook some out onto her palm and studied them.

Andrew crossed the kitchen and knocked them out of her hand. The candy-colored pills clattered to the ground, scattering across the dirty floorboards. “He’s sick!” he snarled. “He needs medicine.”

Tilda went very still, and for a moment the world stopped spinning. Andrew didn’t register the slap at first, just that his face stung and there was a sharp, metallic taste in his mouth. Everything jolted back into motion with that slap.

“You ungrateful shit,” Tilda hissed. She was shaking a finger in Andrew’s face, but Andrew hardly noticed. He had his hand pressed to his cheek, where Tilda had hit him. “You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. Don’t go telling me what to do, I don’t owe you anything!”

Andrew said nothing while she stalked away. He could feel his lip starting to swell under his hand. He pressed his finger to the cut and it came away red. Andrew was moving before he really thought about it. One minute he was standing in the kitchen with a stinging face, and the next he was digging for a book from under his bed. Charlotte’s Web. That’ll do.

It was only a couple of hours until sunrise, but Andrew didn’t have trouble finding the library. All the other times he tried to enter without a book, the doors would not open and Neil would have to come out onto the front stoop with him. But this time the doors parted easily, and Andrew was greeted with a blast of warm air and the tingling sensation of his bloodied lip beginning to heal.

Neil saw it anyway and was across the room in an instant.

“Who did that to you?” he demanded.

“My mother.” Andrew spat the word. “I asked her to parent for once.”

Neil looked ready to fight, but Andrew shoved the book at him before he could say anything. He took it, confused, before glancing at the cover. “Oh,” he said. “Are you sure?”

“Shut up,” Andrew said and Neil nodded. He motioned for Andrew to follow him and brought him to a section of the library on the sixth floor.

The shelves up here were filled with more books, but Andrew spied a few strange objects that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Andrew picked one up. It was about the size of his palm, with nine interlocking gold rings that spun around each other. It reminded Andrew of rings circling a planet, or maybe a strange, metal flower.

“That’s Matt’s work,” Neil said once he caught Andrew looking. “He’s more of a creator than a collector. Most of these are his.”

“Most?” Andrew asked. He nudged one ring and it spun backwards. The rest of the rings followed suit.

“Some of them are Allison’s. One or two might be Nicky’s, but he never really got a hang of it.”

Andrew replaced the object back on the shelf, careful not to crush the delicate metalwork, and he and Neil continued through the maze of bookshelves. Eventually, they came upon a shelf labeled Lost Books. The shelf was empty except for a single book: Andrew’s old copy of Watership Down.

Neil placed Charlotte’s Web next to it and turned to Andrew without meeting his eyes, his hand lingering on the shelf. He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke. “This could be yours,” he said and finally looked up.

There was an empty space on the plaque, right under the label. It had enough room for a name, like all the other shelves in the library. Neil brushed his hand over it, finger unconsciously looping around to form a word.

Andrew.

“You could stay here,” continued Neil. “You could be a fox and collect books or make things. Anything. You could get away from your mom.”

“I won’t leave Aaron,” Andrew reminded him.

Andrew could see the disappointment on Neil’s face, but he nodded. “Okay,” he said. He stooped to sit with his back against the shelf, reminiscent of the time they sheltered between the shelves and started their question game. Andrew sat next to him. He left an inch of space between them, but Andrew’s knee nudged Neil’s and they were close enough that he could feel Neil’s warmth.

“You should see this place during the day,” Neil said, as if Andrew would ever be allowed to. “There’s so many windows, the sunlight catches Matt’s creations and everything turns gold.”

Neil wasn’t looking at him, which gave Andrew every opportunity to watch without being seen in return. Freckles dashed across the bridge of his nose, like tiny constellations of stars that Andrew wished to name. His eyes were an even deeper blue in the dimness of the library, and light danced in them as he gazed at the bookshelves full of books and gadgets. A small smile ghosted across Neil’s face. “It’s really beautiful.”

Looking at Neil, Andrew agreed.

“Oh,” Neil said with a small laugh when he noticed Andrew’s attention, “you can stare, but when I do it – ”

Andrew kissed him. He felt Neil’s breath hitch against his lips and Andrew pulled back with a surge of panic.

“Shit,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He started to get up, but Neil stopped him with a hand hovering over his arm. Andrew looked in the general direction of the exit, wondering if he could still make a break for it.

“Wait,” Neil said. “Do we have to stop?”

Andrew pressed his thumb to his bottom lip. He couldn’t stop thinking about the weight of Neil’s mouth against his.

“Andrew,” Neil urged. Andrew gazed at him for a long moment before sitting down again.

“Yes or no?” Andrew asked. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it right.

“Yes,” Neil breathed, and leaned in.

Andrew hooked his fingers in the color of Neil’s sweatshirt as they kissed. He used it as an anchor, soft fabric brushing against his hand while he got lost in the waves washing over him. Time stood still and Andrew’s mind wiped clean. It was just him and Neil, no impending deadline looming over them for when Andrew returned his last book. For a moment, they were infinite.

When they separated, Andrew had to take a few seconds to relearn how to breathe before he opened his eyes. He wondered why they had stopped kissing until he saw the soft light reaching out for them.

“It’s morning,” Neil said. He swallowed roughly. Andrew’s eyes followed the movement of his throat and then skipped back to Neil’s face. His lips were red from kissing, his eyes blown. Andrew watched him form the words as he said, “Library’s closing.”

Andrew extracted himself from Neil, taking a few deep breaths to get himself together. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, fingers wrapping around his lighter and cigarettes. He itched to light one, but he didn’t.

“Hey,” Neil said. Andrew glanced at him. “I’ll see you tonight?”

Andrew didn’t respond, but he pulled Neil in for another quick kiss. He and Neil both knew that he would show up on the steps of the library as soon as night fell and Aaron was asleep. However much time he and Neil had, Andrew would not waste it.

~

Tilda was missing, of course. She had never been there for her sons; not when Aaron lost his first tooth, or when Andrew broke his arm climbing a tree, or when they both miraculously graduated high school. It made sense that she was missing now, when Aaron’s temperature was rising and there was no money left to buy more ibuprofen. He’d given Aaron the last of it an hour ago but he wasn’t getting better.

No money, no medicine, and no mother.

“Mom?” Aaron croaked. It was the first thing he’d said in a while, and it almost made Andrew jump. They both knew that Tilda would not show up, but Aaron seemed too out of it to really understand.

“She ran to the store to get more milk,” Andrew said. It was an old lie he used to tell Aaron when Tilda had gone off on another bender. He’d stopped making excuses for her when they were twelve and Aaron had to go to the hospital when he stopped breathing. Andrew didn’t know why he said it now. Maybe because he wanted to offer this last scrap hope to his brother and he knew that he wouldn’t last long enough to be disappointed.

Andrew pressed his hand against Aaron’s forehead, pushing his hair off his sweat-slicked skin to gauge his temperature. He didn’t have a thermometer, but he didn’t need one to know that Aaron was very, very sick. He was barely conscious, puffy eyes cracked open as he struggled to breathe. The pneumonia had settled in his lungs shortly after Andrew delivered the book, and now he was left to watch his brother deteriorate and wonder if he could have done something more.

Andrew had promised to meet Neil, but he’s barely been able to leave Aaron’s bedside for days. He leaned his head against the bedframe of Aaron’s bed and wondered if he’d ever see Neil again. Andrew supposed that he could leave the last book on the porch for Neil to pick up and take to the library. Their stolen moments together would have to be enough.

It was well into the night and Andrew was still sitting sentinel on the floor beside Aaron’s bed.

“Do you remember,” he whispered, “when I used to read to you?”

Aaron didn’t respond, his breathing too labored, but Andrew continued to talk. “I found a library. You would like it. It’s huge and filled with thousands of books and I’ve almost gotten lost in it a couple times. I’ll take you to it, when you get better.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if Aaron would make the trip. He clenched his jaw for several seconds, not wanting to think of his brother not making it.

“You have to get better, Aaron,” Andrew said and Aaron replied with a weak cough.

A loud thump on the window nearly made Andrew jump out of his skin. He glanced at Aaron before seeing what had made the noise. When he saw who was standing below, he shoved the window open.

“Hey,” Neil shouted up to him. “Grab your book.”

Neil came upstairs a couple minutes later with Matt and Dan in tow. Andrew stared at them, dumbfounded. “I already said that I’m not leaving Aaron.”

“Which is why,” Matt said as he eased Aaron up into a sitting position, “we’re bringing him with us.”

He lifted Aaron out of the bed like he weighed nothing to him. He probably didn’t, Aaron had hardly been able to eat anything these past few days.

Andrew gripped his arm to stop him taking his brother anywhere. “What the fuck will that do except make him worse?” he demanded.

“We reckon the library will heal him,” Dan responded. She raised her eyebrows at Andrew, giving him a stern look until he let go of Matt’s arm. “Now where’s that book?”

Neil darted to the window. “Quickly,” he said. “Before the sun rises.”

Three shapeshifting foxes, one book thief, and a dying nineteen-year-old made it to the library just as the first vestiges of night faded from the sky. It was in the lot Andrew had stumbled across so long ago, it felt like a dream.

Neil was right, the library was beautiful during the day. At night, the interior of the library was dark except for the old-fashioned lamps that hung between the bookshelves. But now light streamed in through the giant windows, catching all the golden details and making it shimmer. The light caught a stream of dust motes that twinkled like tiny golden stars, and dapples of light danced across the white marble.

The strange posse brought him to the self-help desk where Wymack sat. His eyebrows rose when he saw them, but he sat up when he saw Aaron’s limp form in Matt’s arms. Andrew placed the book on the desk between them.

“One book for two places in the library,” he said.

Wymack regarded them for a long moment. “That one still alive?” he grunted, nodding towards Aaron.

Dan pulled over a chair so Matt could set Aaron down. He was so still, and when Matt stepped back Aaron’s head lolled limply to the side. For one heart-stopping second, Andrew thought that they’d failed and his brother was gone. But then Aaron’s eyes blinked open as he let out a small groan.

He squinted in the light, eyes slowly moving around the library before focusing on Andrew’s face. “This your library?” he rasped. It was the most coherent he sounded in days. “Thought it’d bigger.”

Andrew let out a disbelieving huff. He could have been sick with relief. “It is big, asshole.”

Aaron laughed weakly. His face was regaining color by the minute and he didn’t look so gaunt. Andrew knew he was going to be okay. He exchanged a look at Neil, who gave him a small smile. Andrew almost smiled back.

“Welcome to Foxhole’s Traveling Library,” Wymack said. “It’s about god damn time.”

[jemej3m]

Dare You

anon asked:

If your still doing prompts... What about if Neil and Andrew are friends and Neil figures out that he likes Andrew and asks his friends how to woo him and then Andrew has to deal with Neil's terrible attempts at wooing. But everything neils doing is the same thing that Andrews been doing but in his own way? Idk, the idea just won't leave me alone and I'd love to see how amazing you could write it. Love your writing besides, it always makes my day :)

also on ao3!!

*

Neil and Andrew had been friends for 5 years when they have their first kiss. 

The context? Neil’s small-town friends had all found themselves at the same university. Obviously, they banded together. Obviously, there were parties. Neil’s not a party person himself, but he loved his eclectic family and wanted spend time with them whenever he could. He’d moved to Palmetto when he was 13 with his mother, and as the youngest of the group, watched as the rest of them moved on from middle school to high school, and then from high school to college. 

But now they were all back together again. 

Thus developed his (mild) enjoyment of Allison or Nicky’s chaotic fiascos, which were technically parties, just lacking any rhyme or reason. 

Andrew wasn’t a party person either: in high school, he, Neil and Renee would have movie nights instead, waiting for the rest of them to stumble home in drunken stupors. 

He still tagged along to these gatherings, though. Maybe because Neil and Renee were now commonly in attendance. Neil didn’t think that Andrew would come just for Neil, but he hadn’t worked out why Andrew had become so inclined to participate. Maybe because Aaron was there, and they were trying to patch things up with one another. Their mother’s accident had really put a rift between them. 

“Are you playing?” Allison demanded. “Neil, you’re playing. Renee’s managed to convince Andrew to play, so you’re playing.” 

“Fine,” Neil mused, mostly to appease the inebriated monster that Allison was. No attention was paid to him in these drinking games, mostly because he didn’t drink, but also because he didn’t do anything too unreserved. 

“Great!” she cheered, slinging an arm around his shoulder and brought him to the circle. He automatically took his seat next to Andrew, and felt his friend lean closer. 

Friend was a loose term. Neil and Andrew were almost attached at the hip: When Neil’s mom had died two years ago, Andrew snatched him away and got a spare mattress in his bedroom till Neil had enough money to afford rent somewhere. Andrew was the only one who knew every horrific detail of Neil’s violent childhood, and the only one who’d seen the scars left by his dead-beat dad. Neil was the only one who knew everything about Andrew, too. 

“Spin the bottle, Allison?” Dan leered as the girl put an empty beer bottle in the centre of the circle. Everyone was there. “We’ve got family members here!” Aaron mimed a retching action as Nicky laughed, clapping loudly. 

“It’s just to pick who has to do truth or dare,” Allison retorted, waving the bottle in Dan’s face. “You wanna go first, huh? I’ll pick out your dare for you, Wilds. A personal attribute!”

“No way,” Dan laughed, leaning back into Matt’s shoulder. The guy was half asleep: alcohol did that to him, sometimes.

“Fine, I’ll spin it,” Allison huffed. With a little too much vigour, she flicked the neck of the bottle, sending it spinning wildly. 

And of course, it had to land on Neil. 

“First of the night!” Nicky crowed. 

“Neil’s just going to pick truth,” Allison complained. “And make us all sad.”

Neil grinned at her. “Not my fault you grew up in a guilded bubble.” 

“Shut the fuck up. Choose!”

Neil hummed, cocking his head to the side. 

“Don’t do something stupid,” Andrew warned under his breath. 

“Dare,” Neil said. 

“Here we go,” his best friend sighed. 

“Fuck yeah,” Allison grinned. “What should we make you do, hm? We all know you can and will eat anything without even flinching, no clothes-off, no alcohol...” 

“Maybe he should go try and steal something,” Kevin slurred. “He’s good at it. Fuckin’ hot-wired a car once, for the hell of it.” 

“Fuck off, Kevin,” Neil managed, ignoring the incredulous looks that the others were giving him. 

“When the hell did you manage that?” Dan demanded. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” 

“He should kiss Andrew,” Matt mumbled, burrowing his face into the crook of Dan’s shoulder. No one heard him. 

“We should see if he can jump from the dorm roof!” 

“No,” Andrew said. 

“He should shotgun three Caprisuns,”

“Too easy!”

“Fine, five!” 

“He should kiss Andrew,” Matt repeated, sitting up and blinking the sleepiness away. 

The circle grew quiet. 

“Yeah,” Allison breathed, grinning wildly. She looked to Neil. “You’ve gotta kiss Andrew.” 

Neil glanced at Andrew, whose gaze was hooded as he glared at the been in his hand. 

“I’m not doing that if Andrew doesn’t want to,” Neil said. 

Andrew shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“See?” Allison said, gesturing wildly. “Pucker up, Josten.” 

“Well, this isn’t how I expected this to go,” Neil muttered. Andrew looked up at him, something making his eyes sparkle. “Tonight, I mean.” 

“Right,” Andrew said. “Well? Hurry up.”

Neil hadn’t kissed many people before. Andrew knew that all too well: he’d heard about all three of Neil’s dating disasters in meandering rants about expectations and Neil’s lack of interest in - well, anyone, really. 

He was overthinking this. It was just a kiss. 

“And no measly pecks, either!” Dan insisted.

Andrew didn’t care. It was just a kiss.

Neil felt all stiff and awkward, because he had no idea what he was doing, but it was fine, because Andrew was tilting his head and lifting up his hand to press his fingertips to Neil’s cheek, tilting up his chin a bit. Neil let him. 

When Andrew drew back, all Neil could think was that his lips were so soft. So soft. Everything about the kiss had been feather light, which wasn’t like Andrew at all. 

Neil learned new things about Andrew every day. 

“Happy?” Andrew said, facing the circle once more. Allison was cheering as Nicky and Aaron gave each other all-knowing side eye: Dan was clapping, and Matt was looking right at Neil with his head tilted to the side. “Now: go pick on someone else.” 

“Someone your own size, might you say?” Nicky teased. Andrew flipped him off. 

It had been a nice kiss, Neil thought. He didn’t know Andrew could kiss like that. 

“You with us, Neil?” 

Neil glanced up and found everyone looking at him. “Yeah? Why?” He frowned. “Did it land on me again?” Did he have to kiss Andrew again? He didn’t want to: not in front of everyone, at least. 

Wait, what?

“You’ve been spared for now,” Allison grinned. Neil flipped her off. 

And that was Andrew and Neil’s first kiss. 

*

Neil burst into Matt and Kevin’s dorm room - obviously, he and Andrew shared one, and Aaron was in the fancy dormitory for academic scholarship students - in a small frenzy. 

“Hey,” he told Kevin, who was sitting on his bed minding his own business. “Fuck off.” 

Kevin glared at him. “You realise this is my room?”

Matt took off his headphones, looking over his shoulder from the tiny desk he’d crammed in at the end of his bed. It was comedically small in comparison with his gargantuan frame. 

“Please?” Neil begged. “I need to talk to Matt.” 

“Why can’t I hear it?” Kevin demanded. “I’ve literally known you longer than anyone else. We used to watch each other shit in toddler potties, Neil.” 

That was true. Still, Neil needed Matt, his not-childhood friend. 

“Dude,” Matt said. “Neil and I are bros. Somethings are just bro to bro. You talk to Andrew about shit you don’t talk to Neil about, yeah? Y’all are like brothers. That’s different from being bros.”

“None of that made sense,” Kevin muttered, packing up his shit. He glared at Neil. “I’ll be in the common room. You’re making up for this by editing my thesis.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Neil said dryly, ushering Kevin out the door and leaning against it, feeling a little breathless. 

Matt jumped onto his bed, patting the spot next to him. “Come hither, child.” 

“I hate it when you say that,” Neil complained, dutifully crossing the tiny room and curling up into a ball on the mattress next to him. Matt patted him on the shoulder gently, though it still managed to send shocks right to his fingers and toes. Matt was just a big guy. 

“What’s this all about?” Matt pushed, when Neil stayed in a curled ball. 

Neil’s head flopped back, thudding against the wall. He swallowed, staring at the ceiling. 

“I like Andrew.” 

“Well, that’s good news,” Matt laughed. 

“No, Matt.” Neil glared towards the window. “I think I’m in love with Andrew.” 

“Yes,” Matt said earnestly. “I know.” 

Neil’s neck nearly snapped what with how fast he looked at Matt. “What?”

His friend snorted. “Dude, you’ve always been infatuated with him. We’re best friends, Neil. You and Kevin are best friends. Do you really want to go cuddling up with either of us, like you do with Andrew? Do you spend hours with either of us at a time, just talking? Do you dream about us? Have you told us everything about you?”

“How do you know I’ve done those things with Andrew?” Neil accused, even though he was completely right. 

Matt shrugged. “That’s how I am with Dan.” 

“We’ve cuddled,” Neil said weakly. 

Matt slung his arm around Neil’s narrow shoulders. It was like wearing a blanket. “Hell yes, we have. But that’s not what I mean.” 

“We don’t do that.” 

“Head out of the gutter, bucko. Remember that photo Allison managed of the two of you? Asleep on the couch? You were literally asleep on Andrew’s chest: one of his legs was hooked over your hip. That’s some serious canoodling, bro.” 

“You’ve analysed us that intensely,” Neil said flatly. 

Matt snorted. “It’s kinda hard not to. You’re both all over each other. I’d say it’s sweet if it wasn’t, well, you and Andrew.”

“So if you knew I liked him,” Neil complained. “Why’d you dare me to kiss him? Now I’m aware of it, and I hate it!”

“That was kinda the point,” Matt admitted. “Why the hell do you hate it? Love is a good thing!” 

“Need I remind you of my parents?” 

Matt shoved him gently. “Don’t start pulling the parent card. Neil, you’ve loved Andrew for years. And - well, I can’t really read him, no one can - I think he likes you back.” 

“He does not,” Neil insisted. 

“He does!” Matt sung. “You know what you have to do now, Josten?”

“No,” Neil said, sullen. 

“You’ve gotta woo him.” 

“Here we go,” Neil mumbled. 

Matt winked. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. Andrew will be head over heels for you in no time.”

*

“So,” Neil said, sitting on his bed. Andrew was reading a book, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He only wore them in their room, even though everyone knew Aaron had reading glasses and thus Andrew would have to wear them too. He had his armbands off and a pair of knitted socks on. Neil had become so keenly aware over everything that constituted of Andrew recently: it was driving him up the wall.  

Andrew looked at Neil from over his book. “What?” 

Neil shrugged. “I don’t know. Do you want to go somewhere?” 

Andrew glanced at his watch. “Now?” 

Neil shrugged again. 

“What’s this about?” Andrew asked, sitting up.

“Nothing!” Neil stressed. “Just thought it might be good to - get out?” 

“It’s a Tuesday evening,” Andrew said flatly.

Neil deflated. “We don’t have to go.” 

Andrew sighed. “Fine.” Neil perked up. “Where did you want to go?” 

Neil hadn’t thought that far ahead. “David’s?” 

“David’s,” Andrew repeated. “Neil, you don’t like diner food.” 

“Well, now I do!” He really needed to stop the hiccups in his voice. Stuffing his feet into his shoes, he yanked on his coat and shoved his keys and phone into his pocket. 

“Now I’m even more suspicious,” Andrew said, watching Neil’s erratic behaviour with mild amusement. “You’ve never willingly taken that phone with you unless I forcefully reminded you too.” 

He needed it to text Matt. “We all learn and grow,” he said breezily, escaping out the door. “Hurry up, I want coffee!” 

“It’s nearly fucking midnight,” Andrew growled. 

He skipped ahead till he arrived at the dorm’s parking lot: Andrew’s was in the corner, where it couldn’t be scratched. After his mother’s death he’d used his portion of her life insurance to buy the thing, but it hadn’t got him more than a heap of junk. He’d spent a whole summer fixing it up: Neil had watched him from the corner of his garage, a little mesmerised. 

Fuck, he liked Andrew so much. He could hardly contain it within himself. 

He switched the radio to Andrew’s favourite channel as they drove to David’s, an old diner on the corner of campus. It was run by a grouchy old man by the name of David Wymack, hence the name. He served the only pancakes Andrew would speak well of, and sometimes Neil could withstand the fruit smoothies. 

Andrew glanced over at Neil at the music choice - Neil almost always usually bickered with him about playing heavy rock when it got past 9 o’clock - but said nothing, continuing to drive. 

There was almost no one in David’s when they arrived, even though he usually shut at one. Neil was relieved for that: he didn’t feel like anyone watching him as he failed miserably at wooing Andrew Minyard.

Andrew got his pancakes and Neil decided to try the blueberry smoothie, sans ice cream. 

“What is wrong with you,” Andrew muttered. 

It clearly wasn’t going well. Neil grimaced and shrugged. “Dunno.” 

Andrew squinted at him. “Are you upset?”

“What? No!”

“Can you bozos stop wasting my time?” Wymack huffed. 

“Fuck you too, old man,” Andrew said. Wymack flipped him off and proceeded to put an extra scoop of ice-cream onto Andrew’s plate. Their relationship was baffling, especially after Andrew worked the summer here with Renee. 

They sat at a corner table, a little ceramic jug with plucked daisies plonked in the centre of the red-and-white chequered table cloth. 

“You seem jittery,” Andrew said. 

“I’m fine,” Neil managed. Andrew reached out with his hand under the table to stop Neil’s leg from bouncing. The heat from his palm was addictive. Neil made a strange squawking noise, and Andrew immediately withdrew his hand. 

“You’re fine,” Andrew repeated. 

“Yup,” Neil insisted. Andrew’s pancakes arrived, so Neil tried to distract himself from the ruffled blonde hair and pale eyelashes and the freckles on his nose, sipping at the smoothie. Neil didn’t know what to do with that information. It was quite unnerving. 

They were done by half-past-twelve, when Andrew decided to get up and leave without warning. Neil - in a moment’s panic - took one of the daisies from the jug and hopped up after him. 

Andrew was leaning against his car door, lighting up two cigarettes. Moonlight shone down, curling in his hair and curving across his jaw. Neil found himself a little star struck. 

Andrew offered up the second cigarette and Neil took it from between his fingers with his lips, like he usually did. This time all he could notice was how close it put them, and the shape of Andrew’s lips. Now Neil knew what they felt like, too. 

This is ridiculous, Neil thought. 

“Why are you holding a flower?” Andrew asked. 

Neil looked down to where the daisy rested in his palm. He brought it up and tucked it behind Andrew’s ear. The tips of Andrew’s ears went very pink: he had to be warm in that large sweater of his. 

“Don’t know,” Neil answered truthfully, looking at where the daisy drooped down over the shell of Andrew’s ear. 

“Okay,” Andrew managed, though his voice was a bit strained. What if he was allergic to daisies? No, that was ridiculous. Neil would know if he was allergic to daisies. 

They finished their cigarettes in the quiet. Everything was so muddled. Neil just wanted it to go back to normal. And yet: he wanted to kiss Andrew. 

Fucking hell, he thought. 

*

“Back to the drawing board,” Neil announced, bursting into Matt’s dorm room again. Kevin wasn’t there, thankfully. 

Matt arched his brow. “Huh?”

“Date and flowers didn’t work. What the hell do I do?”

His friend hummed. “What about gifts? Is there something you could give him that’s romantic?” 

“He likes chocolate?” Neil hedged.

“Could work,” Matt acknowledged. “Or, you know, we could make him jealous.”

“Absolutely not,” Neil grimaced. 

“Just a thought.” 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Neil groaned, sinking into a puddle on the floor. 

The door opened as Kevin stepped through. He didn’t even pause, stepping right over where Neil had melted onto the floor. 

“Don’t mind him,” Matt acknowledged. 

Neil made an exasperated noise. 

“Have you always been so dramatic?” Kevin acknowledged. 

“Maybe you could recite a monologue to him,” Matt suggested. 

Kevin frowned. “Who?” 

Before Neil could shush him, Matt sung out “Andrew!” with a cheerful smile. 

Kevin signed. “Fucking finally. Everyone’s been waiting years for the two of you to sort yourselves out.” 

“What?” Neil sat up. “Are you serious?” 

Kevin shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Neil groused. 

“He’s trying to woo Andrew into liking him back,” Matt informed Kevin. 

Kevin frowned. “Why don’t you just tell him that you like him?”

“Because that’s mortifying?” 

“You’re such a horribly adjusted human being,” Kevin muttered. 

“He’s kinda right,” Matt acknowledged. “I just kept asking Dan on dates till she accepted.”

“No,” Neil hoisted himself to his feet. “I’ll figure it out. It won’t have to come to that.” He glared at both of them. “Thanks for nothing. Neither of you know anything about relationships.” 

“We are both in committed, loving, long-term partnerships,” Kevin pointed out. 

“Love you too!” Matt called as Neil stomped out.

*

Neil eventually developed a checklist. 

Spontaneous midnight date? Nope. Flowers? Definitely a no. Making him a mixtape? Not the right decade. 

Accompanying him places definitely didn’t work: Neil was late to all his classes for a week. Cooking for two also didn’t work, seeing as the only thing Neil could cook was 2 Minute Noodles. 

Chocolates was a moderate success, but it probably didn’t help the wooing cause. It didn’t help that they roomed together: Neil didn’t get much time to scheme, because neither of them were social butterflies, and their dorm room was their safe space. 

The only thing he thought could’ve been counted a success was when they decided to rewatch the last two Harry Potter movies together: Andrew yanked Neil over to his bed and they nestled into the corner to watch the films from Andrew’s laptop. Neil was so consumed by the thought kiss him kiss him kiss him that he barely registered either of the films. 

One month passed since Neil’s epiphany, then one and a half: It even got too the point that Neil jostled Andrew’s shoulder at another of Allison’s ‘parties’ and said “Remember the last time she made us participate?” to which Neil only received an odd look and stale silence.

He also tried to rig one of Allison’s silly games, giving Andrew a piece of paper that asked do you like someone? Andrew set the thing on fire with his lighter, and the dormitory nearly had to be evacuated.

Neil was beginning to lose hope. 

“You upset, Neil?” Renee asked, dropping into the chair next to him. He was studying in the library, one of the few places he knew Andrew wouldn’t follow. 

“Hi, Renee,” Neil said, sullen. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She twisted herself around to face him. “What’s up?”

“Can’t talk to you about it,” Neil mumbled, resting his head on his folded arms and glaring at the table. 

“You know,” Renee said, slightly amused. “I overheard something about someone being interested in Andrew recently.”

Neil sat up. “You did? Who?” He’d fight them. Not that he was possessive, or jealous. 

Renee laughed. “You, silly.” 

Neil deflated. “Does everyone know? I feel like I was the last one to figure it out.”

Renee patted his shoulder gently. “Almost the last one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Andrew doesn’t know.”

“Good,” Neil huffed out. “That’d be embarrassing.”

Renee shook her head. 

“He’s never going to like me back,” Neil mumbled. “I’ve been trying so hard, but he won’t notice.”

“He did mention you were acting odd, recently,” Renee acknowledged. 

Neil huffed. “Yeah, well. There’s no point in keeping it up, is there? Not if nothing will happen.”

“You know,” she said. “I always found clarity in honesty.” With that, she winked and slid off her stool. “See you around, Neil.”

“Yeah,” Neil muttered. “See you.”

*

Neil dressed quickly in the shower stall and hooked his towel over his shoulder, carrying his small caddy back to his room. He was wearing old pyjamas: fire-engine truck flannels with one of Matt’s oversized (or normal sized, for him) hoodies that went all the way to his fingertips. He shook out his wet hair as he traversed from the bathroom back to his dorm room and shouldered his way in, the door unlocked. That meant Andrew was back. 

And back, Andrew was: facing the wall, he was tugging off a turtleneck sweater and yanking on a t-shirt that Neil recognised as his: he’d already changed into grey sweats that were too long for him, hanging around the ankles. 

Neil slowly put his soap back onto his little shelf, hanging his towel on a wall hook. Andrew glanced over his shoulder at him, acknowledging Neil’s presence, before going back to unpacking from his day and readying for bed. 

Neil felt sucker-punched. 

“Andrew?” 

He glanced back again, brows furrowing at Neil’s strange tone. “What?”

When Neil couldn’t answer, he dropped what he was doing and came closer. His fingers curled in Neil’s collar, tugging him closer. 

“You’re pale as shit,” he commented. “Are you going to collapse?”

“I’m already falling,�� Neil joked weakly. 

“What?”

“What?”

Andrew stepped back. Dammit, Neil thought. “What the hell is going on, Neil? You’ve been acting fucking weird for ages, now.”

“I really like you,” Neil breathed out. 

Andrew froze. 

“I wasn’t meant to say that,” Neil bit out, folding his arms over his chest. “But I can’t get over it. Ever since we kissed I’ve been kinda losing my mind, and everyone’s told me I’ve liked you for years -” 

“Shut up,” Andrew said fiercely, stomping right up into Neil’s space, crowding him against the door.

“Um,” Neil mumbled, blinking. 

“You’re the worst,” Andrew hissed. “You’ve been doing all this shit because you like me? I thought you were working up to telling me you were leaving!”

“What?” Neil echoed. 

“Shut up,” Andrew complained. “You’re the fucking worst. I hate you.” 

And then he kissed him. Andrew kissed Neil, that is. It was definitely one of the best moments of Neil’s life, which wasn’t saying much, considering his track record. Still, Neil’s fingers spread out across Andrew’s shoulder blades as his hands grasped Neil’s jaw, kissing him for real, this time. 

Neil had been right: it was definitely better when there was no one else watching. 

Andrew’s shoulders were hunched over when he fell back, pressing his forehead to Neil’s shoulder. 

“You like me?” Neil asked, voice higher and breathier than he thought he could manage. “Since when?”

“I hate you,” Andrew retorted. Then, quieter, he said: “Since forever.” 

Neil’s hands pressed him closer: this wasn’t unfamiliar, the proximity, Andrew’s touch, breath wafting over bare skin. But the warmth encompassing it made sense now. 

“Okay,” he said. And then: “Me too.”

“Were you trying to woo me with 2 Minute Noodles?” Andrew inquired.

“No,” Neil said sheepishly. 

Andrew shook his head, tilting Neil’s head down for another kiss. Then he signed against Neil’s lips. “I hate you. So much.” 

Neil grinned.

*

HEEHEEE

[rainydawgradioblog]

a covidsation with mary claire

For the first Covidsation for autumn quarter, here is an interview I did back in May with Mary Claire, my dear friend and one of my favorite local artists. Mary Claire is a singer-songwriter based here in Seattle who makes “sad girl rock” (see: Mitski, Angel Olsen, etc.). I first met them through the DIY scene and was lucky enough to book them at the finale Red Room show, a house venue I used to live at and help run. As evidenced by the picture below taken that very night, seeing Mary Claire play live is a magical, mesmerizing, captivating experience. Often accompanied with minimal, but tonally-rich instrumentals, their powerful and hauntingly stunning voice paired with visceral, poetic lyrics transport you into another realm. I *highly* recommend listening to their album Phantom Limb, which you can find on your streaming platform of choice or you can snag a physical copy at Everyday Music on the Hill like I did! Last month, they also just released an incredible stop-motion music video for their song off PL called “I Don’t Like Drinking”, directed, edited, and animated by Barb Hoffman, which you can find here! Thank you Mary Claire for these thoughtful responses and for creating such vulnerable, beautiful art <3

Lola Gil: Tell me about your project. How has it evolved? Which artists are you most inspired by? How would you describe your sound?

Mary Claire: Hi hi I’m Mary Claire. I was never someone who was playing music since they were a little kiddo, it was something I picked up my senior year of high school. But pretty much everyone in my family has some amazing and weirdly specific aptitude for music, so I think being surrounded by that kind of allowed me to gather an eclectic, personal understanding, appreciation, and internalized feeling for music, so I never really took lessons or anything like that. I enjoyed and still enjoy that from the start, I was okay with the fact that I didn’t know “academic” theory and I just played with what feels and sounds right. And I still do that. So I played around with all those youthful punk feelings and had an angsty band in high school that was not bad for small town Sacramento. I think I learned so much from that and it gave me a flood of unhindered and unhinged confidence for recording, performing, maneuvering stage mechanics and technicalities, etc. Also it introduced me into the world of songwriting that I did for that band and for myself that just immediately poured out of me, which led me to what I’m doing now. I am extremely lyrically-focused and write mostly about lived personal experience that I surrender to and make extremely overly-wordy. I went from a solo act, to a bigger full piece crunchier band, to me and a piano player, back to a solo set, so I’m really just kind of evolving with my resources, the songs I’m currently living in and playing, and with what would bring everything to life most fully. 

I’m inspired by everyone, even if I don’t necessarily sound like them or listen to them all the time. Like, my adoration for incredibly angry punk music is what got me started in the creation of my own music, so that foundation will never leave me. Even though I won’t sound like IDLES or Shame or Pissed Jeans, their point of view and their devotion to cramming so many words into one breath is a place I also come from. We execute similar feelings in different ways. And though I currently am not anything like Yves Tumor, King Krule, or FKA Twigs, the layers in their stuff sends me so far. But I think lyrically and melodically, I pull inspiration from and sink most into Mitski, Sasami, Angel Olsen, Palehound, Big Thief, Bella Porter, Darci Phenix, Fiona Apple, Sufjan Stevens, Izumi, and Weyes Blood. 

Someone once said my tunes are “sad girl rock” and I think that sticks in a fun, quick way, so that’s what I tell people. But more recently, the stuff on my upcoming album I think is like a sad, fucked up, incredibly fast-paced nursery rhyme book (lol). I’m really excited for this album I wrote, more than anything ever. Also my good friend and twin flame Francis is helping me record it and is giving me a lot of knowledge and challenges and affirmations and inspiration. I owe a lot of this second album’s production and complexity him. There are a lot more people involved in the recording of this one, so it’s a lot fuller in a new and exciting and scary way.

LG: As an artist, how have you been affected by the pandemic? I saw most of your tour you had booked was unfortunately cancelled-- are you planning on rescheduling?

MC: Rescheduling feels so completely beyond me right now, so I am just considering it to be cancelled until things in the world really start to settle down to some degree of safety and responsibility. However, the silver lining in all of this ‘rona stuff is that it has given me a ton of time to recenter myself with my music and devote my own energy into recording and feeling the core of my upcoming album. I think when the world is moving so fast, it’s easy for me to feel like I’m behind, like other people are getting shit done faster and in a more “impressive way”, in a way that matters more or has more inherent value. So when we are all forced to stay at home with ourselves, not only does it remind me that all of those insecurities are completely not real and are in fact a delusion borne from a capitalistic-productivity-equals-artistic-worth-framework, but I also get time to actually enjoy and fine tune what I otherwise might have just thrown out into the ether desperately and prematurely in hopes to be current and up to date and ~with it~.

LG: Have you been working on writing any new tunes? Have you been involved in any other creative projects recently?

MC: When I was recording Phantom Limb, I wrote the majority of my next upcoming album, so while those songs don’t feel incredibly new, there is a ton of stuff I have yet to share and that I am so eager to scream to the world. It feels like some of the stuff I am most proud of making in my entire life. 

But since I left for Berlin to study abroad last fall to when I came back to Seattle this January, I really hadn’t written anything new. I think I had been going through a lot of personal and immense change and hard growth that wasn’t particularly inspiring, it just sucked and was intense and necessary, but sometimes all that bad stuff is not something you can just make art out of. Plus I had to just do something totally different and invest and surrender to techno and being a gross city Eurotrash gremlin and let that out cathartically. But recently, I wrote my first super new song in what feels like ages, and I’m so happy. I was afraid maybe I’d forgotten how to do it, but it’s pouring out of me again and I feel like me again. I have also been working a bit back and forth with a friend from the project World Peace. We just keep sending clips back and forth and weaving our separate projects together a bit, which is something I’ve never done and I’m having a ton of fun, especially because our music is so different. Besides that, I have some plans to work with another good friend Izumi after having adored them the moment I moved here. 

LG: How have you personally been dealing with the pandemic and the craziness that is 2020? What has your quarantine experience been like so far?

MC: I went home to Sacramento for a month and watched more TV than I had probably in my entire life. It was really good to see my family and siblings who I miss so much. But I came back to Seattle in April and since then have just been spending my days in a limbo of online school weirdness. But I’m so fortunate that I live with so many people who are all so unique, all of whom I feel are my best friends. So I definitely don’t get too bored:)

LG: What music have you been listening to during quarantine? What has been your go-to isolation album?

MC: Okay to be honest, when I begin to think of my next album and what it feels like inside of me, I make one single playlist with like hours and hours of songs on it and it’s the only thing I listen to for like a year. So I’m prone to listening to the same stuff perpetually forever and always, but I think I’ve always sort of been like that. It makes the feeling familiar. But since I’ve felt close to the sounds of my upcoming album for a long while now, I’ve actually pretty much been listening to what is my ~album 3~ inspo playlist, because I already feel that beast growing inside of me. I’m a planner. 

Most of the artists on those playlists are the ones I listed above in regards to who I feel are my biggest inspirations. But right when quarantine started though I would pretty much only play Man Alive!, I would just go through the whole thing and then restart immediately. When I was in Sacramento, my family had a rule I could only play it with headphones because it was literally nonstop, that’s just how I consume things; I take a bath in them until I feel every single part of what was made. But other than that, I’ve been bumping Peter Campanelli’s Pesto Baby and crying a lot about it, Darci Phenix’s (my best bud from Sac) Juniper Street which is some of the best songwriting literally ever, and Francis Farmer’s Bruised Fruit which is SO expertly recorded and thought out, I am so lucky he is my friend and wants to record my upcoming album with me.

LG: Arethere any spring shows that you were particularly looking forward to attending that got cancelled?

MC: Pretty much all of them imaginable. 

LG: How do you think the Seattle music scene is going to be like post-COVID?

MC: Hopefully, this can recenter us and remind us we’re all really really and truly in this together. It’s up to us to lift each other up and get each other on bills and spread the word and create community for those who need it most and for those whose lives rely on this art. Seattle seems like it is really good at that on a small scale, but once it gets to a little bit larger stage, it’s easy for people to forget where they came from, who supported them, and what should be at the forefront of our radars. I think shedding this cool guy persona and getting back to why this shit is so important and listening to/PROMOTING smaller artists who are making The Best stuff is something everyone could be reminded to do. 

LG: In this funky era of social distancing, how do you think artists can support each other during these weird and difficult times? How do you think social media is facilitating and/or inhibiting connection within Seattle’s overall creative community?

MC: I think people’s ability to make what seemed like such an immediate switch to social media music promotion and shows was really amazing. However, it makes me feel a bit hopeless and dystopian and sci-fi in a weird way. That being said, trying to resist the change has only proven to be detrimental to me and kind has come back to kick me in the ass. Like, I should not be turning down opportunities just because livestreams kind of freak me out in how foreign and disconnected they can appear to be. I’m no better than them, and it’s important I think to accept things where they’re at instead of pretending they’re not happening. 

That being said, I think everyone has been maneuvering with such grace and empathy and compassion for others in a way that I can really feel, and I hope that sticks around forever. 

- Lola Gil

[mistymark]

nct dream as classmates

renjun

carries like 346342 things in his pencil case

is constantly drawing in his notebook and textbooks

leans over to doodle in the margins of your pages

his notes are really messy tho

rolls his eyes at ur much neater, more aesthetically pleasing notes

but is always willing to give u coloured pens and pencils to keep to a colour theme

is probably shocked to find out he's top of the class and thinks its a joke

but boy is just smart af

but all his word documents are titled like ‘redox fucking reactions’ ‘what the fuck is a chloroplast’ ‘??????????’

sends u all his notes tho

texts u at midnight all the time for no fuckin reason

it always starts with ‘yo are u still awake’

and ur like ‘yeah whats up’

and then he’ll respond with the most RANDOM shit

like what goes through that boys head

‘do u think I should use yellow or orange for the next part of my project’

‘idk send me a photo’

‘no just pick’

‘uh yellow’

‘im gonna go with blue’

either rocks up to classes looking like a god or an absolute mess theres no in between

marches through the halls with his hair a mess and doesnt give a shit

lowkey terrifies the younger students lmao

but will help them out if they ask for it

jeno

good student

studies enough but doesnt stress that much

he's just here for a good time

throws snacks at u when u frown at ur work until u look up at him and smile

lowkey worried about ur mental health

that shy kid that everyone expects to be average at all his subjects but u catch a glance of his tests and theyre all A+

owns a planner

uses it

what

I know

keeps track of a lot of school events bc he has a lot of extra curriculars

tries to get u to join more

(no)

probably knows ur schedule better than u do

‘hey jeno what do u have next’

‘calculus’

‘...’

‘that means you have chemistry’

ur always yelling at him through the halls like ‘OI JENO WHERE U GOING’ to try and find out what subject u have next

walks u to classes even if theyre in the completely wrong direction to his own

you really only have study hall together

but u had a lot of classes in common last year and ur habits of studying together just carried through I guess

has really good fashion sense 

lowkey dresses like a fuckboi

donghyuck

sometimes you just wanna punch him in the face tbh

‘hey y/n can I borrow a pencil?’

‘do u have spare paper?’

‘can we share ur textbook’

but ofc u love him sm and he's ur study buddy

studying together mainly ends up with him lying on ur bed throwing a ball up in the air while u sit at ur desk and actually study

is so willing to quiz you with ur flashcards tho

beams so hard when u get something write while he's quizzing u

claims he’ll treat u to coffee afterwards but never does lmao

makes up songs and rhymes to help him remember formulas and equations

recites the quadratic formula song whenever u mention math (even if it has nothing to do with what ur learning)

always suggests going to cafes and parks and stuff to study then spends the entire time doing the opposite of studying

‘come onnn y/n u need to relax a bit’

texts u in the morning to ask u to bring him a spare calculator or something for a test bc he forgot his

claims u to be his life saver

probably has ur contact in his phone as ‘lifeline’ or something equally cheesy

really appreciates u tho

jaemin

literally the #1 study buddy

brings heaps of snacks whenever u study together

when its late he’ll text u and tell u to go to sleep

has every single study tip crammed into his head and regurgitates them all whenever u complain about having to study

furrows his brows when u say u didn't get enough sleep but doesnt say anything

he's probably popular af

flirts with the teachers and laughs when u elbow him to stop

soooo well known ?? like even people at other schools know him ??

has aesthetic notes tho

probably has his own studygram

wears soft sweaters to classes

literally just looks like he has his life in order

gets one bad grade and studies his butt off to improve

‘life is all about improving y/n we cant all be amazing at everything straight away’

keeps u sane tbh

like literally how has he not had a mental breakdown yet its the middle of the year

youve had four just this week

‘do u want me to bring u coffee this morning?’

chenle

studies with u all the time

but he doesnt actually study

he's just waiting for u to finish so u can go catch a movie or go out to eat

stays up late playing video games

*sips coffee* “I havent slept in six days”

doesnt even like the taste of coffee

all the teachers love him tho

like he's playful and cheery but is super respectful too

he's just really good w adults ?

sends u texts during class and u wonder how he hasn't been caught

probably has never had a detention

but has been close to getting one 1289823 times

that kid that carries around one 5-subject notebook and two pens and thats literally it

brings his own lunch but trades it for jisung’s lunchables

sneaks food off ur plate all the time in the cafeteria

smiles at everyone in the hallway

offers u a ride home as much as he can

or he catches the bus with you

and shares his headphones with u

jisung

probably that kid that takes aggressive notes in the back of the class

tells u to shut up during class (and its not so he can focus lmao)

tries to get all his work done in class so he has no homework

groans whenever the teacher gives u activities

makes a face whenever a new slide pops up on the board

lots of question marks in his notes

‘to find the derivative of an exponential, it stays the same?’

‘aerobic respiration occurs in three stages: ????, the Krebs cycle and the electron transport chain’

invites u over to play video games the night before a big test

‘its self care’

shut up jisung we all know u just need an excuse to hang out

the teachers convince him to sign up to be a tutor

makes u come to all his tutoring sessions

you go out to eat afterwards

and just chill on a park bench and eat food truck food until its getting late

offers u his jacket on the walk home

has really red cheeks that are ‘from the cold’

theyre not

[musashi]

1, 7, 11, 13 (pref one of ur more obscure fanfics), 16, 18, 30, 39!

what’s your favorite way to dress?

the slutty goth look i usually wear out! black miniskirts and mesh croptops. fishnets everywhere. 5 inch platforms. loads of jewelry. dat me.

what song is your aesthetic?

i mean if u want a song that sounds like how i look and act, probably skyhunter by dethklok. or na na na by my chem.

vague about your crush

she has a tendency to pick up words and phrases from the people she’s close with, she doesn’t notice but i find it endlessly endearing when she parrots my obscure phrases back to me. it feels like such a tangible way to know we’re connected, something i didn’t realize happened anywhere other than irl.

i always thought i’d find my eternal partner through a canoncall blog. hopeless romantic though i am, the idea of us just stumbling into each other’s lives seemed too beautiful even for me. i feel so stupid now, of course if anyone could make that kind of wonderfully poetic chaos happen, it’d be us. the fools with blood red across our hearts and rhymes on our tongues, a perfect pair. we made a promise to find each other in another life, long ago, and i’ve spent so long searching the earth since, it feels like i can finally rest. admittedly, i’ve always been bad at relaxing.

call me by your name was a bad movie but boy does that title resonate with me, now.

do you think a moltres can see the flames that crawl on its back? or do you think it can only see what’s in front of it, never knowing how brilliant it truly is? in any case, all i want to do is use my own brilliance for good--craft a mighty pillar of ice, shining and mirror-like. maybe, if i do good enough, my moltres can catch her reflection and realize who she truly is.

talk about an au or story you came up with

my harley fics are probably my most obscure? they’re all set in what i refer to as the ‘nettleverse’ which is wendyspeak for ‘heres a shit ton of headcanons and they’re 100% consistent across all my fic’

the first one is nettle, which is literally just a bunch of harley backstory i crammed into a story, about his beginnings as a coordinator and how he got his starter pokemon and how he used to be a completely different person from the harley in the show! 

the second one is cactus in the valley and it takes place right after where nettle ended. with harley’s debut in the series, and from that point on it becomes a retrospective about his inner workings and his relationship with may!!! 

im really in love with both those stories and they mean a lot to me. i’m actually banned from reading citv because i tend to have breakdowns over how hard i worked on it and how little attention it got xD;;

if you could pick any planet besides earth, where would you live?

this questions too vague for me!!! like. fictional planets? real planets but habitable? anyways i like earth

what animal would you keep as a pet, if you could?

KING COBRA

what instrument do you wish you could master?

drums!!! i play but i suck

earbuds or headphones?

i like both!!! but earbuds mostly

[thesinglesjukebox]

CHANCE THE RAPPER - I MIGHT NEED SECURITY

[4.64]

And we might need a better song.

Will Rivitz: Even two full years after its release, I still struggle with just how monumental a step back Coloring Book was for Chance The Rapper's artistic evolution. How could the man who characterized the convolutions and uncertainties of young adulthood so adroitly and poetically set all of those poignant observations aside in favor of an uncritical appreciation of the glories of fatherhood and a shallow nostalgia for how things used to be? I guess what got me was the album's unprecedented change of attitude: I would never in a million years have guessed that Acid Rap's nuanced self-criticism could have morphed into a Disneyfied version of itself not even three years later. In that regard, at least "I Might Need Security" does indeed have a precedent: this is the narcissistic and toxically insecure Chance we've all gotten to know since 2016. "I ain't no activist, I'm the protagonist" is consistent with the Chance who, when a poem he wrote for NPR's Tiny Desk last year was interrupted by the sound of an elevator, started again from the beginning, because the idea of continuing where he left off would have been inconceivable. "I donate to the schools next, they call me a deadbeat daddy" is consistent with the Chance who slid into a Twitter rando's DMs to tell them to "get off [his] dick" because the user had the nerve to say Chance's proposal to his baby mama may have come a few years too late to generate goodwill. "I'll make you fix your words like a typo suggestion / Pat me on the back too hard and Pat'll ask for your job" is consistent with the Chance who made MTV remove a review critical of Coloring Book because it wasn't well-suited to his tastes. (The review, which sums up my thoughts on the album better than most anything else I've seen, was reposted by the author on his Medium page.) At least he's being honest here. [2]

Maxwell Cavaseno: Interesting thing about Chance the Rapper's debut mixtape 10 Day: It wasn't good, it was fine. Besides songs like "Juke Juke" in which you could sort of see his more manic tendencies emerging, a lot of Chance's earliest material was mealy mouthed rappity rap that was adequate but ultimately boring. It's why Acid Rap, where he did find his voice, was so much more rightfully received and recognized. While Chance's excesses and tics have now become downright aggravating, it made sense that he went in that direction because as a straight rapper there's just nothing compelling to his plain lyrics and delivery. Apparently, you might need proof as well, and lucky for us Chance decided to provide such. [2]

Ryo Miyauchi: The Jamie Foxx sample is the only redeemable thing here with Chance throwing random fake-deep rhymes to a piano-led beat that vaguely channels The College Dropout in feel. It's a life update as a stopgap release between his album presumably in the works, and yet another reminder that Chance has been a hero to Chicago since Coloring Book. It's an exhausting point he keeps on reiterating. Will he lighten his sense of self-importance if we erect that statue he so craves to be built? [5]

Julian Axelrod: Chance's nice guy phase was never going to last. You can't be that rich and that famous for that long without a few compromises and some dirty laundry, and the distinctly Obama-era rap star has had a decidedly post-2016 descent. The Noname collabs gave way to DJ Khaled features; the label aversion morphed into Apple Music kowtowing; the social media savvy proved ineffectual in the face of fan criticism. So "I Might Need Security" presents a new Chance: bitter, prickly, his grin warped into an wary smirk. Luckily, this Chance is still a hell of a rapper, and even in the midst of a 45 degree heel turn he's bubbly enough to spit over a cheeky Jamie Foxx sample that makes no bones about his beef. I might actually like Chance 2.0 better than the original; he looks good with his back against the ropes and some dirt under his nails. But I'm predisposed to like any song that big ups Verne Troyer and clowns Rahm Emanuel, so take my opinion with a grain of celery salt. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: A mixed bag, just like everything Chance has done since mid-2016. Points in its favor: Chance announcing that he bought a news site in the second verse of a loosie, "I'm only 25 but I'm Motown 25," calling for Rahm to resign. Points against: all the woe is me, heavy is the crown shit, the Verne Troyer pun, half of his punchlines in general. And yet "I Might Need Security" still works, in spite of itself-- maybe it's just the Jamie Foxx sample, but Chance is channeling mid-2000s Kanye here at his most maddeningly likeable. [6]

Vikram Joseph: An airing of grievances and a settling of scores (some of them on a widescreen, political scale, and some which need Infinite Jest-level footnoting to comprehend), juxtaposed with Chance's laconic flow and a hazy, sun-bleached beat which almost drifts into "Drinking in L.A." at one point. The dreamy "fuck you" hook serves as microcosm for the song - there's anger here, but it's so palatable. [8]

Ian Mathers: Some of the content here is good, even possibly important. But I don't remember Chance sounding this outright halting in places before, and that sample really sounded like such a good idea they're just going to let it have the last 45 seconds of the track, huh? [3]

Alfred Soto: He's twenty-five ("Motown twenty-five"), expects to see a statue in his honor, and samples a Jamie Foxx routine's "fuck you." Relative to his modest talents, his ego annoys the hell out of me but not as much as his irregularly deployed sing-song: he can't decide whether to cram too many syllables per line or speak-sing the leaden moments. His good intentions scare me most. [4]

Stephen Eisermann: The problem with Chance is his commitment to telling us he's a good guy - the protagonist, even - without doing any of the work. He continues doing the same here, and even though he makes some good points while calling out some bad players (with shaky wordplay, at best), his lack of self-awareness is nearly as hard to swallow as his pride. [4]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: The cover of this single is a rendering of the Arthur's fist meme and the song is held together by a chipmunk'd Jamie Foxx sample. These things make "I Might Need Security" a smart PR move of a song: there's a clear link made between his happy-go-lucky personality and what's present here. He sounds more self-conscious than ever, well-worn to the point of actual aggression. When he finally takes the sample's lead and declares "fuck you," it's clear that he doesn't want it to read as anything other than acerbic. While this may sculpt a more complete image of who Chance is, it unfortunately sounds more labored over and tedious than the majority of his catalogue. Hearing Chance's straightforward talk-rapping recalls his poetry slam past--especially since it's coupled with a beat as static as this--and it doesn't particularly play to his strengths. As listeners, we're asked to primarily revel in the lyrics. When I do, it sounds like a whole lot of boring whining. Which begs the question, why would I want to listen to this? [2]

Nortey Dowuona: Smooth, chipmunk curse coos echo in the back as they hit the slack, soft drums, as purring, bulging bass then drizzling. Deep piano is lathered over as Chance snarls thin threats that bulge out of the cotton candy wool of the production. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[archliches]

eliza how do u understand shakespeare? i'm trying to read much ado about nothing atm but like... what are these,, words?? do you have like, any recommendations of which works to start with? thank u in advance!!

hey, this is a rad question! ty for asking me!

I’ve been reading/and performing shakespeare for a Long Fucking Time, so a lot of my understanding comes from practice? I actually still have a hard time reading Shakespeare myself if I haven’t seen the play, performed in it, or discussed it in a group... but I think I have some p good strategies and I’ll try to help you out as best I can.

I don’t know how new you are to reading Shakespeare, so here’s some really basic stuff to remember:

Don’t stop reading at the end of the line unless there’s a punctuation mark; the breaks are just a format related thing that I don’t really need to extrapolate on. Remembering this and reading accordingly keeps the sentences in tact and makes everything a lot easier to understand.

Shakespeare plays are largely written in verse, specifically iambic pentameter. Since iambic pentameter dictates the number of syllables in each line, Shakespeare loves to use contractions that don’t fucking exist to cram shit in (e.g ‘i / in, ope / open) You can usually look these up or use context to fill them in, though.

This is only semi-relevant, but Elizabethan English was pronounced with an accent that no longer exists, therefore a lot of words are meant to rhyme that don’t appear to (e.g move vs. love). Learning about this helps me clarify word choice sometimes, so here’s a link.

Always read with a pencil tbh, scripts are meant to be inked up, even if they’re classics. Ask questions and look the answers up, google words, just write “you dumbass!!” when ppl are stupid, you get it.

If a word is in brackets it means that line was fucked up in Shakespeare’s first folio and the words may or may not have been in the original document.

You think that’s a sex joke? It is. A bad pun? It is. Just be prepared for that.

NOW: idk if you’re reading Shakespeare for school or for kicks, but it seems like it’s for kicks, so here’s some of my advice:

Make sure to get an edition with a good glossary! My personal favorite is Folger Shakespeare; they’re cheap + accurate and descriptive in their translations. Also since our pal Will has been around forever there’s a metric fuckton of glossary references online, these ones look pretty good.

It’s pretty standard for editions with glossaries to have plot summaries at the beginning of each scene, but it’s a good idea to check anyway, since getting the gist of what’s going on beforehand helps keep track of what the characters are talking about.

Also, although Much Ado is a fun one, Shakespeare’s comedies in particular are infamous for having like 8 plots and 20 mistaken identities each, which can make things even more confusing at first; my cool teacher who’s a professional director + shakespeare nerd recommends Macbeth, since it really only has one major plot thread, and I think that’s good rec. too! (Macbeth is one of my favorites..)

I also asked my Cool Shakespeare Teacher for some more advice, here are some good tips:

If you have the means to see a Shakespeare play performed, go do that! If you don’t or you just aren’t interested, pirate a movie version and watch that instead! I know that for me personally seeing the play performed makes everything so much more understandable.. like u just have to remember you’re reading a script with zero (0) indications as to what’s going on on stage, so of course some shit doesn’t make sense. Plays are supposed to have visuals! Have a movie night and let directors who know about Shakespeare take care of it, just like those directors probably did originally lmao.

Again, online databases will save your life.

This is mine and also kind of silly but like… Shakespeare memes and stuff are actually really helpful. A lot of them are spot-on and seeing goofs put in a modern context is fun AND educational.

Sorry I kind of rambled here! I hope at least some of this is helpful… Also I’m always happy to chat about Shakespeare, so if you have any more questions / just want to chat about the play ur reading feel free to hmu! Thanks for the ask + good luck, I hope you enjoy!

[notconsolation]

migraine, screen, guns for hands, message man, hometown, oh ms believer, forest and!!! march to the sea💞

last one of these internet novellas I promise💞

Read at your own risk, folks. um, this isn’t a tw or anything it’s just long. I mean. maybe you’re triggered by that?

Migraine

this song may well have the most lyrics of any of their songs - certainly the most packed into a relatively short time. Like taxicab or a car a torch a death might be longer but they’re also actually longer songs, so they can be stretched out. migraine on the other hand is all crammed into a short span and also most closely echoes his vocal style from the previous albums, which is less open, more nasal, more heavily influenced by his accent and desperation. so yeah, there’s a lot more lyrics than usual to choose from, so. thing is, while I absolutely adore the imagery in the verses, and the catchy “sometimes to stay alive you gotta kill your mind”, and the entire bridge is so great and positive and amazing, I think my favourite part is:

“Am I the only one I know

Waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?

Shadows will scream that I’m alone”

BECAUSE for one thing it’s a question that comes up a lot for me because somehow I’m surrounded by people who are managing life pretty well, but also my favourite favourite part is the ‘shadows will scream that I’m alone’ because he screams a whole goddamn lot and often it’s that he’s alone and I love the fact that a) he screams in a chorus about screaming and b) sure, shadows scream that you’re alone, but so do you, so where do you make the distinction?

also: the way this one opens is so good. the vocoder effect on tyler’s voice has that quality about that makes you think it might be a harmony but it isn’t quite, it’s just his voice. for me, that sets up the theme of internal echoes and waging wars cause it’s sort of multiple layers of his voice bound within a single sound, so it sounds like there’s lots of different voices inside his voice, just like there are pain and voices in his head. but also the fact that the sound is cut off so abruptly means the silence makes them sink in, so you really LISTEN to the lyrics and the main theme as opposed to just hearing it.

THE LOUD DRUMS ARE EVERYTHING in this song they’re punchy and strong and hnng they make me feel like punching something (out of love). and the high synth is just piping out the tune that also start out a bit softer but then another one comes in and it’s more whiny (in a good way?) and incessant and plays out the background chords that are repetitive and cyclical in a very in your face way and actually makes tyler’s voice sound a bit higher than it is?  and the second chorus has super strong but slow drums that make the whole thing sound like it’s about half time from the verse but it’s not, but it allows you to linger more on ty’s voice. AND THE SYNTH MELODY IN THE SECOND VERSE is beautiful that’s all thanks it’s just such a nice addition and I freaking love how then the other one comes back in but only in the left earphone at first and BOY THE BRIDGE the tapping beat is just so goddamn catchy and perfect and the simple one layer harmony give me LIFEEEEE and his semi-screamed “am i the only one I knoooow” !!!! The. Way. He. Doesn’t. Finish. The. Last. Word. it makes you think that we’ve made it this far but we ain’t finished yet and also tricks you into saying we’ve made it this far because fuck yeah we have and when he stops and you keep saying it it’s like oh yeah shit we have well done us. also it just sounds good. pretty sure that’s more the actual reasoning behind it.

Screen

I’m a normie, this one wasn’t hard: “we’re broken people” cause . . what a goddamn fucking great cry to send up to the sky with your fellow flawed human beings trying to exist despite themselves. I could go into a musical analysis here, too, but this one is so simple and clean and my favourite came to me so immediately that I don’t really want to.

Guns for Hands

Answered previously

Hometown

This song This SonG THIS song. one of my first loves on bf. it’s occurring to me that maybe I like Bb more than I was aware of? anyway, the layers of vocal in this make me very happy and allowed me to connect to it straight away cause i was like HEy i do something like that sometimes (on a different level obviously). The way he sings the chorus makes me really happy because it’s sort of quite rounded and clipped and then the ‘shadow tilts’ bit is much softer and stretched (not even I know what I’m saying I think). this song always always always makes me think of driving through the desert at night listening to welcome to nightvale and then turning if off and climbing onto the roof and looking at the stars. also of trying to light a fire in the rain without too much shelter. that’s more because I was singing that song to try to keep myself warm at the time. Anyway, favourite lyrics. gotta be multiple ones again. first:

“Be the one, be the one,

To take my soul and make it undone,

Be the one, be the one,

To take me home and show me the sun,

I know, I know,

You can bring the fire, I can bring the bones,

I know, I know,

You’ll make the fire, my bones will make it grow”

I lovelovelove the bones and fire thing. I really really do. Likewise with the notion of making a soul undone. Jesus, tyler. tell me how you come up with this stuff because it’s magic. absolute magic. In a similar vein:

“We don’t know, we don’t know,

How to put back the power in our soul,

We don’t know, we don’t know,

Where to find what once was in our bones”

Souls, bones, fire …… boy knows the imagery-strewn path to my heart

Oh Ms Believer

So I know Tyler said he’d never written a love song really before tear in my heart but I beg to differ. This one and aircatcher. *sing song voice* just saayingggg. Anyway, while there are so very many things I like about this musically, from the isolated, reverbed opening vocals with that tambourine that makes everyone thing of winter because sleigh bells and all that, to the strings making the whole thing melancholy and just so very very pretty without doing that thing that movie soundtracks do when they overuse strings – wait this sentence had a point right? I mean other than how the instruments all echo and sound wintery? ah yeah, so this song is special to me because the instruments and vocals and lyrics work so well in harmony. He quite often has them almost opposing each other - not competing for dominance or anything, but there’s be a distinct and catchy tune playing on a synth and a totally separate vocal melody overlayed on it, and they work together to make a more complex sound, but in this one the way there’s not really a distinct background melody beyond chords means that the voice can echo its way into the corners and crevices of the song, too, like it has a place in every part of the song, and it’s so haunting and beautiful. So what I’m saying is that the vocals and instruments work really well together, and then we get to the lyrics, which AGAIn add to the atmosphere of the whole song because they reinforce the whole 'prettiness’ and coldness that you get in the sounds. like, literally EVERYTHING about this song shouts out ’winter’ except it doesn’t shout it, it whispers it into your sleeping ear while snow falls outside the window, and you get up to take a midnight walk with insufficiently warm clothes but you don’t care about the cold right now. So. favourite lyrics. couple of different ones that most poignantly add to this atmosphere of pretty ice: 1. “Your shaking shoulders prove that it’s colder, Inside your head than the winter of death” this hits me because it makes me think of someone I once knew. she was always cold and her shoulders always jumped out at you. 2. “My nose and feet are running as we start, To travel through snow” I love this part because running noses and feet are …… honestly idk maybe @edyluewho can explain what’s so special about the images because they use them a lot and it hits me right in the gut but I can’t explain why. this lyric is especially perfect in combination with its later counterpart echo though: “Please, take my hand, we’re in foreign land, As we travel through snow, Together we go”. Honestly, just. the story he’s telling. it’s so ethereal and somehow , ! hm idk it takes me back a while into my past and it feels very nostalgic and makes me think of walking across snowy fields and I love that in some ways

Oh, also the sleeper and weeper thing. honestly such a great rhyme and I don’t know why I’m as hung up on it as I am.

Forest

Answered previously

March to the Sea

Answered previously

OKAY i think that was the last of these thank you guys for sticking with me through this and if you want to ask more absolutely do, but now you all know what you’re getting yourselves into when you ask me musical things

Thanks for asking avia you’re a babe 💞💞

[thesinglesjukebox]

ALANIS MORISSETTE - REASONS I DRINK

[6.22]

"Habits (Stay Hydrated)"...

Will Adams: Alanis Morissette doing her own version of "Habits (Stay High)": better than you'd expect! There's a bit of melodrama -- the plonking piano; the "here we are!" that reminds me of "Alone"; too much reverb -- that undercuts the seriousness of the lyrics. Like "Ironic," the crux of the song is that it betrays its own title. The reasons in question are never given, and that's the point; when drinking becomes just another thing you do every day, there's no longer any justification needed. You do it because it's what you've always done. The song scratches at that terrifying thought, but not quite enough. [6]

Brad Shoup: That pounding piano! Thought Morissette and Alex Hope were giving us a Bareilles banger. But it settles into a circuit, content to support a typically wonderful, messy Morissette text. She draws the line between wanting and needing a drink, and all around this axis she plots these little asides about being Alanis: being rich and symbolic and an entertainer. When she hollers you can tell she's listening to Top 40 with a real curiosity; when she slams into the chorus you can hear Heart. [9]

Alex Clifton: I really love how the piano line sounds like it was stolen from a Sara Bareilles track, mostly because that's not what I ever expected from Alanis. In fact, if Alanis didn't have such a distinctive voice, I might've guessed that Sara Bareilles wrote this on a (very dark) bad day. Jagged Little Pill was such a landmark album in the 90s in part because Morissette is so good at channelling naked emotion through her voice, and while this doesn't sneer like some of her older material, it's still got some bite. "Even though I've been busted/I don't know where to draw the line 'cause that groove has gotten so deep" strikes me particularly hard, if only because I have my own finely-worn ruts of maladaptive coping skills. Reckless behaviour comes easy after a while. Admitting you're destroying yourself is harder. I can't tell if the jauntiness of this song is meant as a distraction from the content of the lyrics, or if it's ironically detached. Either way, it sounds good. [7]

Vikram Joseph: Despite the familiarity of the chord progressions and rhythmic piano jabs, Alanis Morrisette's longstanding disdain for rhyme schemes and her bracing vocal high-wire act -- belting this out like a showtune -- keep "Reasons I Drink" sounding slightly off-kilter. She's still such an unusual lyricist -- a lot of her lines here are blunt to the point of being slightly uncomfortable ("nothing can give me a break from this torture like they do") but then there's a peculiar, dramatic declaration about buying a Lamborghini, and intonation that makes "sick industry" sound like "sick in the street", and a chorus that crams in "long overdue respite" for, really, no good reason. In both its strangeness and familiarity it feels a bit like a '90s anachronism, but for better or worse it's definitely her anachronism. [6]

Leah Isobel: I believe that pop music is inseparable from its context. A great pop song pinpoints its performer in that moment and then transcends it; through performance, phrasing and word choice, its images and ideas grow bigger until they become abstract symbols. It's tempting to write a song in those big, abstract platitudes, but the specificity has to come first or else it's meaningless. Here Alanis demonstrates that it's also tempting to only write the specifics, and in doing so creates a piece of musical theatre without a play to hang itself on. [5]

Ian Mathers: Another discovery on our mutual march to inevitable death; it is possible to be genuinely happy to see an artist from your earlier years still doing their thing and to discover their thing is no longer anything you yourself need to listen to, and these things don't contradict each other at all! [5]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: The lyrics are far from her most memorable works, but her voice flagellates enough to create large, theatrical swells. She justifies the staid piano chord plinks, transforming the song into a martial anthem for the adult contemporary set. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: The 2010s-now-2020s are bad -- blistering take I know -- but when did they get so bad that an alarming number of musicians are finding escapism, or at least career pivots, in the most saccharine, jaunty piano stomps that sound remarkably like Emeli Sande's "Next to Me"? To be fair, "Reasons I Drink" also sounds a great deal like Heart's "Alone" and fun. -- and if we're really being honest and damn the connotations, Amanda Palmer circa Who Killed Amanda Palmer -- but what it doesn't particularly sound like is an Alanis song. It's written like an Alanis song, obviously. The subject -- drinking being crushing and fun, the music industry being crushing and more crushing, millennial burnout as experienced first by Gen X -- aren't novel, for Alanis or anyone. But what other songwriter would crash the word "medicated" out of the scansion, or decide at the last possible minute to throw into her chorus something about getting lit, or generally grover together so many bad writing habits that the result is an unmistakable individual voice? (No, the answer to that last one isn't me.) But it's not an ideal Alanis song, not least because Alanis at her peak, when writing a song called "Reasons I Drink," would produce an itemized list of 55. [5]

Josh Langhoff: These are 21 things that I want in an Alanis song. 1) Indifference to rhyme. 2) Indifference to making syllabic stresses line up with musical accents. 3) The sense that this "indifference" is actually a formal choice. 4) The sense that these formal choices are actually, partly, trolling. 5) Along those lines, heretofore unsingable phrases like "give reprieve" and "long overdue respite." 6) Likewise, weird slang ("lily pad"???) that I'm guessing nobody else uses but maybe I'm wrong because Canada. 7) Vocal hectoring. 8) Also braying. 9) Several different vocal timbres per song. 10) But at least one of them should be obnoxious, they can't just be variations on breathiness. 11) Gigantic hooks... [Note: So far so good!] 12) ... that don't sound like anyone else's. (I'm hearing Heart's "Alone" in the chorus, and my wife spotted Emeli Sandé in the piano groove.) 13) If they do sound like someone else's, at least the possibility that such copycatting poured forth as part of the same unfiltered spew as the words. 14) Vocal treatment that doesn't obscure the word "respite" because we pay to hear that shit. 15) I mean come on -- does she have to sound like she's trying so hard for a Hot AC add? 16) Still, I love that her idea of retail therapy is buying a Lamborghini rather than a car anyone in the past 20 years has thought about. 17) Evidence that we're around the same age and level of self-awareness. 18) The sense that she's trying too hard to fuck with structural paradigms. 19) Motherfucking lists, baby! 20) A whiff of unrealized ambitions, because that's just Life. [8]

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