#that the lonely can seep into anything else relating to any other fear

[navree]

the magnus protocol getting a mini hiatus means that my mind is trying to overcompensate by going back to brainrot mode and i am therefore once again back on my "the lukas family is probably one of the most powerful groups of people in that entire universe" bullshit

[pedros-mustache-main]

baby, it’s cold outside

summary: for too long you’ve been cooped up. perhaps they will be the ones to change that...

word count: 12k

warnings: mostly tropey-wintery goodness, however: accident related trauma and nightmares, language, innuendo, brief suggestive content, absolute timeline inaccuracy but i don’t care!!!!, could also be described as queen x reader but we’ll ignore that

a/n: this is a little different from my normal, but i hope you enjoy this slow and gentle fic as much as i do. happy holidays, dear ones!! 

also thank you to @dancingdiscofloof​ for your help with this one! (if you aren’t reading rove’s deaky fic, you are sincerely missing out.) 

december, 1981. montreux, switzerland. 

day zero.

in the aftermath of the accident, the cabin in the alps has been your saving grace. though the home is overly large for just one person and a cat, you cannot imagine living anywhere other than here. it is a balm to your weary soul, having nursed your broken bones and shattered spirit better than any modern medicine. it is here you began again, rising like a phoenix from the ashes, and it is here you will remain—happily.

you cherish the cabin and all the memories etched within the handcrafted walls and sturdy pine beams. each morning as you make your tea and scratch behind marmalade’s ears, you hear the laughter of your childhood echoing through time and space to reach you in the here and now. each evening as you shut off the lights and secure the doors, you smell your grandfather’s pipe smoke, though the artifact is tucked away on the fireplace mantle, now cold with neglect.

your mother, father, grandfather—they’re all gone now. it’s just you and marmalade. you’re content, though, even as you crawl in bed and snuggle beneath the covers night after night and wake up morning after morning with the promise of another solitary day.

truly, the isolation does not bother you. after the accident, it’s people—crowds and gatherings and meetings—who have become the irritant. wherever people congregate, so too does danger. you’ve experienced your fair share of hazardous situations, so you prefer the quiet mountainside now. there’s less peril, less chance for heartache.

each year, after the last of autumn’s leaves have fallen and snow begins to blanket the alpine hills, you tuck yourself away in the cabin until the end of winter. the larder in your basement remains well-stocked with all the essentials—human, feline, or otherwise—and the weeks come and go without issue. you play your records in the afternoons to fill the silence and watch the television as you eat your suppers. marmalade makes for a good conversational partner when the loneliness creeps in—and it does on occasion. still, the orange tabby cat, fat with laziness and all the love you have to offer, tilts her head when you speak and meows softly when you lift your eyebrows in expectation of a response. she’s all you need, really; but the infrequent calls you have with your boss do make up for your lack of human interaction. editing manuscripts can be done anywhere, and, so long as you meet your deadlines, your boss doesn’t care where you get the work done.

early in december, on a dreary evening, the radio encourages all listeners to batten down the hatches in preparation for a nasty snowstorm due to sweep through the mountain and the valley overnight. you look away from your mug of steaming hot cocoa and shoot marmalade a grin.

“sounds fun, yeah?” you ask her, wiggling your eyebrows.

from her place on the yellow laminate tabletop, marmalade pauses her grooming session. her paw hangs midair, the tip of her tongue hanging over her small chin. she drops her paw as you move to curl your hand beneath her stomach and lift her to your hip.

“i know you like snowstorms just as much as i do,” you say.

leaving the kitchen in favor of the open living room, you nudge the overhead light off with your knuckle. it flickers before shutting off, but soon leaves the cabin illuminated solely by the lights of the christmas tree in the corner. the cocoa trembles along the lip of the mug, so you step gingerly. your socks snag against the faded carpet, but you make it to the sofa in one piece. marmalade hops from your arms and curls herself on the far side of the couch, her tail tucked snug around her body.

knees against your chest, you sip your cocoa and bounce your eyes between the christmas tree and the bay window overlooking montreux’s city-center at the base of the mountain. both the lights of the tree and the lights of the city twinkle in the darkness, rivaling any of the brightest stars. tree branches scrape against the roof, following the path of the wind, and, if you squint hard enough, the first of the snowstorm’s flakes are visible through the pale beam of the floodlight outside.

a sigh rattles your chest, and you smile.

it’s a quiet life. some might say a lonely one. but even if they’re right, you wouldn’t change it.

not for anything.

day one.

you wake up late.

normally, you rise with your alarm and keep to a consistent schedule. it helps with the monotony of your life and stops you from wasting time lounging in the comfort of your bed. some days, though, you allow yourself a few extra hours, and the morning after a snowstorm seems the perfect day to sleep in a tad longer.

it reminds you of childhood—the mornings you listened to the radio beneath your bed covers, fingers crossed your school would be announced as closed due to inclement weather. when the inevitable joy came, you would snuggle back in bed; though by then, the glee of a surprise day off of school was all too much too bear, and you were up and moving within moments.

you smile to yourself at the memory, at the way your mother made pancakes every snow day, without fail. you miss her pancakes.

when marmalade pounces onto the end of your bed, meowing sharply, you sit up. “what? are you hungry?” twisting, you glance at the analog clock across your bedroom. “it’s only nine, marmy.”

she presses your foot with her paw, meowing again.

“fine.”

slipping from bed, you cross to your dresser and drag a brush through your sleep-rustled hair. as always, a sliver of cold seeps in through the skylight overhead, and you lift your face, smiling at the sight of snow obscuring the heavens. your smile only widens as you hurry down the stairs, elbows fighting against the arms of your robe.

the world is drenched in snow. you trip to the bay window, press your hand against the cold glass, and grin. a layer of fluffy white powder clings to every nook and cranny of the mountainside. hints of evergreen peak through as the only spots of color in an otherwise white world. even the sky reflects the dazzling brilliance of the snow, and you have to blink rapidly to keep from going blind.

marmalade’s bell collar jingles as she makes her way down the stairs. she stretches at the bottom step, meowing again when she sees you.

“okay, okay, miss impatient.” you shake your head as you turn from the window. “we have the whole day, you know? ‘s not like there will be much else going on around here.”

you turn on the radio as you enter the kitchen. a soft melody—“merry christmas darling” by the carpenters—sets you to a gentle sway as you pour marmalade’s food and set about making your own breakfast.

karen’s warm voice distracts you from the first knock on your door.

keeping marmalade away from the bacon in the cast-iron skillets hinders you from answering the second.

the third, though—the third knock makes you scream.

it’s not so much of a knock as it is a hand slammed against the outside of the bay window, dark eyes peering into your sanctuary, winter cap pulled tight over any discernible features save a thick mustache. you screech, dropping the spatula in your hand to the floor. marmalade drives for the grease-covered utensil, and you trip over her in your haste to hide in the narrow closet beneath the stairs.

perhaps he hadn’t heard you? perhaps he hadn’t seen the streak of multi-colored fabric as you rushed across the living room in your purple robe and bright yellow socks?

who are you kidding? the bay window offers a glimpse into the majority of your home: the small living room, equally as small kitchen, stairs leading to the bedrooms on the second floor. he probably even saw you fling open the closet door and close it. if he did make it inside, he wouldn’t have to search for long in order to find you.

you press a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut, at the sound of another bang against the door.

this—this was why your aunt in sheffield had pleaded for you not to take the cabin after the accident. she was so afraid you’d be murdered by a crazed hiker or wayward bear. you’d laughed at the thought back then.

but here you are now, cowering in your closet between a hoover and a winter coat, preparing to make her worst fear a living reality. you only hope marmalade enjoyed the bacon grease as a parting gift.

a muffled voice drifts through the walls after a beat of silence. “for god’s sake, we know you’re in there!”

we? your heart rate triples at the simple, two-letter word. we!

drawing in a deep breath, you root around in the darkened closet for a makeshift weapon. this is your home; you will defend it. or at least do your best to scare off the intruders with whatever fake bravado you can muster.

finding nothing, you inch out of the closet and crawl on your hands and knees toward the kitchen. you pause long enough behind the sofa to peer over the arm. another man has his face pressed against the window, his eyes narrowed as he looks over the room. he looks to his right, long curls bobbing with the motion. his mouth moves, but only garbled sounds meet your ears. while he’s distracted, you crawl into the kitchen and grab the cast-iron skillet. it feels hefty in your palm, and you judge the weight with a turn of your wrist. it could do some serious damage if handled correctly. flicking the oven off and dumping the burnt bacon in the trash, you curl both hands around the handle of the skillet and slink toward the door.

no one stands before the window as you make your way through the living room. no one bangs against the door. yet you can feel their presence on the other side of the flimsy piece of wood separating you from them.

you swallow hard as you grasp the cold doorknob, twisting the lock to the side.

steeling yourself, you grit your jaw, and, in one quick motion, throw open the door, brandish the skillet overhead, and roar like a lioness.

“oh fuck!” one of the four men on your front porch stumbles backward in surprise. his arms pinwheel as he loses his balance and drops to his backside on the snowy ground.

the one with the cascading curls can only stare at you with wide eyes and parted lips, stunned to frozen. for his part, the one with the mustache shields himself behind the one with the curls, shouting for someone named deaky to get her to understand.

it is the one with the straight, grecian nose and storm cloud eyes—deaky, you surmise—who speaks to you first. he holds his arms out in defense, his long fingers splayed wide. he glances between the skillet over your head and your face.

“we’re not here to hurt you,” he says. his voice is even and calm, though more unique than you would have originally guessed. you thought all bad guys had deep voices. his voice is too pleasant, and it sets you further on edge.

you deepen your frown, drawing in another breath. “isn’t that what they all say?”

he frowns. “i don’t know who they are.”

“thieves. murderers. criminals!” you lift your skillet slightly higher, and he flinches backward, hands raising a fraction. “i’m not afraid to use this!”

“i don’t doubt it!” he shakes his head, and his eyelashes flutter when a wayward snowflake catches in his vision. “really, though, we just want to use your phone.”

“my… phone?”

with an exasperated sigh, the blond who’d fallen to his rump in the snow shoulders past deaky. “yes, your phone. you do have one, don’t you? we need to get down this godforsaken mountain before our tits freeze off!”

deaky twists and scowls at his friend, hissing, “roger!”

roger waves him off with a dark look. “deaky, i nearly broke my ass with that stunt she pulled. i’m cold, my trousers are wet, and i want to go home. you’ll have to forgive me if i’m a little terse, you twat.”

the one with long curls and sharp facial features gently moves roger out from under deaky’s increasingly cold stare. he places himself between the pair, towering over the other two. despite his height, he holds his shoulders in a noticeable hunch, as though attempting to make himself smaller. he offers you a wry grin.

“sorry for startling you,” he says. his voice is soft and decidedly unthreatening; your tight hold on the skillet goes slack. “i’m brian. these are my friends—roger, john, and freddie. we’re kind of in a bind, and we’d really appreciate it if you lent us your phone. just for a quick call. then we’ll be gone.”

you glance between the foursome. though roger’s face is still shadowed by frustration, they seem harmless enough. maybe a little cranky, but mostly harmless.

unless, of course, that’s what they want you to think.

your aunt’s warning that you trust too easily plays in the back of your mind, and you consider that she might be right. you bite your lower lip, prepared to turn them away, when marmalade jingles her way into the conversation. she curls around your ankle, head lifted to stare at the four men on her porch. the bell around her neck sounds as she turns from side to side around your leg.

“you didn’t say you had a cat!” the one with the mustache—freddie—coos in delight. he crouches, clicking his tongue to gain marmalade’s attention. after a beat of hesitation, she inches forward to sniff the proffered hand. you watch, and when marmalade nuzzles her nose against freddie’s palm, the tension in your shoulders dissipates.  

you sigh with a conciliatory smile. “well, if she trusts you, i suppose i will too.” stepping to the side, you nod to the living room. “come in and warm up.”

the men mumble various forms of gratitude and shuffle past you, sure to stomp their snowy boots against the welcome mat outside the door. they crowd around the low fire in the fireplace, and you hurry to toss a few logs on the dying embers. deaky takes the fire poker from your hand when you grab it from its place nestled along the extra pile of wood. his fingertips skim your knuckles, and you’re struck by how warm he feelings despite the weather outside. you meet his gaze, your eyes wide as you wait for him to explain.

“i can do that,” he says. “maybe you can show brian the phone?”

now that he’s shed his overcoat, you note the way his pale blue sweater brings out the pale blue of his eyes. he really is quite handsome. they all are, and it’s been a long time since you were in the presence of a handsome man, let alone four. who can blame you for being a little tongue tied?

you blink when you realize you’ve stared a bit too long. heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn away, scanning the small room for brian. “right, yes. the phone.”

you find brian stood between the living area and the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, stiff while his counterparts make themselves comfortable. roger lounges on the sofa, his legs spread toward the fire. freddie sits at the kitchen table, marmalade snuggled beneath his chin. and with the fire now flooding the cabin with warmth, deaky drops to the single armchair facing the kitchen.

you motion to brian’s wet coat. “would you like to take your coat off, brian? you look awfully damp.”

he shakes his head. “i’m alright.”

you decide not to press and instead point to the phone attached to the wall. “the phone’s just there. do you need a number? or do you have what you need?”

“actually, do you have a number for the gondola lift?”

“yeah, of course.”

you step past him to pull open a junk drawer. apart from a winding, perilous road, the gondola lift is the only way down the mountain for the few people who live mountainside year round.  you’ve gotten to know the owner and operator—jimmy schmits—well after your several years living in the cabin. he or someone on his staff is only a phone call away should you need travel assistance, and you prefer the gondola ride to taking your beat-up car down the rocky, poorly paved road.

you hand brian a small, cardstock business card. “that’s the number there.”

he glances down then gives you a tight smile. “thanks.”

turning to allow him what privacy you can in the cramped space, you glance around the room at the three pairs of eyes staring back at you. the laugh that escapes from behind your lips is decidedly nervous, wavering and forced. “sorry. i just—this is a bit weird for me. i would have dressed the part had i known people were coming over.” you suck in a breath and nod to the refrigerator. “have any of you eaten?”

roger opens his mouth to say something, but deaky hurries to speak first, leaning forward in the armchair. “yes, thank you. we ate early this morning.”

roger’s face contorts to a frown, and, in what you assume is supposed to be a surreptitious move, deaky kicks his friend’s shin to silence any further protest. you look away when deaky’s eyes find yours again, his gaze apologetic.

“i’ll just make some tea, then,” you mumble.

the quiet in the room is thick, save for brian’s soft voice coming from the hall as he talks on the phone. you keep your back to the three men as you prepare a kettle for tea.

you spend much of winter in solitude, and truly, you like it that way. this sudden influx of company has you on edge, especially considering your less-than-becoming attire, bedhead, and sleepy eyes. you don’t know what to say to alleviate the discomfort in the room, aren’t really sure if it’s your job to make them feel comfortable.

really, you aren’t sure about anything this morning.

as you wait for the water to boil, you lean against the kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. the fuzzy neck of your robe rubs against your chin as you duck your head, and you study the worn tile floor beneath your long socks.

“what’s your cat’s name?”

you look up. it’s the one with the mustache—freddie. his brown eyes are warm, and he scratches beneath marmalade’s chin as he waits for your answer. for marmalade’s part, she purrs happily in his arms, seemingly more comfortable with your guests than yourself. “marmalade,” you say.

freddie grins, and you can’t help but find yourself smiling back. “perfect name. yet we seem to be missing one important thing…”

“what’s that?”

“your name. if we’re going to intrude upon your cabin and make you uncomfortable, i think we should know who to send the gift basket to once we’re rescued.”

your brow pinches slightly in confusion. freddie speaks with a certain air that you can’t quite place—one of regality, you think. you glance at deaky across the room, and he moves his eyes to the fire as he gnaws on his lower lip.

you look back at freddie, give him your name, then say, “and you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

“please,” freddie deadpans. “i know discomfort when i see it.” he lets marmalade go, who jumps to the floor, padding her way from the tiled kitchen to the carpeted living room. he stands from the table and points to the stove. “the kettle is ready, love.”

you hadn’t heard the sharp whistle, so engrossed were you in your own thoughts.

“oh!” spinning on your heel, you flip the stove-top off and remove the kettle, the whistle dying to a light trill. freddie arranges a ramshackle collection of mugs along the counter, pulled from the spinning rack in the corner. “thank you,” you whisper, as you divvy out the hot water and he drops the tea bags into the mugs.

freddie gathers the milk and sugar, making himself both useful and right at home, which you find you don’t mind too much, though it surprises you how he moves with such ease and command around a home not his own. he must be comfortable anywhere and with anyone, and you envy him that.

he carefully sets the tea tray on the low coffee table in the living room. “how do you take your tea, darling?” he asks you, bending over, his ass pointed near the fire, as he makes to prepare your cup.

you skirt into the living room, shaking your head. “oh, you don’t have to—”

he arches an eyebrow, and his voice is firm when he speaks. “how do you take your tea?”

with a small smile, you lower yourself beside roger on the couch, careful to keep a large space between you. “more sugar than milk, please.”

freddie prepares your cup then passes you the steaming mug. your smile widens in gratitude as you take the warm ceramic from his hands. he prepares his own tea before dropping to the brick ledge of the fireplace. he waves his hand in dismissal at roger and deaky.

“you two make your own,” he quips. “you’ve thoroughly pissed me off this morning.”

from behind the lip of your mug, you pull your mouth into an amused line. your eyes dart to deaky, who is bent forward, frozen as he reaches for a mug of tea. he skewers freddie with an unamused look.

“this isn’t my fault, fred,” he says.

from beside you, roger’s deliciously high voice pipes up. “nor mine!”

“no, of course it isn’t your fault, roger. we wouldn’t dare accuse you of—”

before freddie can finish his sentence, brian returns from the side hall. you shift, turning your head along with the others to hear what came of his conversation with the gondola lift owner.

brian rubs the back of his neck, his eyebrows tilted upward in apology. “well, the gondola is down today.”

“all day?” you speak a little too quickly, and you wince, dropping your eyes to the pale liquid in your mug.

brian nods. “yeah—at least until tomorrow. i guess a tree fell after we were dropped off this morning and struck a line on the lift. and the road isn’t clear, so… we’re stuck.” he glances between his friends, the hunch of his shoulders growing as the weight of their predicament sets in.

“well…” you start. you lean forward to place your tea on a worn coaster. “i certainly won’t turn you out with nowhere to go.” for what feels like the tenth time this morning, you draw in a deep breath through your teeth to steady yourself. “i suppose you lot can stay the night, then. that is, if you want to...”

there’s a beat, a moment of heavy silence, before brian says, “we couldn’t impose like that.”

you frown. “where else would you go?”

roger snorts. “brian would sleep beneath a tree if he thought it might make your life a little easier.”

you glance at roger, uncertain if his words are more jest than jab. the half-smile on his face fades under your questioning gaze, and he shifts. “i just mean,” he continues, “that brian is the most chivalrous out of all of us. not that we have any ugly intentions—”

“roger.” it’s deaky this time, and he sounds more than a little perturbed. “stop talking.”

you hesitate before explaining your offer further. “it’ll be a squeeze,” you say. “but we can make it work. i would rather you spend the night here then wander around in the cold and freeze to death. my closest neighbor is four kilometers off, and she doesn’t have electricity. you won’t be able to find her cabin if it gets dark.”

freddie shivers, though you’re sure his backside is nice and toasty from where he sits close to the fire. “oh good god,” he mutters, bringing his tea close to his mouth. “you people are insane.”

deaky catches your eye, and his brow arches. “if you’re sure…”

you nod. “i’m sure.”

“thank you. honestly, you’re a life-saver.” brian’s shoulders seem to straighten as a smile eases the lines on his forehead. he offers you his hand, which you shake, as he says, “and i’m sorry, but i didn’t catch your name while i was on the phone.”

you give him your name, and he grins, nodding to his friends. “in case you forgot: i’m brian may, and that’s roger taylor, john deacon, and freddie mercury.”

there’s something vaguely familiar about the names, particularly freddie’s, but you can’t quite put your finger on where you’ve heard that lineup before. frowning, you glance between the four men, who stare back at you with expectant sort of faces, as if they’re waiting for the lightbulb above your head to illuminate. you run through the rolodex of names in your brain, but come up short.

“are you performers or something? i swear i’ve heard your names before.”

“we’re in a band,” roger says.

you cringe in apology. “i’m afraid i don’t know bands very well. my radio—i only get one station up here, and it’s mostly yodeling. christmas is the only time of year i can pick up anything worthwhile. got any christmas songs?”

“no, and i’m not sure we will.”

“what band, then? maybe i’ve heard of you on the off chance, but don’t take it to heart if i haven’t.”

freddie leans forward in expectation. “we’re called queen. ring any bells?”

you consider before nodding. “i think so. there’s only one song that comes to mind, though. another one bites the… something? dust, maybe?”

with a laugh, freddie slaps his hand against deaky—john’s knee. “that’s deaky’s song!”

you find yourself smiling—and easily—for the first time since waking. “really? i like it!” shrugging your shoulders in time with the bassline, you do a poor imitation of the song’s opening. beside you, roger laughs, shoving john’s shoulder when a flush creeps up his cheeks. “it’s fun!”

john nods once, mumbling, “thanks.” he drops his cheek to his hand, eyes falling to the carpet, and your smile softens.

you look away, sparing him further embarrassment. “so, i’m in the presence of royalty, i guess, but all i have to offer you is my parent’s old bed, which can fit two, a trundle mattress in my bedroom, and a military cot in the basement.”

brian squeezes your arm in reassurance. “anything will suit us fine. we’re just glad we found you.”

“i’m glad i can help,” you say, and even if it were for this moment alone, you’re glad you never listened to your aunt in sheffield.

day two.

you wake the next morning with a gasp, panic shooting straight to your heart when you roll over and see a man lying on the floor next to your bed. your first instinct is to scream, to call for help, but then the fogginess of slumber lifts from your mind. you recognize the man on the floor, and your defenses drop in relief.

you’d forgotten.

the previous day’s events seem more like something out of a dream than reality. four men—four famous men—appearing on your doorstep? getting stuck in your cabin after a technological malfunction? challenging one another to a game of rock-paper-scissors in order to determine sleeping arrangements? surely you’d made that up, a dream produced by an overactive imagination and too much time alone.

but no—the presence of one john deacon, asleep on the trundle bed extended from beneath your mattress confirms your current reality. you run your eyes over his sleeping face and note the stillness with which he softly snores, one arm tucked behind his pillow. he looks peaceful.

you hope you didn’t disturb his sleep during the night. ever since the accident, nightmares tend to plague your dreams. at least twice a week, you shoot out of bed, drenched in sweat and crying out in the empty darkness of your room. you can’t remember if you’d dreamt at all last night, but you’d shrivel up and die of embarrassment if any of your frantic kicking or mumbling had woken him.

“do you always stare at people when they sleep?”

“shit!” you crash backwards against the wall in surprise at the sound of john’s sleepy voice. your head connects with the paneled wood behind you, and you curse again, rubbing the sore spot on your skull.

“do you always have such a dirty mouth too?” he’s propped up on his elbow now, eyes gleaming with a mischief you hadn’t seen yesterday. his curls lay askew on his head, and his shirt—a flannel pulled from the depths of your grandfather’s belongings—swallows his torso.

continuing to rub your head, you frown. “do you always insist on asking so many questions this early in the morning?”

“only when people stare at me while i sleep.”

you drop your hand, wrinkling your nose in embarrassment. “sorry.” although the tip of your nose is cold, your cheeks feel warm with a flush. “i didn’t think you were awake, and i was… thinking. i wasn’t really staring at you.”

half-truth. maybe a quarter-truth. your four guests are handsome—each of them in their own right—but john… he has the potential to make your knees go wobbly should he flash you one of his secretive and elusive grins.

but, in all truth, you were thinking of other things as you’d looked down at him: thinking about the day and your work and how soft his hair looked and the strength of his nose and—

john rolls off the trundle bed. when he stands, he swivels his arms back and forth, stretching his back muscles. “’s okay. i’m getting used to it.” before you can ask him what he means, he points to the skylight in the middle of your room. “i’ve got a feeling we’re in for a rude awakening.”

your gaze follows his extended finger, and you huff when you see the skylight entirely darkened by a heavy layer of snow. yesterday afternoon, you had still been able to make out the sun’s rays through the unmelted snow leftover from the recent storm. now, the skylight serves more as an extension of your stippled ceiling than an opportunity to glimpse the night sky.

“must have been another storm last night,” you say, slipping out of bed.

you don’t miss the way john’s eyes immediately flit to your legs and your exposed thighs. your nightshirt falls to the middle of your thighs, a long pair of socks pulled over your knees your only leg coverings. his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, his lips slightly parted, but he looks away when you shift uncomfortably with the hem of your shirt. damn your mother for passing on her penchant for hot sleeping!

he gathers his clothes from a chair in the corner and nods to the door. “i’ll just go… change downstairs.”

your nod is too enthusiastic to be anything but embarrassed. “yeah, okay. i’ll be down in a moment. help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen.”

john, holding his clothes to his chest, leaves the room in a hurry, his head down and eyes averted. when the door shuts, the lock giving a soft click as it slides home, you drop to your bed with a groan.

it might be a long day.

after fixing your hair and pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and sweater, you make your way down the stairs and into the living room. a chill hangs in the air, one much deeper than the general winter cold. it goes straight to your bones and makes your teeth chatter in your skull. shivering, you circle your arms around your waist, prepared to go start a fresh fire in the hearth, but something in the corner of your eye stops you.

your guests—all four of them in a line, their mismatched heights on full display—staring out the bay window.

“what is it?” you ask, bending to lift marmalade from the floor when she jingles her way over from the kitchen. “did it really snow that much?”

roger looks over his shoulder, and the disappointment shadowing his face gives you pause. “come see for yourself.” he drops to the couch with a defeated groan, cradling his forehead in his hand.

holding marmalade against your shoulder, you tiptoe to the window, the floor beneath your feet unusually frigid. you exhale at the sight of the fresh snowfall, and your breath clouds the windowpane. a thick layer of white powder covers the mountainside. as far as your eye can see, there’s nothing but pure white. it’s blinding in the morning sun, and you blink against the glistening snowflakes.

“it’s got to be at least one meter,” brian whispers. “maybe more.”

freddie shakes his head back and forth, gesturing to the side. “i can’t even see the bloody porch steps. they’ve been swallowed!”

john shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “no power either.”

you twist to stare at him in shock. “what? no power?”

he gives you the briefest of glances then returns his gaze to the window. “i checked the breaker. it’s all out.”

from the couch, roger groans again. “which means we are stuck for the foreseeable future. brian called the gondola and they couldn’t even pick up, so that’s out of the question.” he slumps further down the couch cushions. “i had a fucking holiday party planned for next week.”

“now wait a minute.” brian turns from the window and reaches over to give roger’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “the snow will clear up before then. it’ll just be a few more days. that is”—his eyes slide to you—“if you’ll let us stay?”

you glance between your guests before laughing in indignation. “you didn’t really think i’d turn you out, did you?” marmalade hops from your arms when you plant your hands on your hips. “honestly, i might be somewhat of a recluse, but i’m not completely rude.”

freddie skirts around john to place both hands on your shoulders and steer you toward the kitchen. “no one thinks you’re rude, darling. we just didn’t want to assume.” he jerks his head toward john. “now, john will start the fire and we’ll all get cozy and perhaps play a game of scrabble. roger found the board downstairs last night. how does that sound?”

you meet john’s eyes over freddie’s shoulder, and he smiles—ever so slightly, but enough to drop your defensive stance. you nudge freddie with your arm and nod. “scrabble it is.”

after breakfast, you are quickly bested in the shortest game of scrabble you’ve ever played. it seems your guests are quite the experts, so you leave them to their fun in order to complete a series of edits on your latest manuscript. from the kitchen table, you can hear them bickering over whether or not freddie’s addition is a dictionary defined word or whether or not john can go twice in one turn because roger knocked his letters from the coffee table.

the gentle hum of conversation—of life—warms your chest. it’s been a long time since your home felt lived in. for so long you have simply subsisted, moving from room to room to change the scenery, leaving the mountain only when necessary, never truly engaging with the outside world. it’s easier to live alone—there’s less risk in it, less wondering if today could be the last day you interact with a loved one because fate has some cruel trick up its sleeve.

but, damn, if having roger and john and brian and freddie grace your living room doesn’t remind you of how irritatingly necessary other people are to living a truly fulfilled life.

brian asks if he can prepare a light lunch, and while he does, you gather your work and set it aside. you have a deadline—the first of the year—but for the moment, you’d rather engage with others instead of shoving your head deep within the made-up realms of your novelists.

with a dramatic stretch, you raise your arms above your head and groan as the muscles pop in your back.

“all done, then?” freddie asks.

“for now,” you say.

he pats the open spot of the couch between himself and john, and you squeeze between them, tilting your socked feet toward the roaring fire. you find yourself still shivering slightly, despite the extra layer beneath your sweater and warm wool socks. if you remember correctly, your father had complained of poor insulation in the attic. you wish, perhaps a bit selfishly, he’d gotten that fixed before his passing.

“here.” john shimmies one side of the blanket draped over his shoulders around yours. “we can share.”

“thanks,” you whisper, grabbing the corner he offers and pulling it around your back. the movement draws him closer, the outside of his thigh pressed tightly against yours. he feels warm, though, like your own little space heater, and you resist the urge to lean into him for further comfort. instead, you focus your attention on freddie, who explains how he and his bandmates came to be stranded on a swiss mountainside.

“so, really, it’s roger’s fault that we’re in this predicament,” freddie says. “he was the one who wanted to go skiing.”

you tilt your head to the side, confused as you glance toward the front door. “where is all your gear, then? you didn’t bring any in.”

john sighs with a shake of his head. “we forgot that in the hotel.”

“no one is brilliant at five am, dear. except for maybe brian, but even he failed to remind us that the first rule of skiing is you need skis.” freddie shrugs his shoulders. “oh well. it brought us to you, didn’t it?”

smiling, you nod. beside you, john shifts a little closer. his free hand rests on his leg, but his pinky finger extends outward, brushing along the outer seam of your jeans. your grin widens.

“yeah, i suppose it did.”

day three.

it’s just past midnight when you tumble from the depths of your nightmare.

the accident—replaying—over and over and over. the twist of the car over the edge of the ravine. you, powerless, helpless as you watch from the safety of your grandfather’s truck. the crunch of metal against rock and tree and—

—and the ultimate knowledge that there was no way your parents could survive such a fall settling over your heart like a three-ton brick.

you jerk awake with a barely-contained screech. clamping your hand over your mouth, you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the images that flash through your mind like some sort of cruel slideshow. blood and guts and screams and—

a warm hand on your shoulder, soft voice in your ear saying your name, pulls you back to reality. “hey. hey, wake up.”

your eyes flutter open, sleeve of your shirt caught between your teeth where you bite down hard. in the dim light of the room, you can make out the angles of john’s face, the line of his nose, pout of his lips. a soft glow—from the nightlight in the corner, you think—shrouds the curls on his head, giving him the curve of a halo.

your ribs shudders as you exhale. he looks like an angel, an angel sent to save you perhaps. never in your lift have you so badly wanted to embrace someone in relief.

instead, you drop the hand from your mouth and lean closer to the wall at your side, away from him. “huh? wha—oh… john, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to wake you.”

his grip on your shoulder tightens, and he ignores your apology. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. just a nightmare.”

“some nightmare.” john’s hand slips from your shoulder to your elbow, and he rubs his cheek with his opposite hand. “you hit me.”

“fuck, did i? oh hell, john.”

scrambling to your knees, you frown into the darkness, searching for a welt or bruise blossoming on his cheek. it’s too dark to see clearly, though, and you sigh in defeat, hanging your head. embarrassment swells in your stomach, wrenching it side to side, and you turn your face away, hoping against hope that he can’t see the evidence of your fluster.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

more than anything, more than the embarrassment roiling through your system and the nerves wracking your chest, you find yourself feeling frustrated. two day—two days with queen in the house, and two days you’ve felt a magnetic pull towards john. maybe you’re just lonely and maybe you’re just reading too much into the stolen glances and brushes of his hand against yours, but having him here in the house with you? tossing your sideways looks when freddie says something that makes you laugh and helping you pull the biscuit tin from its place on the top of the shelf? you’d thought that maybe—just maybe—he might see something worthwhile in you, too.

but no rockstar could put up with you. surely, he must see that plainly now. your fear of crowds and loud noises and your night terrors—that’s not made for the high life. he would go once he got the chance, forget about you and you cat in the cabin on the mountainside. why you ever considered for a moment he would do otherwise further stokes the shame threatening to consume you.

you fiddle with the sheets and blankets gathered around your knees. “you can sleep downstairs, if you like,” you say in a rush. your grip tightens on the quilt binding, and you rub your thumb back and forth across a frayed string. “i won’t mind.”

john remains still and quiet for so long you think he must’ve fallen back asleep. but then he stands, and he gently nudges your shoulder.

“scoot over,” he urges, and you find yourself inching closer to the wall without a second thought. john slides into bed next to you, his body warm and strong. “is this okay?”

you nod because, truly, yes, it is okay with you. very much okay.

“when i was little,” he starts, adjusting the quilts around his chest, his ankle brushing your leg. “i had this dog, and any time i had a nightmare, he would crawl into bed with me, help it all go away. i know i’m not as fluffy as a dog, but… well, i thought maybe we might see if this helps it go away.” he pauses for a breath and asks again, “is that okay?”

“yeah, yeah, it’s okay.” your voice is a puff of air, and if it were any colder, you’re sure your breath would crystalize.

“good.” he settles deeper into your shared pillow, and you catch a whiff of your shampoo in his hair. it makes your stomach clench, not from embarrassment, but an entirely different emotion. beneath the covers, one of his hands slips over the curve of your wrist, and his fingers tangle with yours. he gives your palm a squeeze. “go back to sleep.”

you do—easily.

john’s heartbeat is steady beneath your ear when your eyes flutter open for the second time. you’d rested without struggle for the first time in a long time. your shoulders feel loose, your eyes free from heavy circles.

and it’s all because of john.

your cheek is firm against his chest, and the fabric of your grandfather’s flannel still smells like his cigar smoke, but there’s something else, something distinctly john, and it’s all you can do to not turn your face further into his chest and snuggle closer to his side. he’s warm, and you’re still cold despite the heavy blankets cocooning you. his arm is slung over your back, drawing you tighter to his chest, his face turned to the side as he breathes softly in sleep.

you should get up, go downstairs, and find something to eat, check to see if the power has returned. you’d rather stay here, in this quiet, still moment, until the rest of the world fades away and you are left with him and him alone. your wish isn’t meant to be, it seems, because just as you are prepared to lean further into john’s warmth and return to sleep, freddie bursts through the door.

you jolt upwards at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. john is right behind you, and his arm instinctively tightens around your back.  

the grin on freddie’s face is positively shit-eating, and he puts his hands on his hips as he looks between you and john with something between pride and amusement. “oh! well, well, well, what do we have here?!”

“fuck, fred.” john releases his hold on you, moving to run a hand down his face to cover his yawn. “damn near pissed myself.”

“yes, i’m sure.” freddie chuckles to himself then cocks his head toward the open door. “make yourselves presentable. we’ve got decorating to do.”

he exits without further explanation, leaving a ball of confusion and uncertainty in your stomach and a proverbial elephant in the room. you fiddle with the end of your sleeve, wondering if john thinks the silence is as thick as you do.

“you seem to have slept better,” he says at last.

you turn, and his face is so near yours you could kiss him. instead, you just nod and say, “yes, i did. thanks to you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “i’m a selfish guy. i didn’t want to get hit again. seemed the easiest way to spare me the pain.”

somehow you know he’s joking. you know he slept as well as you because of your body pressed against his. you know he feels the spark, and he’s waiting for the moment to light the flame.

perhaps it’s the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, or the quick wink you nearly miss, that tell you you’re not crazy, that he feels it too. or maybe… maybe he’s the other half of the string that’s tied beneath your ribs. the string is no longer stretched and pulled taut, but relaxed, made light by fate and nature conspiring to bring you together.

or maybe you’re reading something that isn’t there again.

you look away first, but can’t keep the giddy smile from your face. he makes your heart feel weightless. and after being weighed down for so long, you feel as if you could do anything.

john gathers his clothes and changes downstairs while you get dressed for the day. by the time you make it to the living room, brian hands you a warm-ish glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal while roger tends the fire and freddie sits on the floor, marmalade sniffing around the open boxes of christmas décor at his feet. 

unbidden, tears spring to your eyes, and you tighten your hold on the glass in your hand.

three christmases you’ve been alone. three christmases you’ve avoided the tried and true rituals of your childhood. three years you’ve missed this, the warmth of friendship and togetherness.

your heart gives a painful lurch at the thought of all you’ve missed out on, all you’ve neglected in order to save yourself from pain. only, perhaps you’ve driven yourself to much more pain, shutting yourself away on the mountain as you have.

john appears at your side, and his hand comes to rest on the curve of your neck, his finger tracing the edge of your jaw. “what is it?” he whispers, low enough so only you can hear.

clearing your throat, you grin up at him. “i’m just happy.”

his eyes scan the room before he dips his head and presses his lips to your temple. his grip on the back of your neck tightens as he lingers against your skin. your eyes flutter shut, and you lean closer to him, warmth spreading from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. he releases you after a moment, nudging you forward with a hand to the small of your back.

you drop to the carpet beside freddie and take a bite of your cereal. “where did you find all this? i didn’t know i’d kept it.”

“i found it, actually,” roger says from his place in the kitchen.

“and you found the scrabble board too… if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were snooping around my house.”

“so what if i am?” roger shrugs. “i’m bored as hell without the tellie. there’s loads of stuff downstairs just waiting for me to snoop through.” he finishing tacking something to the archway of the kitchen before stepping into the living room, hands in his pockets.

“roger, stop your griping and sit down.” brian nods to the open armchair. “we haven’t had this much time off in ages. enjoy it while you can.”

“really, why do you keep all this marvelous stuff downstairs?” freddie asks. he sifts his hands through the box on his lap, filled with tinsel and ribbons your mother collected over the years. “you have a tree, but that’s it. your entire cabin could be dripping with christmas cheer if you wanted.”

“it’s just me,” you say. as if understanding, marmalade gives a petulant meow. you smile and scratch behind her ears. “and marmy, i guess. there’s no reason to go above and beyond if it’s just me.”

brian’s brow furrows in concern. “your parents? siblings?”

“my parents died about five years ago, my grandfather shortly after. there’s no siblings. just me.” rising from your place on the floor, you gather your empty breakfast bowl and the leftover plate sitting adjacent.

it’s quiet as you deposit the dishes in the sink. the story of your parent’s tragic accident and grandfather’s health decline has never been a mood booster; this you well know. still, you feel obligated to tell your guests. no—not obligated. willing. you love your parents and your grandfather, but you’ve neglected their memory too long.

you turn from the sink. “why don’t we put the decorations up? in their memory.”

freddie’s smile is soft, affectionate. he nods resolutely. “a lovely idea.”

brian puts a christmas record on the turntable, and the house seems to sigh in relief as life, happiness, and festive cheer fills the rooms after so long. roger tosses handfuls of tinsel upon the sparsely decorated tree, his hips swaying to the beat of the music, and freddie directs brian in hanging garland over the mantelpiece and around the staircase banister. you sit beside john on the floor, stringing popcorn along a piece of string. your hands are salty and warm from the popcorn, and his shoulder brushes yours as you work.

“you know,” he says. “my dad died when i was young.”

you pause, an unpopped kernel between your fingers. “really? sorry—i don’t mean to sound so surprised. i just—you didn’t say anything, so…”

he brushes your hurried apology away with a shake of his head. “i was eleven. changed me forever. i don’t really remember much of my childhood, you know, ‘cause of that.”

“oh, john.” though your fingers are slick with salt and butter and grease, you cover his hand with yours. he looks up from the half-filled bowl, and leans closer, his shoulder pushing against yours. “i’m sorry. that—no child should have to lose their parent at a young age.”

“i don’t tell you to feel sorry for me.” he removes his hand from beneath yours and continues to string the popcorn, but there’s no malice or hostility in his words—just truth. “i’m just saying it because i know how it feels to lose a parent early. it’s… devastating.”

you nod, twisting your mouth to side and looking away from his searching gaze. “yes, it is.” drawing in a deep breath, you face him again. “i think i dwell too much on the sadness, though. there’s happiness in their memory, and i forget that. but you lot helped me remember. you helped me remember.”

john ducks his head on a shy grin, his cheeks pink with blush.

heart tripping in your chest, you stand and return to the kitchen to refill the popcorn bowl while he drapes the first completed string around the tree. as the popcorn pops, you tuck your face near your shoulder, smiling to yourself. three days ago, you’d gone to bed thinking you knew what christmas would look like this year: desolate and lonely, with only your cat by your side and work to fill your days. how could you have guessed? how could you have known what nature would bring your way?

when you turn, the freshly filled bowl cradled in the crook of your arm, you stop short. roger, a sideway grin on his face, stands in the doorway of the kitchen. he jerks his chin upwards, and you follow his eyeline to the sprig of faux mistletoe tacked to the ceiling.

you roll your eyes. “so, that’s what you were doing. you really are a trouble-maker, roger.”

“come on, it’s tradition, love. just one kiss?” he opens his arms slightly, beckoning with a wave of his fingers.

you huff with mock indignance, but your cheeks warm at the thought of roger taylor wanting to kiss you of all people. the little you know of queen and their stardom is knowledge enough to tell you that roger has kissed far worthier people. they all have, probably. you—you’re just a country bumpkin, hardly interesting or captivating enough for his—or any of their—attentions.

that, at least, is what you would have told yourself three days ago. today, the thoughts tumble through your head, but you push them aside with a newfound sense of confidence. it doesn’t mean anything, anyway. it’s just a mistletoe kiss. and you think you’d regret it forever if you turned him down.

before you can stop yourself, you step forward, and roger rightly takes the movement as an agreement. he kisses you soundly, one hand feather-light in the center of your back. you don’t let the connection linger too long for fear you will lose yourself to the moment. roger is kind and charming, but he’s not… well, he’s not john, and the thought of john and whatever it is he means to you makes you pull away after a few seconds.

from their place in the living room, freddie and brian cheer, clapping in response to the good-natured fun. you duck your head, but smile all the same and drop to your spot beside john. you hand him the bowl of popcorn, but he doesn’t start stringing the new line. he just looks at you, his eyes roaming your face, barely so much as a frown pulling his brow tight or downward tilt of his mouth wringing his lips in a scowl. he just… stares, openly, without pretense, and you suddenly wish you’d turned roger down. though the feeling of roger’s lips still lingers on yours and the kiss wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest, john’s arms around your waist while you sleep leaves much more of an imprint on your skin. his soft breath when he sleeps, the perfect rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear—it all is so much better than a silly mistletoe kiss with roger.

a muscle ticks in john’s jaw, the only evidence of possible frustration. you look away and continue stringing popcorn along the line.

“i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

at the sound of john’s mumbled words, you trip over a mislaid shoe in the middle of your darkened room. he’d gone to bed earlier than everyone else, leaving you and the others to play another round of scrabble until well after the sun disappeared. you’d considered following him when he made his exit and explaining your kiss with roger, but you’d decided it against it.

neither roger nor john could stake any claim over you or your actions, and you’d wanted to kiss roger. not to piss john off, not to push him away, but purely because you’d wanted to. maybe you wouldn’t do it again, not after seeing the crestfallen look on john’s face. but you’d done it, and there was no shame in it.

you grip the edge of the bed frame, bent at the waist, frozen in the way you’d tripped. “what?” the word is a sharp exhale in the already tense room.

“you heard me: i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

you aren’t sure what to say, so the first thing that comes to mind slips from your mouth. “well… you didn’t.”

john huffs and hops off his spot atop your bed. the snow covering your skylight has started to melt in the last day or so, allowing slim rays of moonlight to pierce the darkness of your room. the moonlight coupled with your nightlight illuminates only the sharpest features on john’s face, and while any other evening you might think the line of his jaw or definition of his nose might be alluring, tonight, coupled with the scowl on his brow, you wish you could see him clearly. he stands in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and you straighten, run your fingers through your rumpled hair.

“you could have,” you whisper. “but you didn’t.”

“beneath the mistletoe?” he scoffs like the mere implication is an offense. “no. that’s not what i meant.”

“what did you mean, then? you can’t just say you wanted to be the one to kiss me with no explanation. i’m not some plaything, john. you boys might be used to that, being famous or whatever, but—”

“no.” his voice is stern, commanding, resolute. you shut your mouth with a snap. “you drive me crazy, you know that?” he steps forward; you step back. “you think you’re so insignificant, that you’re not good enough for anybody.”

your frown and retreat another step when he advances. “i don’t know what you’re—”

he cuts you off as though your protest went in one ear and out the other. “you’re shy, sure, but you’re brave. i mean, dammit you live all the way up here by yourself, and you nearly fought us off with a fuckin’ frying pan.”

he sighs. but then his arm extends, his fingers hovering over your cheek. when you don’t flinch, don’t so much as move a muscle, he covers your cheek with his palm, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hair. “you’re a lot like me. we have a lot in common.”

your heart lurches—not out of pain or regret, but anticipation. a lump of excitement clogs your throat, and it’s hard to swallow, hard to think, hard to breathe, with john so near and his words so intoxicating.

“john…” your eyelids flutter shut, your head tilting into the warmth of his palm. “i—”

“i wanted to kiss you because i like you, not because you’re the only bird here, but because i like you and i think we have a lot—”

you surge forward on a burst of assertiveness. grabbing the edges of john’s night shirt, you drag him forward and slot your mouth over his. his lips are smooth, and once he registers what you’ve done, he responds with equal parts ferocity and tenderness. one hand bunches the fabric of your shirt at your waist, the other grips the back of your neck, holding you against him like you might be blown away by the wind at any moment.

after a moment, he pulls away, rolling his forehead over yours. “tell me to stop and i will.”

you kiss him again, chaste and fast enough to draw back and murmur, “don’t stop,” before losing your nerve.

john circles his arms around your back, then, resuming his careful but hungry attack on your mouth, your cheeks, your neck. you wind your arms around his shoulders, drawing him tight, and you don’t make it to the bed before collapsing to the floor in a heap of passion.

day four.

the power comes back on the next day, and by late evening, jimmy schmits from the gondola service calls to tell you everything will be back up and running by morning. your guests are pleased. they’re eager to get back to the comforts they’re accustomed to, and you don’t blame them. four days in an unheated cabin with rapidly spoiling food in the fridge is not typical rockstar accoutrement. still, they tell you they’ve thoroughly enjoyed their break from reality, and you respond in kind. it was as much as break for you as it was for them.

on that last evening, the lights are kept off for the final time. the fire in the hearth permeates the room with its light, though you don’t need its warmth as much now that the heater is back on. the christmas tree sparkles in the corner, and a few candles flicker in the kitchen and hallway. brian sits in the armchair, your father’s old acoustic on his lap. roger, of course, had found it buried in a spare closet, and he suggests brian play to close out the night.

you lean your back against john’s chest where he sits on the couch. his arm is draped around your body, his fingers running nonsensical patterns over your waist. the back of your head rests against his shoulder, and you feel like you could walk on water you’re so light. all the stress, the aches and pains you’ve carried for so long, have melted like the snow. john is to thank for that, as are the others, but mostly him. he’d pegged you quite right with his speech the night before: shy and unsure of yourself and entirely unconvinced of your own worth. but you’re on the mend, you think.

insignificant? you? no, not anymore. not when he looks at you and holds you close.

brian cringes when he gives an experimental strum of the guitar and something akin to a high-pitched whine hits the air. “oh wow. this hasn’t been played in a while.” he looks up, pulling his mouth to the side in a wry grin. “sorry,” he says when he meets your eyes. “i just have to tune it some.”

“go ahead,” you say. “do what you have to.”

brian adjusts the tuners at the top of the guitar before plucking and pulling the strings in time to a gentle rhythm. when he opens his mouth, he begins to sing. “have yourself a merry little christmas. let your heart be light.”

freddie joins him, scooting forward on the other side of the couch, marmalade snug in his lap. “from now on our troubles will be out of sight.”

when roger jumps in for the bridge, the trio’s voices mingle together in the air like pieces of a puzzle. each part is distinctive and unique, but no less important to creating the larger picture. you snuggle closer to john and feel the vibrations of his chest against your back as he hums, his finger tapping along your shoulder.

“once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore. faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”

tears cloud your vision, and you tighten your grip on the arm draped over your stomach.

tomorrow your guests will return to their normal lives, lives of fantasy and extravagance. you will return to your hum-drum existence, and the holiday will come and go with little fanfare. but if this is the only gift you will receive this christmas—this time with the hodge-podge musicians that make up queen, this time with john—you will take it with no expectation for anything more.

you’d forgotten what it was like to live with joy and freedom, some semblance of your life prior to the accident. john, freddie, roger, brian—they’d helped you remember, and for that you are forever indebted to them.

clearing your throat, you twist slightly in john’s arms, enough to tilt your head back and let your eyes roam his face. he looks down at you, lips caught in a serene smile. you brush your fingers along the line of his jaw.

“merry christmas, john,” you whisper.

he hums in approval, grinning, before lowering his mouth to kiss you softly. “merry christmas, darling.”

six months later.

it’s hot out, the summer sun roasting you through the thick glass of the gondola. you could drive your car down the mountain, but you prefer the gondola. the gentle sway of the hanging car, the way the buildings in montreux slowly grow taller as you inch closer to the city—it’s all a part of the journey, and you enjoy it, find a comforting rhythm in the predictability.

today, you have an empty basket on your lap, your ankles tucked beneath the bench, as you make your way to the farmer’s market that pops up once a month. it’s a simple little thing, and you often only leave with a few ripe fruits and handful of fresh-cut flowers, but ever since your christmas with queen, you’ve been venturing out more. not enough to truly consider yourself a social butterfly, but you enjoy the odd afternoon at the farmer’s market or dinner in one of the pubs where you listen to the local bands play. you’ve made a friend—your first friend in ages—and heather only further helps to draw you out of your reclusive nature.

then, of course, there’s john. he helps too, always does.

when he’d left in december, he made no promises, and you didn’t expect him to. after all, you’ve only really been with him in person for four days; that’s hardly enough time to build a lasting sort of connection.

still, he calls when he can, and you catch up, but there’s no real agreement between you both. yet he continues you to encourage you to get out more, going so far as to ship you a bicycle you can ride the mountain trails on. he promises to come ride with you one day, but you won’t hold him to it. it’s the thought that counts.

for the first time in years, you’re happy, sincerely happy. you once thought that living by yourself, away from the world so you couldn’t be hurt, was enough to be content, and for a time, you were content. but then you’d been forced to remember, to remember how much you need others, and now that you can accept that, loneliness no longer pervades your home or your person. you walk with purpose; your smile comes naturally; your shoulders sway with ease.

it’s still a quiet life, but a much happier one.

you disembark the gondola with your eyes scanning the small list of items it would be worthwhile to buy—a new vase, a bouquet of flowers for the dinner party you’re hosting for heather and her siblings in two days, a necklace to replace the one marmalade broke—and you barely noticed when you bump shoulders with someone boarding the gondola car. you startle, though, when a hand wraps around your wrist and someone says your name.

you turn, lift your eyes, and gasp, your heart leaping to your throat. “john deacon!” it’s practically a squeal, and john shushes you with a fast hand over your mouth.

he glances around to see if anyone heard you or cares, and it seems the world is too busy with their own affairs to study john deacon and the girl he has pinned against his chest, his arm around her back and hand over her mouth. his eyes sparkle when he returns his gaze to you. “hush! don’t blow my cover!”

you swat his hand away, but don’t move out of his grasp. “what are you doing here?!”

he nods his head to the gondola car, now filled, the doors shut and prepared for departure. “i could ask you the same thing.”

you flush unwillingly and shrug your shoulders. “i actually leave the house now.”

“really?!” john releases his tight hold on your back, giving you breathing space, but doesn’t move his feet. when he speaks, his breath—recently freshened with a mint—fans your face. “i was actually on my way up to surprise you, but it looks like you’ve beaten me to the surprise.”

your heart, still lodged in your throat, skips a beat. “you were coming to see me?”

“’course i was.”

“i didn’t know you were in montreux.”

he nods. “we’re recording. should be here a month or two. just got here yesterday.”

you grin. your cheeks pinch in a slight ache, such unrestrained joy still uncustomary to your muscles. “and you were coming to see me?”

while you grin and reach forward to toy with the edge of john’s shirt, he frowns. “’course i was,” he repeats. “you say that like you’re surprised.”

“well, it was your intention to surprise me, right?”

“of course i would come see you if i was in town.” john nudges your shoulder with his hand then covers your bicep with his palm, squeezing lightly. “you’re my girl.”

you tilt your head to the side. “your girl?”

he nods, steps closer, and holds your other arm. “yeah,” he says, his voice gone deeper, gravely. “my girl.” this thumb brushes along the exposed skin of your shoulder, tanned by the sun. “i told you in december: i like you. the last six months have been… hectic, but i was always going to come back.”

tucking your lower lip between your teeth, you narrow your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck. the hair at the nape of his neck is soft as you play with it. “i would say really and not believe you. but i seem to remember someone telling me that i’m a lot more significant than i give myself credit for.”

john laughs, and the sound pierces your heart like cupid’s bow. “what genius said that?”

you shrug your shoulders, rolling your eyes. “i dunno, but i took it to heart.”

“did you? good. then maybe you’ll be more inclined to say yes when i ask you to come on tour with me, with all of us.”

“oh, you were going to ask that?”

“part of my surprise.”

leaning forward, you feather your lips over john’s. “ask me, then,” you whisper, grinning even further when you feel a shiver run down his back.

“come with us. come with me. let me take you around the world.”

the you of six months ago flares in your chest, telling you to say no, to stay home where it is safe. the you of six months ago tells you that john is just being nice, that he doesn’t see you as anything serious.

but the you of today…

the you of today just smiles and kisses john soundly. you move your mouth over his like he is your dance partner, like you were made for one another, and maybe you were. he tastes sweet, feels even sweeter against your body, and you wonder if this is what your parents felt like when they first fell in love. as your mother tells it, she thought your father had hung the stars in the sky, and when you pull back to look at john, the same thought comes to mind.

“so is that a yes?”

you nod. “i’d go anywhere with you, john deacon.” another thought pops to the forefront of your mind, and you fist your hand in john’s shirt with a frown. “but wait: who will watch marmalade?”

[whimsimmortal]

Plot Bunny

Wow, I’m alive! And posting fanfiction on tumblr, as if I have any idea what I’m doing!! Please check it out on AO3, where I am actually capable of navigating the website: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27441853

Plink. Another small, innocuous sound scarcely registered past Danny’s homework-induced stupor. It could have been a stray raindrop or a kamikaze bug. He had more important things demanding his attention; namely, the book report due tomorrow. This was at least the fifth time he’d rewritten the same paragraph. Words had lost all meaning to him by this point, but he was so close to finishing.

Tip-tap. Clonk, the noise emitting from the bedroom window insisted. He glared suspiciously towards the disturbance, envisioning ethereal arrows or blob ghosts intent on breaking in. He hadn’t sensed anything ghostly nearby, but given his luck, the paranoia was usually warranted. Emitting a groan from the depths of his soul, he rose from his desk to inspect the noise. He spared a second to stretch and shake the pins and needles out of his fingers, trying to wake up. Just in case it was something serious, y'know. Tink. “Alright, jeez, I’m coming,” he muttered, pulling back his curtain.

There weren’t any ghosts, of course. That was somewhat of a relief, even if going down swinging  was preferable to succumbing to a failing high school education. The early sunset gleamed amber off the windows across the street, and the sky was clear, except for— chink— the pebbles bouncing off his window. A lone kid was standing on the sidewalk below, no older than eight or nine. He looked vaguely familiar. He was pulling his arm back to throw more stones and bawling his eyes out.

Danny yanked open the window, sliding up the screen to fully stick his head out. His core vibrated, unsettled. There wasn’t any obvious danger, and the kid didn’t look hurt. Where were his parents? Why was he here? “Hey! What’s wrong, buddy? Are you okay?”

“You, you, you,” the kid tried to start, but great hiccupping sobs interrupted him. He scrubbed his face with his fists, obviously trying to regain his composure. “You’ve gotta send the ghost hero out!”

Danny jerked back, unintentionally smacking the back of his skull on the underside of the window. Well, now he was awake. What? “Uh, a ghost? Here? No, there isn’t—I can’t—what are you talking about?”

The boy was right up against the side of the house now, sniffling loudly and staring straight up at Danny with wide, sad eyes. “Please?” He whined, winding his hands up in the fabric of his sweater nervously.

Well, now he was stuck. Some random kid was going to out his whole identity, but the urge to help was almost overwhelming. “I can’t—there can’t be any ghosts here, but give me a second and I can just come down?” He offered. “Do you want me to find your parents?”

“Noooo!” The kid wailed and stomped his foot, banging on the wall with his tiny fists. “Don’t lie to me! I’ve seen the superman ghost go in there! Let him out! I need him!!”

Oh, crap, someone was going to hear. This kid’s parents were going to freak out, or his own parents were going to notice, and what if they took that kind of claim seriously? Shoot. Literally. He chuckled nervously. “Hey, hey, shhh, okay! You win! I’ll, uh, summon him, or something! But you have to be quiet, or you’ll, y’know, scare him off.” The child nodded solemnly, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve and stifling his sobs.

Danny ducked back behind the curtain, gracelessly crumpling to sit with his back against the wall. He ran his hands through his hair. He’d been seen? When? He’d tried so hard to be careful, and use invisibility whenever he was close to the house. Maybe he’d gotten lazy. Maybe, sometimes, he let the promise of sleep take priority over precautions. Stupid.  He smacked the palm of his hand into his forehead, frustrated. How long had this kid known? Who else had he told? He couldn’t just scare him into silence, he was too little. That was just messed up, he’d give him nightmares or something.

He wasn’t going to figure anything out by sitting here moping. He triggered the transformation, the familiar prickling electric feeling swiftly replaced by the soothing cold. He turned to peek over the edge of the window, checking for anyone else around. It was still just the same kid, kicking at a pebble on the concrete while he waited.

He floated down slowly, not wanting to startle his impromptu visitor, who turned and saw him as he touched down. The little guy gasped, forgotten tears slipping away from unblinking eyes.

“Hi there,” Danny prompted gently. “Were you looking for me?”

The kid kept ogling, mesmerized, and a few seconds passed by before he could shake himself out of it. “Wow, you’re the real superhero guy,” he whispered reverently.

Oh. That was pretty cute, actually. He couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, that’s me. You can call me Phantom,” he offered.

“I’m Wyatt,” the kid mumbled, covering his damp cheeks with his hands shyly. He tipped his head down, still staring through his eyelashes.

A neighbor’s front door opened down the street, and Danny swiftly disappeared. Wyatt startled, blindly swinging his hands back and forth through the seemingly-empty space. “Wait! Come back!” He recoiled with a yelp when his blundering reach made contact with the specter.

“It's okay, I’m right here,” he reassured the kid. “But we can’t let people know I’m here, okay? They’ll—um. I’ll get in trouble.”

Wyatt squinted, reaching forward again. Danny offered his hand, and the little fingers gripped his glove tightly. He looked like he was offering the empty air a fist bump. “Right,” the kid agreed earnestly.

“Seriously,” Danny pressed. “You can’t tell anyone that I li-” he bit his tongue. Don’t say ‘live’. That’s so dumb. “Uh. Hang out here sometimes. Not even your friends, okay? Promise?”

Wyatt’s little dark eyebrows drew together, and despite his trembling chin and small stature, he looked profoundly serious. He shook the hand. “I promise.”

Well, that would have to do for now. “Thanks. Uh, what did you need me for?”

The kid’s eyes immediately started to well up again, but he squeezed Danny’s fingers and pressed his lips to put on a brave face. “C’mon, Phantom, you’ve gotta-” he sniffed. “You gotta save Fuzzy,” he warbled, turning and pulling. The ghost floated behind like a balloon on a string as the pair stepped down from the curb, heading across the street.

Oh, man, if this was about a dead pet, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. That was closer to Jazz’s expertise. He swallowed his mounting dread. “Who’s Fuzzy?”

Wyatt’s face scrunched up. “He’s my bunny,” he explained, looking away. “I was just tryin’ to show ‘im to Audrey, and—and then,” he sobbed. “He went under the house! And he’s gonna get lost and stuck, and I’m-, never-, gonna see him ever again!” He let go, burying his face in his hands and howling.

Danny rested a hand lightly on Wyatt’s little shoulder, throat tight. He’d never had a pet like that, but he could understand the fear of losing loved ones a little too well, and empathy always felt more forceful when he was in ghost form. Probably something related to ectoplasm being shaped by residual emotional energy, blah blah ecto-science theory. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

The unusual duo walked two more houses down the block and cut through a side yard to a modest backyard, strewn with outdoor toys and an overturned wire fence—likey an outdoor pen for Fuzzy. An even younger girl sat on the paved patio, chewing on the end of her braid. She leaped up as they drew close. “Wyatt! I told my dad about Fuzzbutt, and he’ll call the—um, animal people. But they’re not here yet. Did you find him?”

Wyatt glanced a little to Danny’s left with a guilty expression. Well, crap, so much for his secret. He bit his lip, trying to keep his cool. First things first. A cursory scan of the area didn’t show anyone else in the immediate vicinity, so he faded back into visibility. The little girl—‘Audrey’, he guessed—gave a muffled shriek. “Ghost man!”

“Hush,” Wyatt scolded, voice quavering. “He’s a secret.”

“Oh,” Audrey whispered back. “Hello, mister normal guy man. I think you’re cool.” She beamed up at him.

“Hello, small ordinary human,” Danny quipped, and Audrey giggled delightedly. Wyatt dropped to his hands and knees, crawling up to the house, where a gap between the foundation and dirt was evident. The other two peeked over his shoulder, but there wasn’t any bunny visible past the darkness.

“Fuzzy,” Wyatt choked out. “Hang in there, we’re gonna rescue you!”

Danny turned intangible, letting his molecules seep down through the dirt past the level of his nose. He drifted close to the base of the house, juicing up the glow from his eyes. “Just wait here, okay?” Two grim, round little faces nodded back, and with that minor assurance, he delved beneath the house.

The weight of the floor above loomed. It was claustrophobic, like being buried… well, half-alive. The musty, dank mildew smell was gross, even though he wasn’t breathing. He could taste it. “Here, bunny, bunny,” he muttered. Please don’t be hurt.

A tiny pair of eyes reflected green through the gloom. The little ball of fluff was backed into a corner, and it snorted like a tiny angry bull, stomping its feet. Danny hadn’t even known rabbits could make that sound. It probably didn’t like his creeping, unnatural aura, like most rational animals. “Shhh,” he cooed, reaching for the tiny, grubby ball of fluff and dimming his glow. “I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

Fuzzbutt wasn’t convinced. In a courageous move, it darted through Danny’s forehead, wedging itself under a crooked board and squealing. Danny reached easily through the plank and wrapped his hands around the unhappy creature, sharing his intangibility. It writhed and fussed, trying to bite through his gloves. “Stop that!” He clutched it close to his chest; if he dropped it here, the stubborn thing really would be stuck. He swooped back out into the backyard, startling the anxiously waiting kids.

Audrey shrieked and tipped over. Wyatt recovered first, leaping to his Velcro-sneakered feet expectantly. “Is he okay?”

Danny recovered a more solid form, holding up the wiggling rabbit. Wyatt gasped, fresh tears glittering on his eyelashes. He reached out for the beloved pet, unable to contain his joy at the reunion. “Fuzzy! You’re okay! I love you, Fuzzy!”

“Let’s go inside first, so he doesn’t get away again?” Danny suggested. The last thing anyone needed was an instant replay. Audrey darted to open the back door, and Wyatt led the way inside. He sat on the wooden floor with open arms, and as soon as the door was firmly shut again, Danny deposited the squirming animal into his lap. Fuzzy looked marginally more content to receive numerous sloppy kisses from his adoring owner. He was actually a pretty cute little guy, black and white like a panda.

Even footsteps padded around the corner. “Wyatt, baby? Did you find-” the woman’s question cut off abruptly as she noticed the glowing stranger in her living room.

Crud. At this rate, the whole block was going to find him out before the week was up. He edged back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I was just, um,” darn it, wrong persona. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “Doing my heroic duty, ma’am,” he finished in a falsely deep voice.

Audrey giggled (he didn’t sound that bad!), and the woman smiled nervously. Wyatt hopped to his feet, still cradling his bunny. “Mama! Look, he saved Fuzzy! I’m gonna rename him Fuzzy Phantom,” he declared.

Mama Wyatt dutifully stroked the bunny’s dusty ears. “Fuzzy Phantom needs a bath,” she commented, before looking back up to meet Danny’s eyes. She held out her clean hand, and it took him a second to recognize the offered handshake. He started to reach back, thought twice about his messy glove, and hastily peeled it off to shake her hand. Her fingers were delicate, but they didn’t falter at the chill. “You look taller on the TV,” she joked lightly. “It’s nice to meet you. Phantom, right?”

He nodded. “Uh, it was nice to meet you, too, Ms.-?”

“Sylvie Rosales,” she supplemented. Audrey snuck around her to flounce deeper into the house, taking the adult’s distraction as an invitation, and Wyatt started to follow her, but hesitated. He snuck a hand out around Fuzzy to tug on Danny’s arm, so he leaned down accommodatingly.

Wyatt stood on his tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Can I come see you sometimes?”

Oh, heck, no. That would be truly asking for disaster. “No,” he quickly replied, but before Wyatt’s pout could evolve into a true objection, he added, “but if you really don’t tell anyone how to find me, I could drop by sometimes.” He looked towards Ms. Rosales. “If that’s okay?”

Wyatt looked over to his mom pleadingly, stars in his eyes. What have I gotten myself into, Danny wondered, but he couldn’t help feeling charmed. Ms. Rosales looked like she was thinking along the same lines, with her thin-lipped smile and folded arms. “As long as you don’t cause any trouble,” she hedged.

“Thank you!!” Wyatt hugged Danny spontaneously, smushing his face into his shoulder. Fuzzy grunted his objection.

Danny ruffled the kid’s mop of hair. “I should get going. Take care of Fuzzy,” he grinned, pulling away. “And stay safe,” he added in his false baritone with a mock salute.

“You, too,” he heard Ms. Rosales call after him as he phased through the wall. He looped above the street once cheerfully before disappearing to sneak back home. He’d left his window open; rose-tinted light and a handful of moths had spilled onto his bedroom floor. This time, he didn’t reappear or turn back until he’d stealthily drawn the window and curtains closed.

He still had an hour or so to plug into his homework. He hummed as he started back in on the paragraph he’d been stuck on. It didn’t seem as daunting now, even with the lost time and near reveal. He’d have to keep an eye on his nosy little neighbor, but in the end, maybe it was the moments like today that made the whole gig worth it.

[soundwavereporting]

title: brighter days coming your way (1/2) fandom: legendary monsterverse, KOTM AU characters: Rodan, Ghidorah, unnamed MONARCH scientists relationship: Rodan/Ghidorah content warnings: descriptions of canon-typical injuries, decomposing organic matter, aftereffects of the oxygen destroyer summary: Rodan returns home.

Once it thrived, lush and green and filled with food and worshipers alike. Now his island is dead. It is deadbarrenEXTINGUISHED in a way he cannot explain—not that he needs to. There is nothing to explain, no ears willing and able to understand the gaping maw of silence in his temple where once there was the mindless, droning noise of the land, the hushed chatter of the devout.

Even the worshipersbipedharmlesshu-man? whose bodies remain are wrong. They rot and putrefy like the rest, bright plant coverings slowly turning dark and mottled, but they are wrongfoulbadDEATH. He nudges at a few, more out of curiosity than any hunger, and they all smell the same, sucked clean of any lifefoodmeatsurvival. 

Rodan's island has become a place of silent, lingering death. He had tried the other island, vital and teeming with life, but it is not his. 

So he returns.

It is the noise, on the third day, that draws his attentionnortheastthreat ?. Raw, healing wounds ache as he glides to its source—ordinarily, it would be inaudible over the din of the island, but the island is dead now, save for him. 

It is hardly more than a mass of blackenedrottingrawdying flesh.It lies on the hot sand, among the ruined structure of Rodan's worshipers. It is nearly unrecognizable, its scent obscured by this dead island and cooked flesh, but when italive ? raises its remainingmissinggonedying head, bloodied and broken eyes meeting his own, he knowsKING. 

Had He been here this whole time? How had He come so far—with his wounds, it had taken Rodan hours to return to his island, and he has been alone for days. How? 

Perhaps it does not matter. 

Rodan's King has returned.  

What he does not know is how to fix.heal.There is no life in this lifeless place, save for Himking, and he does not know what to do. But Heking chose himflightfireterrorロダン and Hekingmust have believed he flightfireterrorロダンwould know what to do. 

He does not. 

Rodan does not remember the adultsparents family. He must have had progenitors. He is not like Himking, who fell alone from the sky. 

This is his first memory: 

The anguished screamcryLOSS of what may have been a parentfamily ?, may have been something else entirely. On the damp and lonely nights, he would like to think that it was a parent. That, at some point, he was not alone on this barren, lifeless rock. 

But now, save for Himkingdying king, he is alone. 

But Rodan's king chose him for a reason. He must be capable of fixing. 

Kingsafetyprotection would not have chosen him if he were not.

There is food, and he flies to get it, pushing past the invisible, circular ring of deathextinction surrounding his island, flying until his body screams, until his wounds reopen, dripping hot blood into freezing water. Rodan cries out—there is no one to hear him, no one to chastise his weakness.

Rodan has never met one like himロダンalone—or one like Himking. He does not know how to stop the rot. He does not know how to begin healing. 

He does not even know what his king eats. Does He eat? Rodan eats. The others eat. So his King must eat. 

The kingゴジラ has a counterpart, so distantly related, so weak, eats fish. The mothsモスラバトラdead ? consume plants. 

Rodan brings both. 

His King does not react to either. The headkingdyingwatches through half-lidded eyes as he pushes the foodlife ? closer. As he demonstrates, choking down vile green matter. And as he tries again, this time with the fishacceptableeat

And then the sharp eyes close, and Rodan feels fear. 

Hedyingking breathes still, head and neck sprawled inelegantlyelegantbeautiful out, resting on cold sand. 

It is then that the pain and weakness in his body overtakes him, and Rodan collapses. 

It is raining when he wakes. 

He is not meant for the cold. His bones ache, the old wounds sting as he perches on a rocky outcropping. From here, he can see his Kingdyinghelp,lying broken and wet on the sand. 

There is nothing he can do. He is small, too small to shield his King from the weather. His King was strong, strong enough to pull the winds to and fro, to bend them to his will. 

Now, his King seems to shiver in the rain. The blackened, raw mass of His body lies limp, and from this distance as broken lungs struggle to work in this dead air. 

There is nothing to do. 

It is not proper for him to approach his King. It is one thing to provide food, sustenance to his King. It is quite another to attempt to provide comfortwarmthhome. 

But is not proper that his King should want for anything. Even if he cannot provide it, surely it would be far, far more wrong to not even try? 

The headbroken does not look at him as he approaches. But his King is still awake; he can see the unblinking dark, golden eyes watching the rain. He crawls under a broken, skeletal wing, smelling the rancid, burned fleshalienHOME as his King struggles to heal in this dead land. Blackened, dead flesh sloughs off at the accidental touch, and his King snarls. 

It is the first response from his King. A part of him is overjoyed—his King lives, his King is not as broken as he feared. But Rodan bows his head, murmurs a plaintive apology. His King growls once again, but this time, there is no snarl, no teeth. 

His King's body trembles, and then it it shifts, gently rolling over to the side. The sand is dry where His body lay, but cold. So cold. 

And then the wing comes up. It's thin, stripped of its scales and skin, leaving tendons and sinews exposed to the elements, but it is enough to stop the drops of rain from hitting his skin. 

There is a sigh, long and deep. It seems to draw the air closeso tighta nest? around them, and the soft patter of rain increases to a deafening tempo for one long moment. 

His King's body stills, and the rain stops.

At once, Rodan is afraid—his King is so foreignalienunnatural, he is not sure he would know if He truly died. But he leans closer, close enough to hear his King's remaining heart. It thrums in the now-quiet night, beating in time to his own. 

This angle leaves Rodan vulnerable. It leaves his King vulnerable. But his King seems to want?him here. Less importantly, he wants to remain. 

Far below the sky, in the cold sand, sheltered under a broken wing, Rodan sleeps. 

The sun is weak, pale and yellow as it struggles to pierce through thick clouds. 

The sun is weak, but his King is healing. It is slow—agonizingly so. The air around his island is wrong, slow to heal and quick to kill. What little Rodan can smell is clouded with rotting prey and worshipers.

Even his wound, the one that pierced so deeply through his flesh that it has crippled him still, is slow to heal.

 His King settles his body into the sea, snarling as the sharp water burns His body. There is so much damage, charred flesh that reeks of the false king's breath.

His King breathes out, though whether it is a sound of pain or relief, Rodan is unsure. But his King remains in the water and as he watches, the black dust and grime seep out into the empty water. All that remains is dull gold scales and raw flesh mottled with rotten green and black. 

Now, the remaining head lifts itself up, regarding him with something akin to curiosity. His King's eyes are brighter today, and they glitter in the sun, watching as he stands at the edge of the water. 

Life is returning to his island. The scavengersdetrivorebottom feeder arrive first, starving themselves on lifeless flesh. But as they rest, as Rodan and his King heal, other prey arrives. Stronger prey, creatures that will keep him from starving. So he perches, watching as his prey approaches, blind and dumb to his advances. 

In a flash of whistling air and cold water, his beak snaps around its prey. The prey tastes wrongsterile,but it is enough.  When he looks up, belly full and snout dripping, the King meets his eyes. And then the King's head dives into the water. It's nothing like Rodan's hunt; the King's hunt is sloppy. Experimental, as though He is going through the motions. Then Hisbeautifuleleganthead rises. 

His King emerges with a mouthful of prey and sand. He eatshealing? indiscriminately, chewing through sand and fish alike. And He turns, looks directly into Rodan's eyes. 

He battles the urge to look away, to bow and lower his head. Instead, he watches the King as He dives down again and again, looking up each time at Rodan. What is He looking for? Approval?Unthinkable. Kings do not need approval. 

Finally, his King growls and stands on unsteady feet. Broken wings spread, and the weak light shines through the holes in his wings, but they keep Him balanced as He moves back up to the dry, cold sand. He stumbles then, falling to the ground with a massive thud.

Rodan trills, forcing aching wings to work as he moves to his King. Stinging cold shoots through his body and he trembles as he lands. His King does not react, but brokenbeautiful wings bend, tucking themselves against a black and dull gold body. White teeth flash in the pale light, and then His head settles into the sand with a huff. 

Genetic memory is a strange thing—of course, Rodan has no language to describe the fact that he knows without ever seeing another of his kind, he knows how to preen, how to clean his cohortmatefamily. It's what he does now, beak working to remove the remnants of dead flesh and dried sand from his King's head.

Though it lacks any real malice, his King snarls, head swiveling over to nip at his wings, but then he settles, neck stretching out to its full length. So he continues preening his King, taking care to avoid the deepest, rawest wounds. He avoids the stumps of his King's slowly-reforming heads, tending instead to His torso, His wings. 

The King remains still under his ministrations, save for occasionally shifting His body to allow Rodan easier access. His King's heart is stronger now. And as Rodan listens, he hears two other hearts begin to beat.

The human worshipers arrive. They always do; he is used to the worshipers and their rituals, the pungent smoke and red meat and tasteless foliage they offer him. 

His King is not. His King feeds on fear, on destruction, but He is still weak. Despite the golden shine returning to His scales, His snarl is hollow and weak, and after a moment the King lowers His head onto the sand. His remaining tail thrashes, rattling in the surf, but it is so soft, barely audible above the pounding waves.

Rodan snarls as the humans approach. They smell foul to his King, Rodan knows, covered in the stench of His loss. 

The worshipers follow the lead of one human, one who is always careful to avert its eyes and hold its arms out in a show of deference. That human smells the foulest, as though he has personally been touched by the other kingゴジラ.

He allows the humans to approach. The leader, the deferring one comes the closest but does not dare touch. Instead it brings out metal things that hum and chime. When Rodan does not react, the other worshipers are encouraged, waving their contraptions in the air, chattering mindlessly as they gather at his feet. 

His King snarls once more, but it is soft. Rodan unfurls his wings and screeches—his King may be weak, but he is not. The humans cry and protest and scatter. Satisfied, the King huffs and lowers his head. 

The worshipers do not bring food. They crowd as close to the King as He allows before growling. The humans speak with hushed chatter, reverent voices. Rodan wonders if his King will acclimate to the worship. 

The worshipers do not bring food, but they remove the sterile and rotting human bodies, use their metal tools to remove the dead prey from the water and sand. 

Rodan supposes it is adequate. 

A pained cry pulls Rodan out of his sleep. It is nearing the end of the night; the sun's weak rays struggle to emerge from the darkness. As the planet turns and the worshipers come and go and the King heals, resting beside his King has become habit, waking tucked against his King's side, with his King's wing draped over his body.

Something cold and wet hits his wing. He sniffs at it, curious, but it smells like his King. Rodan is more concerned with the cry, with the three hearts frantically pounding in sync. 

The other two heads are struggling, trying to emerge from clear, fluid filled sacseggrebirth. The lone head whines as it struggles to free His other heads, but He is still weak, with a weak jaw and brittle teeth mouthing at the sac. 

Rodan chirps. The worshipers are gone, but even if they were here, the King would not allow them close enough to help. The King thrashes, snarling as He slams its wrapped heads against the sand. 

And then He stills, heads settling on the ground. Rodan moves.

His beak is barely strong enough—he is not meant for this, but the King chose him, so he is capable. The membrane is tougher than it looks, thick and clear as it protects his King's heads. Finally they are free, and his King roars in triumph.

And then three heads turn in sync. Three pairs of eyes lock onto his, then separate. The middle holds his gaze. The right huffs. The left noses his wings, pausing over the old, still-healing wound. A forked tongue snakes out, and there is an experimental lick. His body is hot, too hot for his King to lick comfortably. But his Kingstrong whole does it anyway.

He waits. The King continues His examination, licking his wound and mouthing at his crest. Rodan moves closer, close enough to hear his King's hearts. 

His King growls. Rodan bows. Three heads work as one, pulling him closer and closer until his King trembles at the heat of Rodan's body. His wings unfurl to their full width and his King's middle head roars. It echoes in his mind, a humming in his bones and Rodan bows, lowering his head to meet his King's. His King blinks, long and slow as He watches Rodan watch Him. 

Apparently satisfied, his King withdraws, necks twisting and sliding as they pull away. His body feels cold—there is none of the pain, none of the ice that shoots through his body when he flies too far. His King feels warm now, and Rodan realizes it has been some time since it has rained. 

Together, they watch the sun rise.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs/comments are always appreciated; the second chapter is outlined and in the works!

[deliciousscaloppine]

The Blood is the Life

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Vampire AU. NieYao and SangYao- everyone is of age. Post sunshot campaign characterizations. Nie Mingjue is captured by the vampire coven of Qishan and turned into a vampire. Meng Yao is his mortal lover, a witch’s son and a witch himself who covets his vampire gift of immortality and Huaisang is the empath prince who observes their relationship, and vies for recognition and affection. Huaisang puts Meng Yao in jail and dreams of burning him because he won’t tell him where Mingjue is. Lan Xichen makes a thirsty appearance.  

Meng Yao smiles. “The Clan leader is too kind to someone like me.”

“Ah! Meng Yao, that's nonsense. Please drink.”

Meng Yao lifts the medicine to his mouth. Compared to yesterday he looks rosy and vibrant. Is this the power of the witch?

“So what happened to my brother? What was this creature inside the hall? And how did you survive? I lost my mind when I saw how much blood you lost.”

Meng Yao touches faintly his throat, where he was bitten. The physician has bandaged him well, not  even a little blood seeps through. Huaisang would like to pluck those bandages away and really look. The dungeon has been on his mind lately. If he secludes Meng Yao there he'll definitely pry answers from him. But it will be quite the effort to place him there and still preserve his meek veneer, which honestly is his most potent charm.

“I know law compels me to answer your questions, Clan Leader, but for now there is a limit to what I can say. There was indeed a creature in the hall, a blood-drinker that had come from the Wen. But as you well know such a creature wouldn't have gone far into our territory with the protective enchantments in place. As to how I survived I used means that are unsavoury to seal its powers. I could be easily condemned for such practices and if even if you forgave me for telling you, others would condemn you for being too lenient.”

“So you are truly a witch, Meng Yao!”

Meng Yao smiles again with some fear that he will be assailed.

“It's not that I wanted to be one. Put yourself in my place. Even if I wanted to, I could not change what I was born into.”

“Is this how you survived then? By means of some other magic?”

“It's easy to staunch a bleeding if one knows where he bleeds from.” Meng Yao says enigmatically.

That's why all these creatures are wretched, Huaisang thinks. Always keeping their silences, protecting their meaningless secrets.

“Meng Yao is precious to me” he says. “He is my brother's favorite. If my brother can't return to me, I would not part with Meng Yao, the only thing he left behind.”

Meng Yao stares at him silently cautiously as if he knows he is being lured into something.

“If Nie Mingjue cannot come back” he says “Meng Yao wouldn't want to stay. I would that I followed him wherever he was.”

Huaisang knows this line upsets him, even though he can't know why. Is it because the thought of such a relation excites him, or because Meng Yao looks so handsome. If his brother truly was kissing and embracing him all along, how lucky he was.

“So he is not dead.” Huaisang says and feels a little peace at that.

“That depends on the young master's definition of death.” Meng Yao forcefully says. Oh he thinks he is being clever.

Huaisang puts down the medicine and opens his fan. It's so hot inside. The physician certainly showed some consideration for poor and delicate Meng Yao who almost bled to death.

“Meng Yao, you know that people speak ill of you.” he cautiously says, as if he regrets it too. “I wouldn't want to be pressured into letting you go after you have shown my brother such devotion and loyalty.”

Meng Yao's eyes betray no fear at these words. In fact he seems a little pleased at how this goes. A faint smile plays at the edges of his lips. He has known cruelty before, this one. Huaisang tries not to look directly at him, because he thinks the way he is now, his mouth looks perfectly kissable.

“Your answers definitely do not satisfy the ears of the court, but I want to protect you. Will you let me protect you, Meng Yao?” he asks.

Meng Yao smiles wide. “If Nie Huaisang accepts my protection, then I accept his.”

“What do you mean by that? Are you referring to the night you subdued this creature? By the way, where is it now, would it be possible for me to see it, or was it perhaps disposed?”

“This creature is possibly where lord Huaisang wants to place me. Somewhere lonely and dark. But I wouldn't advise him to go there during the day. These creatures are quite volatile when they feel threatened.”

He bites his lips, raising his fan to hide his face. It's so difficult confronting someone who is stronger than you. He hates this, hiding behind some painted paper as if it's a barrier that could truly protect him. He folds the fan again and squeezes it between his hands. He is the lord here, Meng Yao is nothing but vermin not fit even for reincarnation.

“Why can't you be honest with me?” he asks softly. “The creature was my brother. You secluded him somewhere and now you are afraid you will be punished for it.”

“Is there any need for honesty when Nie Huaisang knows my mind?” Meng Yao asks.

Before this moment Huaisang hadn't realized that he had permanently lost his brother. He should strike Meng Yao for this. If anything he would have wanted to say goodbye.

“I may not be someone you fear, but do you really have a need to insult me, Meng Yao? I asked for an honest answer and you have mocked me. I start to think my brother didn't show you enough kindness for you to treat me like this.”

He produces the letter his brother wrote, pronouncing him king.

“He was still alive when he wrote this” he says. “All I ask is that I know he lives still.”

“Qinghe is very narrow with its definitions of living. I  for instance do not live, even though I breathe and speak to you.”

“Then it's the same with my brother. He is some other thing now. He drinks the blood of men. He would drink mine too and anyone living and only Meng Yao can subdue him. Someone like you can't understand my grief, if anything it must make you happy that you now share the same twisted life with my noble brother. But even though I find you despicable I will allow you to live, if you take me to him and let me put an end to his suffering.”

Meng Yao balks, his eyes flaring with mad light.

“You would willingly put an end to his life?” he barks and then smiles. “Then maybe I should have not subdued him at all. I should have let him run riot and slaughter you all.”

“But such a thing will surely come to pass if you continue to control him. Meng Yao, now you see I really have to make you my prisoner. You have to gather your things now, because you will be surely moved to the dungeons.” he says with sufficient sorrow. 

He truly feels no pleasure in taunting him, only anguish. But he is the lord here and he wants to show his strength.

Meng Yao's face is angry. So very angry, but he does not protest. Huaisang will have to think of some clever torture if he is to wring the location of his brother from him. Perhaps find that snake skin and burn it before his eyes.

                                                        ….

Lan Xichen Zewu Jun is a renowned cultivator, he does not leave his mountain easily for one thing or the other. But he was his brother's personal friend and his disappearance brings him out of his misty retreat. Huaisang thought would have to beg and beg for a meeting, but all he has to do is send to him the mysterious snake skin and mention that vampires have made their appearance in Qinghe.

When he arrives his eyes betray a sort of guilty concern. “Where is Nie Mingjue?” he asks. “He left Gusu some time ago, it's not possible that he has not arrived.”

“I am afraid there was some personal betrayal” Huaisang mutters with sorrow in his eyes. “His attendant is involved but he won't tell us anything. Only you could wring the truth from this spiteful creature.”

“Creature?” Zewu Jun asks with fear in his eyes.

Huaisang opens his fan to hide his lips as if the words alone would embarass him. “A witch and a witch's son.” he whispers in confidence. “His life was indebted to my brother, but he did not meet this grace with kindness. He has done something to my brother, Zewu Jun, and only you can tell us what.”

Xichen follows him uneasily to the dungeon, the one under the surface of the earth. He fears he will see atrocities here, but Huaisang is not some depraved lord. He has let Meng Yao live with dignity. He has most of his things, and the handsome clothes Nie Mingjue bought for him. He is given meals and wine and no one harasses him. Huaisang has been nothing but magnanimous.

If Meng Yao really possessed the form of a snake, he would have rather crushed its head with his foot. But as long as his form is human and pleasing, one might as well show him a little grace.

As they descend the stairs, a guard holding a lantern before them, Huaisang can already see their prisoner, sitting silently with a crooked smile at the center of his room. He wears a strange white silken robe loosely about his shoulders that brings to mind the movement of a snake. Did his brother really buy such an item for him? Did he enjoy the strange tales told enough to entertain himself with such gifts?

As Zewu Jun approaches the final step in view of the cell, Meng Yao suddenly moves, raising his arms to cover his face. Some tension seems to have taken hold of him and Huaisang immediately wants to know why. Zewu Jun observes this creature from afar with some faint worry, almost as if he recognizes it.

As the guards let them in his cell, opening the heavy barred doors for them, Huaisang sees how Meng Yao struggles to breathe, averting his face even as he hides it behind his long sleeves.

“Zewu Jun is here to see you, A-Yao. Won't you show him your face?” Huaisang says and fans himself slowly. “He is such an asocial creature, except from my brother he has no affection for anyone else.”

Setting down Shoyue and Liebing with a terse air, Zewu Jun sits before this prisoner. Huaisang can't help but hide his face as well, his feelings are running rampant. He would be lying if he said he didn't envy. This man really thinks that he will offer some meaningful resolution to them. Huaisang wishes he could tell him he is just here just to produce a reaction. He is nothing but a soft pink canary to him.

“You can shows us your face. I won't be disturbed if you are disfigured.” Zewu Jun says compassionately.

“Disfigured! Meng Yao is a beauty. That's why he is so difficult. He can't bear any judgements. He thinks he is above us all. Zewu Jun, tell him that you are here for his own good. Everyone is certain he has done something to my brother. With his background how could I not put him in jail?”

Zewu Jun does not deign his antics with a reply, instead he reaches the prisoner, clasping his hands, as if he hopes to make him reveal his face. But Meng Yao's arms shake with resistance.

“Guards, let Zewu Jun see his face.” he says snapping his fan.

It's curious to have such men at his disposal and to be able to motivate them to cruelty with just a few words. Two of them walk into the cell with perfect posture, losing to time to follow his command. Reaching their prisoner, they wrench his arms violently to reveal his face. There is nowhere for Meng Yao to hide now.

He struggles once, trying to flee, but guards hold on to him with bruising force. Zewu Jun looks distraught, but not at the violence performed before him. Even Huaisang feels a little uneasy at that, but that's maybe because he is the perpetrator, he knows how much this must hurt. To be seen despite your wishes.

And he can't help but rasp with a hint of longing when he sees Meng Yao struggle like that. Finally a reaction he caused, a reaction for him.

“Lianfang!” Zewu Jun says with similar longing and Meng Yao cries as if burned. His eyes then become fierce and with a gesture Huaisang doesn't understand he phases through the grasp of his guards and darts through the walls as if he were some immaterial ghost.

Huaisang hasn't felt that kind of excitement in years, if he ever did in his life. A witch. A real witch, who can do extraordinary things. A bird that won't get caught. Everyone flutters about almost shrieking like the birds in his fallen cages, except for him and Zewu Jun. Slanting his eyes, he has seen this expression before, an expression of solemn yearning, only he doesn't know where it was that he saw it before. Was it his brother? Or was it himself in the mirror of his mind.

Whens spirits have calmed, and the fortress has been searched throughly to reveal that Meng Yao is really gone, he finally seats the awestruck Lan Xichen in a pleasant room to have some tea with him.

“You called the creature Lianfang?” he says and his fingers touch the flayed, dried snake skin Xichen has just returned to him. He wonders if he put it in a little brazier among hot coals would Meng Yao shriek and cry in anguish. Would his skin burn and blister like he imagines it to?

Xichen raises his head. “He is not a creature” he says. “He is important to me. Please try not to hurt him if you apprehend him.”

“But Zewu Jun, you saw what he did! He lied to us all along. Pretending to be my brother's soothsayer and advisor, living like a common man, contaminating us all with his essence. If he is not a supernatural demon of some sort, what is he?”

“It's hard to explain and it is even harder to imagine that he caused you real harm. When we saw him in the dungeon he could have hurt us both. He could have injured the guards. But he didn't do any of these things. Are those not enough reasons to assume his innocence.”

“Innocence? Let's not rush to such conclusions, Zewu Jun” Huaisang says placatingly. “I do not know this person as you do. Perhaps if you told me more, I would be better equipped to deal with him, maybe even find my brother.”

Zewu Jun hangs his head at this. “Mingjue never told me he found him. I do not understand why.”

“So this creature is something he took from you?” Huaisang probes. Wouldn't it be the most interesting thing if this Meng Yao seduced powerful men to live in their elegant courts? Maybe this explains Huaisang's uneasy attraction to him after all. A thing akin to a glamour. A cheap trick, easily countered.

“Lianfang left Cloud Recesses for unknown reasons” Xichen whispers as if the memory pains him. “I thought he was happy there. For many nights I searched for him, but my Clan started to look upon it with disdain. I had to stop. I asked lord Mingjue to find him for me.”

“Meng Yao has lived with us for several years. From his reaction it's true that he might be your Lianfang too. But then why wouldn't brother tell you? What exactly does he do? Does he bewitch men?” he asks innocently.

Zewu Jun's eyes shoot up with a cold glare that makes Huaisang shiver. He certainly wouldn't want to antagonize such a man. Lucky Meng Yao to have enthralled not one, but two noble men. Huaisang won't be so easy to swoon for him.

“Ah, regardless, we should search for him. He is after all related to my brother's disappearance. And only a few nights ago, a vampire attacked the castle. Meng Yao is the one who subdued him. He is also our only witness to that and his half-words were disconcerting. This is so distressing.” he whines. “Zewu Jun, if possible please guide me. I can't be really expected to deal with this mess. I have no experience at all.” he says and fans himself furiously, as if the very prospect of mental labor makes him hot.

But on his mind is Meng Yao’s cage. The one he left his ruffled feathers drop. His trove of ritual objects. Maybe he ought to take a look.

[theflenser]

Street Sects interview with Ad Libitum.

A interview with Street Sects, originally published in Polish in the Ad Libitum zine.

Interviewer: Lidia Kowalski

1) In one interview, you stated that Rat Jacket was kind of "transition point" for you. Was it only in musical kind of meaning or was it also concerning lyrical content? What kind of "topics" will be brought up on the newest album?

Leo Ashline - Mostly it was a musical transition point. I tend to approach lyric writing from a song to song basis, depending on how the music that Shaun sends me makes me feel at the time. Shaun was introducing a lot of melody on that EP, twitching guitars, slightly more patient structuring, and some really sad, melancholy synth work, so the words reflect those things. Lyrically, the thematic connective tissues of Rat Jacket are trust, betrayal, and regret. It differed from End Position in that it was less hateful and nihilistic, albeit only slightly.

On The Kicking Mule there are a lot of different themes at play. The record is more of a collection of vignettes than it is any kind of concept record. A lot of the songs are incredibly personal. “Birch Meadows, 1991” is about my parents divorce, and “Everyone’s at Home Eventually” deals in part with my love/hate relationship with alcohol, and how it has always been first and foremost a symptom of my fear and anxiety. Other songs, like “Chasing the Vig” and “The Drifter” are my feelings and experiences filtered through my love for crime noir writing, much like “Featherweight Hate” was on End Position.

2) Firstly, you have been working on making your project into a "total aesthetics" one. What exactly does it mean, what does it involve? And is it possible that one day it will go beyond simply music and visuals?

LA - An old friend of mine impressed this idea upon me about a decade or so ago. To me it means having all of the facets of your work (the music, the visuals, the words, the live performance, etc) coalesce into a unified or singular aesthetic. I think our work as a whole speaks pretty clearly to that intent. And yes, I do think it can and (hopefully) will seep into other mediums. Time will tell.

3) Concerning the visuals - on almost all of the covers of your releases, a silhouette of woman which (imo) symbolises death, can be seen. Does her presence mean simplz that death, or a thought of it, is present through full duration of your life, or does her symbolical role differ? What's your view on that?

LA – Death, or “Lizzy”, as we call her, represents different things in different images. In the original Gentrification seven inches, she represented the culture, the color that gets pushed out and washed over when a neighborhood is gentrified. People want to destroy what they are afraid of. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. Death, like diversity, scares certain people. Lizzy was beautiful, and look what you did to her. Now you can drink your fucking pour over coffees and your fifteen dollar craft cocktails in clean, vanilla scented, color-free comfort. Happy?

In other images, she is the voyeur. She is watching, waiting, refusing to participate or interfere because she knows better. She knows how it’s going to end, one way or another, so she may as well sit back and enjoy the show. In other images she is the chauffer, our guide from here to there. In those instances I’d like to think that she represents hope, optimism, and a chance at finding something more meaningful than what we have allotted ourselves this time around.

4) You have once told about that there were periods in your life, where your only motivation to get up was music you got to make. Has making music had a cathrarctic, self-therapic role for you? Or maybe it played a part and made you see anything else in life worth living for only a bit?

LA - I think maybe a bit of both. Focusing so intently upon negative energy can be therapeutic in that the negativity can, on a good day, become something purposeful. It can be a tool to be utilized rather than a weight or a burden. And yes, certainly touring, meeting people, being fortunate enough to see your work have an effect on others, all of that can be incredibly rewarding. It can sometimes help to restore that lack of faith in the whole thing. But most of the time, unfortunately, it isn’t enough. You reach down and try to dig for that feeling, and it just isn’t there. Shaun and I do what we can to keep pushing each other forward, and I think that we are fortunate to have that dynamic. I see a lot of people, artists, who struggle to make it on their own, and it’s such an uphill battle. Trying to dodge depression, rejection, self-doubt, and a constant lack of encouragement all while pushing yourself creatively can quickly become a bleak and impossibly lonely road. It’s hard to blame people for wanting to walk away from that.

5) Well, it is obvious becouse of your experiences and feelings, but in your music you often display the darkest, most ugly side of live. You had your fair share of really awful times, but here comes the question: what, do you think, has the most power to destroy a human: his surroundings or him alone?

LA - That’s a pretty big question, and honestly I don’t think I’m really qualified to answer that, at least not in any kind of broad sense. Speaking for myself, I blame the majority of my hardships, past and present, on my own poor decisions. I’ve had a lot of opportunity, and I have wasted almost all of it. Now I’m playing catch up, and I’m still paying for a lot of those mistakes. I used to move around a lot, different cities…different states. Wherever I went I kept fucking up. I don’t think my surroundings had much to do with it.

6) There are a lot of people in the world that live in their safe world, completely unaware of what can be happening three steps from their home, completely unaware of how depression feels. Do you see "consciousness" as a value? Would you rather be totally blind, but happy?

Shaun Ringsmuth:  Consciousness is something I've had to teach myself to value. Of course, the mind records what's happening whether you appreciate it or not, but it might be to one's advantage to find a place of calm before blowing one's brains out, or worse having one's brains blasted by another person. Violence like that, either way, always scares me, because of how little value is placed on the moments, whether it's sentiment between two people or the greatest speech ever being spoken--it all seemingly becomes a waste staring at the barrel of a gun. On this topic, I would recommend Viktor Frankle's book Man's Search for Meaning. It is with great luck that tragedy doesn't happen to a person, and of course that begs the questions of how to live, why, and what for. Arguably it is better to try to live with purpose, and if that purpose is found to then not diminish it with negative self-talk, or rot away on drugs and alcohol, and to not take out on other people one's personal sense of injustice. With the creation of art, a sense of purpose can be easily associated, because it is often self-created and comes from a place of inner truth. Even in collaboration, like with me and Leo in Street Sects, we share what we can, go our separate way for a while, and then come back with we've found. Sometimes this is a song, or a new image, or a lyric, but whatever it is the aim of these created things is to give time--time being the only thing we ever really own--a story, a way of relating the human experience, which with any luck gets passed on long after we're dead. However, to get back to your question, is it better to be totally blind but happy: that's not for anyone else to say but yourself. You have to step away from your everyday reality for a number of minutes and ask yourself, Is this who I am, is this what I want? And then change the "why" to the "how"--as in, not "why am I doing this," but "how am I going to do this."

LA - Do I see a consciousness as a value? I can’t imagine any artist or musician answering “no” to that question. If I was “totally blind, but happy” I don’t think I would have much use for art or music as a creative outlet, because I doubt that I would have anything interesting to say. Pain and despair, like death and diversity, are a part of life.

7) On "The Defence of Resentment", you start by listing some of the fears you have. However, is there any  particular fear that is close to you the most, that haunts you, if I can say it this way, "personally"?


LA - My biggest fear is the fear of being a failure, of having wasted my life. To reach the end and have to own up to the fact that I could have done so much more, that I could have tried harder, done better. The potentiality of that kind of regret is terrifying.

8) In one interview, you said that being sincere while writing lyrics isn't enough, it is also a matter of finding a unique perspective. In what way you see your perspective as unique?

LA: Everyone’s perspective is unique, not just mine. However, not everyone is able to communicate their perspectives in a way that does justice to their particular experience. Art takes form, and we look to preexisting forms as influences and guideposts for our own work. Even the most abstract artists are often hard-pressed to outrun the shadows of artists who came before them. With my writing I try to focus on expressions of sincerity and honesty, and try to couch those expressions in a form that appeals to my inner critic. I don’t want anything that I write to have the stink of familiarity or nostalgia. It has to be clear that there was an effort made to approach the work from a fresh perspective. Whether I’m successful in that or not is not really for me to say, but the effort is there.

9) Do you think that we, as a human kind, have a tendency to run away from thing we'd be better off not knowing? What we escape most frequently in modern world?


SR: Some of us, yes. I've known and admired people in my life who have preferred truth in every instance. I was not one of those people. I wanted escapism and fantasy, some of which was self-destructive. Not wanting reality exactly as it is can also lead to creativity: novels, movies, music, paintings, architecture. Attempting to see reality as it is, and attempting to see reality as better than it is--these are worthy pursuits. Lately, I'm finding what's most important from day to day is knowing exactly what one thinks and feels, followed by deliberate action. Like, really stopping all movement and asking what's going on. It's the only way to care for oneself and for others. It is worth taking the time to breathe deeply, look around, and be in that very moment of reality, because that's the best chance to really see and to create. This is easier said than done, of course, because one wakes up and all the shit from yesteryear is right there, and nothing seems good enough and nobody is kind. Everyday one has to make a choice of how to live.

10) On "Rat Jacket", I can feel a distinction, yet a weird relationship between abrasive mechanisation and a "human side" to this music (by which I mean post-industrial melodic hooks). Do you think that the same kind of connection between pure human soul and that what is cold and obcure can be found?

SR:  Yes! Though, I would add that every Street Sects recording has attempted this connection between warm human melody and cold machine sounds. Humans have the gift (and burden) of being self-aware, unlike other animals, and with that comes the urge to name, to conceptualize, to make meaning where there seemingly isn't one. It's how people come to such wildly different interpretations over pieces of abstract art. The less a piece is controlled by labels the more room a person's mind has to dream. Even if something begins with a narrative or directive, it can take a turn for the surreal and then allow more headroom for the spectator. We see this in Ingmar Bergman's films. We see this in John Barth's novels. We feel this in Harold Budd's music. Any abstraction of course does ask participation of the listener/viewer, and not everyone wants that experience. Sometimes all we want is escape. Creating these things can get complicated, but it doesn't have to be a single extreme choice, thus the use of melody or a relatable narrative coursing through abstract imagery.

On "In Prison, at Least I Had You" I wrote a fairly abstract intro. Originally it was supposed to go toward a split release with the Cincinnati band Curse. Some

of their songs have slow, doomish metal-inspired parts, so I wrote what I thought would complement that. When the song starts, it's all bits of sound, total collage work, which eventually flows into what I hoped would be doomish metal tempo, followed by the main portion of the song itself. The final version you hear on Rat Jacket didn't come out as I intended, at least the intro part before the wind-up sound that kicks off the song, but I spent a lot of time on that intro collage part, really feeling out those sounds, connecting them, making sure they had the right rhythm in the mix. The intention of that song in particular serves the human/machine dynamic, I think.

11) During the times of "Gentrification" you said that you don't exactly write lyrics, but rather do some kind of stream of consciousness resolved around central topic. Are you still working like that?

LA: No. With the Gentrifiction singles there were these pieces of micro-fiction that I had written to accompany the records, these sort of journals from characters who were caught in the crossfire of social displacement. Those pieces were the core of the writing, and the “lyrics” were more guttural abstractions of those pieces. Since End Position, my approach to lyric writing has been more traditional and meticulous.

12) Also, many times when you were asked about your process of creation, you mentioned talking with each other a lot about it. What were those conversations about? I don't mean to dwell to deep, just the general.

SR: Leo and I don't sit down and work out songs on instruments together. We tend to talk through the parts, and later I work them out in the instrumentation. This is why I sometimes only write a snippet of a song, maybe one minute or two. I'll send it over to him to think about, and he'll often listen to the pieces in his van. The conversations, on the whole, cover a long period of time in our friendship, to my mind, because he and I have been talking about music since we first met in 2002. Sometimes in talking about a current thing we're working on, we'll reference a ten-year-old conversion about a band or song. It breathes new life into old ideas.

13) This question can be a bit personal, and even if your music and lyrics are generally confessional, I'll understand if you don't answer. What's you experience with the spiral of self-hate? What makes it worse and harder to escape (if it is possible at all)? How do you experience it, can you desribe in your own, abstract way?

LA: I don’t mind answering. My relationship with self-hate probably began around the time my parents got divorced, in 1991. I put on a lot of weight and it made my life harder in terms of school, peers, and my interest in the opposite sex. I have struggled with having a negative body image my entire life, and it has greatly effected my self esteem, my confidence, and my overall mental health. These issues in turn led to eating disorders, isolating myself from other people, and self medicating with alcohol and drugs. The chemical dependencies then in turn created a maelstrom of other problems, culminating in extreme and obsessive self destructive thoughts and behavior. Fixation on suicide as a solution, which is still a huge part of my mental framework, unfortunately. I feel like I have been trying to work backwards through these problems for a long time now, but the root problems are still there. Getting off drugs and alcohol was only the tip of the iceberg in terms of the mountain of work I still have in front of me. What makes it worse is inertia. Sitting around. Not doing anything. I have to keep busy with the band. I don’t go to therapy, and I stopped attending (AA) meetings years ago. Street Sects is the only real cure I have found. I don’t know what I would do without it.

14) This will be less of a question and more of a confirmation (or denial) of my predictions. On your lyrics to "In Prison, At Least I Had You", there is a fragment that says "I'm holding the same position". Is it reffering to title of your debut LP, "End

Position"?

LA: Yep. Nice catch!

15) And finally. How are you feeling these days? Is life quite OK? I wish you the best, honestly.

SR: I am now almost two years sober, so my feeling about things in general is one of hope. Without sounding corny here, I really want to live with passion, put all the ideas into the music, and try to connect with people along the way. When I drank, i drank to black out and forget myself, and I lived that way from about 14 to 32 years of age. There was so much self-loathing, trepidation, anxiety in my life. I was afraid of everything. These days I try not to take anybody or anything for granted. I let people know that I love them and that they are loved, which is something I couldn't do pretty much my whole life. I'm grateful that I'm still making music with my best friend, Leo, and I truly believe our best work is still to come.

Thank you, Lidia, for listening and looking into our music, and for taking the time to interview us.

LA: I’d be lying if I said that I feel good more often than not. Staying positive is a constant struggle. But I have a lot to be grateful for, most of all this band and my friendship with Shaun. I’m also extremely grateful for my mother, who helped me get sober, for the small handful of friends I have, and for everyone who has ever supported Street Sects in any way. Thanks for the interview, Lidia. Sorry it took us so long to get these answers back to you.

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

call now for a free gift! [part ii/iii]

Six years after Rey’s first Christmas with Ben and his family, unexpected gifts abound at the annual Organa-Solo-Skywalker(-Kenobi?) Christmas celebration.

Featuring: Organa-Solo-Skywalker shenanigans, a ton of major surprises, and fluff. Again with the fluff. It’s always the damn fluff.

Here we go again! Buckle up, friends, because it’s about to get fluffier than ever before. Leia and Rey have their annual Christmas breakfast, and Rey and Ben receive an unexpected gift from the twins.

Part I Also available on AO3.

“Where are you going?” Ben mumbles as Rey gets out of bed, barely awake enough to look up at her as she cards a hand through his hair.

“Christmas breakfast with your mother,” she reminds him, leaning in for a quick kiss before she drags herself out of bed and over to her bag in search of a sweater. “Don’t worry, you can keep sleeping.” It’s a longstanding tradition between the two women at this point, to enjoy a quiet Christmas morning while everyone else sleeps in. Sometimes Rey wonders just how her teenaged self would have reacted to the news that she would one day share a Christmas tradition with the Leia Organa, and it never fails to put a smile on her face.

Ben turns on his side to track her movements, and his lips are pursed in a distinctly pout-like manner – not that he’ll ever admit to it. “It’s our first morning as an engaged couple, and you’re leaving me in bed to go have breakfast with my mother?”

“Maybe you should’ve timed your proposal better,” Rey teases, voice muffled as she pulls a sweater over her thin camisole. “Besides,” she sits next to Ben, gives him a placating smile as her hand curves around his cheek, “we had a rather eventful first night as an engaged couple. That should tide you over for now.”

And with one final kiss – shorter than Ben would like, judging by the way he tries to reach for her and whines when she steps away –, Rey disappears into the bathroom down the hall to freshen up before breakfast with her future mother-in-law.

She walks into the kitchen to find Leia already comfortably settled at the breakfast table as always, two mugs of Irish coffee keeping her company as she waits for Rey.

“Merry Christmas,” Rey says as she reaches for the coffee out of habit. At the last minute she abruptly changes course and picks up some toast instead, but she knows there’s no way Leia didn’t catch that.

The other woman’s eyes twinkle. “Merry Christmas indeed,” she murmurs over the lip of her mug, and Rey busies herself with spreading butter and jam over two slices of toast while she gathers up the nerve to ask Leia a question that’s been on her mind since yesterday.

“Leia?” she finally calls, setting down her toast.

“Hmm?”

Rey smiles at the knowing look Leia gives her. “What made you propose to Han?”

“Oh,” Leia blinks, the slightest bit taken aback. “Well, there’s the short version: I saw him building a crib and my hormones got the best of me. And then there’s the truth: up until that exact moment, I wasn’t sure about anything. I never told anyone but god, I was so scared. I’d known Han for three years by then, but we’d spent the entirety of that time being outlaws, being rebels, always doing reckless and exciting stuff. It’s easy to form a connection, when you’re living a life like that, but I always knew in the back of my mind that it was a whirlwind of a thing, that it might not work in a real world setting.” There’s no hiding the sadness in her eyes at the prospect, even all these years later.

“And then things finally calmed down, and before we could even really get to know each other, suddenly I was pregnant. Han stuck around, I always knew he would, but I had no way of knowing if this was something he wanted or if he was just doing the right thing. My noble scoundrel, I’d call him in my head sometimes,” Leia shakes her head with a fond smile. “I knew he’d stay, knew he’d try his best, but… to see him there in the garage, first thing in the morning, building a crib for this baby he couldn’t have seen coming, this baby that had ostensibly ruined his whole lone wolf bachelor life… I knew then that we’d be okay. I didn’t know how we were going to make things work, exactly, but I knew that he loved the baby already and that was enough for me.”

“That’s all you need, really,” Leia tells her, that knowing look back in her eyes. “Just love them, and you can figure it out from there.” And then, before Rey can even think to act dumb, she asks, “So, how far along?”

Rey sighs, gives in with a tiny smile. “Five weeks.”

Leia hums, a small little thing in the back of her throat indicating consideration. Rey takes a bite of her toast as she watches the other woman get up and retrieve a bottle of orange juice from the fridge.

“I’ll take this,” Leia says as she trades Rey’s untouched Irish coffee for the orange juice and an empty glass. “So, does Ben know yet? Don’t worry - he asked for the ring ages ago, so I know it’s not a shotgun wedding.”

“No,” Rey whispers as she fiddles with said ring, wonders how something can feel so foreign yet so right. She’ll get used to it, she supposes; has all the time in the world to do so. “I haven’t told him. I just don’t know if we’re ready for this,” she admits quietly, letting all of her fear and doubt seep into her voice. This is Leia, after all – if there’s anyone who can help Rey through this (aside from Ben, who isn’t exactly an option right now), it’s her. “I mean, we’ve talked about it, of course, but it’s always been one of those someday things, you know? And now he’s just finished his PhD, and we’re both starting new jobs soon, and there’s still the move–”

“Rey,” Leia reaches across the table to still her shaking hand. It works almost as well as when Ben does the same thing to calm her down and keep her from spiraling. “There’s only one thing you need to consider right now. Do you want this?”

“I…” She lets her free hand drift down to her stomach, thinks of how every single vision of hers for their future had immediately started to change the second she’d found out, an automatic and instant instinct to accommodate this tiny new life. It’s only been four days, but Rey can’t imagine going back to any of those plans from before. So she tells Leia, confident and scared at the same time, “Yes. I do.”

Leia gives her a brilliant smile, squeezes her hand in reassurance. “Then you’ll be just fine, as long as you and Ben are there for each other.”

A sense of calm settles over her. Leia always makes things so simple, strips all of her worries and insecurities away until the bare truth remains: as long as they have each other, she and Ben will be fine. She can already picture it: the two of them as a team, taking on unexpected pregnancy challenges and the uncharted territory that is parenthood. She’ll worry about not being a good mom since she didn’t have one, and he’ll actively fear repeating his parents’ mistakes, but together they’ll guide each other and figure it out and–

The sense of comfort and peace lasts for all of five seconds before Rey remembers– “Oh god, I still haven’t told him.”

Leia pats her hand, gives Rey a gentle smile before she picks up her coffee. “You should probably do that.”

Christmas lunch is a quiet affair this year, just the five of them since all of the usual suspects are otherwise occupied.

“So,” Han says after a few minutes of comfortable silence, a novelty at this table, “what’s this new job about, kid?”

By the time Rey looks up, he’s already focused on his food, and so there’s no telling which of them the question had been addressed to. She and Ben share a look before he asks, “Which one?”

Han stares at them, a forkful of roast hovering just beyond his mouth. He looks almost confused for a moment, as if he himself hadn’t thought that through. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s blurted out the first thing to come to mind just because Leia gave him a gentle nudge to say something. “Both of them, I guess.”

“I’ve got a job teaching poli-sci and maybe another related class or two,” Ben shrugs between bites. “That’s about it, really. But Rey’s new job–”

“Hey,” Rey turns to him, “don’t downplay it. You’ve been offered tenure at the University of Theed pretty much right out of the gate, with only a few years of teaching experience in Coruscant. That’s amazing,” she tells the rest of the table.

“It is very impressive, Ben,” Luke chimes in supportively. “To be tenured in this day and age, especially with less than five years of experience – you’ve done well, Dr. Solo.”

“We’re very proud of you,” Leia tells her son, and to everyone’s surprise–

“Yeah, what she said, kid,” Han adds, with no trace of sarcasm and no sign of Leia having given him a slight kick under the table to say so.

He’s even smiling, and Rey’s heart warms to see Ben slowly smiling back at his father. “Thanks,” he tells the table, but looks directly at Han.

“Yeah, yeah,” his father says after a while, not quite able to hide his smile behind his usual gruff demeanor. “What about you, kid?” he asks Rey.

“It’s, um, it’s pretty exciting, actually,” Rey says hesitantly, weighs how much detail she can get into without boring everyone else. Luke, she knows, is always happy to talk shop – though a physicist by profession, he’s proven more than capable of keeping up with her aeronautical engineering tangents –, but she decides to just give everyone the highlights. “The government of Naboo and the University of Theed are setting up a new lab to look into more fuel-efficient crafts, and they somehow found out about me and decided to bring me in. It’s going to be a lot of actual engineering and research, which will be fun after two years of mostly technical trouble-shooting and paperwork.”

Luke looks just as proud of her as he was of Ben, and Leia and Han beam at her even if they don’t quite get the magnitude of what this offer means for her career. But Ben – “They didn’t just somehow find out about you,” he shakes his head at Rey with a patient smile, turns to his family with bright eyes. “Rey wrote this amazing thesis for her master’s about alternative fuel options she experimented with back in Jakku. It’s become sort of infamous in the right circles, and Theed has been keeping track of her ever since. She was one of the first people they contacted about the new lab, and they’re making her part of an elite team of eight engineers heading up the whole thing.”

She almost wants to contradict Ben and tell everyone it’s not as impressive as he makes it out to be, but then he turns to smile at her, all proud and supportive, and god, Rey loves this man. So she decides to just smile back at him and duck her head for a bit until her cheeks don’t feel that warm anymore.

“Sounds about right,” Han shrugs after a moment. “Always knew you two were pretty damn impressive.”

Luke seconds that, and Leia proposes a toast to the two of them and new beginnings. If Han or Luke notice that Rey doesn’t actually drink from her glass – the way she didn’t drink from any of her glasses at the party last night, simply handing them over to Ben whenever he needed a refill –, they’re tactful enough not to hint at anything that hasn’t been announced.

Rey eyes Ben as he sets down his half-empty glass and instantly gets roped into a conversation with Han about recent upgrades on the Falcon. After a while his hand reaches out for hers, but he doesn’t look her way, doesn’t catch her switching their glasses.

Still. Rey knows she can only keep this from him for so long.

After lunch she and Ben help Luke with the dishes while Han and Leia take a walk, and it takes them a little longer than usual to get everything washed and dried because they’re too caught up in reminiscing about life in Coruscant U.

“So when are you moving?” Luke asks almost reluctantly, having expressed for the tenth time how weird it’ll be not to run into either of them around campus anymore.

“End of January, most likely,” Ben says as he returns dried dishes to their rightful places. “They’re bringing me in after midterms as a mid-semester replacement, and Rey’s job doesn’t start till March. Figure that’ll give us enough time to get properly unpacked and moved in before work starts.”

Luke nods along to his nephew’s explanation. “Have you found a place yet?”

Rey sighs. “Not yet. Everything is either too far, too expensive, or too small. And we don’t want to sign a lease on a place we’re not happy with.”

“Housing in Theed is a fucking nightmare,” Ben grumbles to his uncle. “I know it’s been a while and it’s a major city, but I don’t remember it being anywhere near this awful back when we used to go there for the summer.”

“Well, things change,” Luke shrugs, and Rey thinks she catches the slightest hint of a grin before he turns back to the dishes with a forced and telling casualness. “But I wouldn’t be too worried if I were you two. I think Leia has an idea.”

Ben squints at his uncle’s back, and turns to Rey with a suspicious look. She simply nods in agreement and goes back to drying the dishes.

It isn’t until much later, towards the end of the night, that they find out just what Luke had been hinting at.

“So,” Leia announces once they’re all food-sleepy and eggnog-drowsy, “Luke and I have a surprise for you two.”

Luke’s entire face lights up as he claps his hands together gleefully. “Finally! I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“Don’t ruin it,” his sister shoots him an admonishing look before she gets up and walks over to the Christmas tree in the corner, all twinkling lights and tasteful ornaments and not a single present under the tree, as per Organa-Skywalker-Solo tradition.

Rey and Ben watch Leia retrieve one single gift from the tree, nestled amongst its lower branches rather than placed under it. It’s a small box, all glossy red paper and classy silver ribbon, and upon spotting it last night Rey had mistaken it for a slightly-oversized ornament.

Now Leia holds the gift out to them, and Ben slowly reaches out to take it. “I thought this was a gift-free household,” he reminds his mother.

“Open it,” Leia simply tells him, returning to her seat between Han and Luke, both of whom appear to be leaning forward in anticipation.

Ben nudges her with his shoulder and holds the box out on one palm, and Rey carefully slips off the ribbon before she lifts the lid off the box and fishes out a set of keys.

It takes her a while to recognize them – Ben always uses his own set when they visit – but as soon as her eyes land upon the familiar address carved into the small wooden keychain, recognition dawns upon her. Ben too, if his tiny gasp is any indication.

“Mom, this is…”

Rey looks up at the twins. “You’re giving us…?”

Leia nods, a huge smile on her face. “Varykino, yes. I know it’s all the way out in Lake Country but honestly, given the traffic in Theed, this will make for a much more pleasant commute. The road from Lake Country into Theed leads right to the university, since it’s on the edge of the city anyway. And from there Rey should be able to easily take the train or a shuttle to work. So really, it’s not even that much of a drive.”

“You can either sit in Theed traffic for an hour,” Luke adds, looking horrified just by the idea of it, “or you can start your days with a scenic, traffic-free forty-minute drive.”

Rey and Ben turn to look at each other. It’s a wonderful idea, and they love Varykino, but…

“We can’t possibly accept this,” Rey tells the twins.

“It’s too much,” Ben agrees. “This is a whole house. This is your mother’s house. You can’t just–”

“Ben,” Leia interrupts him with a patient tone. “It was always going to be yours, anyway. And when you two got together, Luke and I agreed that it would be your wedding present. Now you’re engaged – so close enough, we figure – and you’re in need of a house in Naboo. So here you are.”

“Merry Christmas, happy wedding, and just don’t ever expect another gift from us for the rest of your lives,” Luke says with a grin.

They hesitate for a moment more, until Han decides to pipe up. “Just take it, kids. No one ever offered me a fancy house when I got engaged, but there’s no way I would’ve turned that down.”

So they accept the house, with a million thanks and tight hugs.

A little while later, as they’re all saying their good-nights and heading to bed, Leia suggests, “You two should take off for a while, spend the rest of your week in Varykino.”

“But we just got here–” Rey protests weakly.

Leia smirks at them. “Just go. I was young and newly engaged once too, you know. You need some privacy.”

From upstairs, Han calls down, “And we need some space from your celebrating!”

“Please,” Luke decides to chime in from the top of the stairs. “Please spare us from your celebrating.”

“Bunch of prudes,” Leia rolls her eyes at the men. “Just… stay for lunch, okay?” she tells Ben and Rey. “And after that you can go have a pre-honeymoon honeymoon or whatever it is you want to call it.”

Ben reaches out to pull his mom into a hug. “Thanks, Mom. For this, and the house, and just… everything.”

Leia leans into her son with a smile. “You’re welcome. Now, off to bed. You two have a long drive ahead of you tomorrow.”

They trade their good-nights, thank Leia one last time, and head upstairs. In bed, while Ben traces squiggly lines up and down her arm, he muses out loud, “We could have the wedding in Varykino.”

Rey, half-asleep already, lifts her head from its perch on Ben’s chest. “Hmm?”

“The wedding. Our wedding,” Ben smiles. “We could have it in Varykino, if you’d like. I know you don’t want anything big and flashy, but this should give us enough room to invite all of our closest friends and even house some of them overnight if we have to, and it’s got a great view, you love the lake–”

“Okay,” Rey yawns, presses a kiss to the hollow of his neck before she allows her eyes to close. “That sounds perfect. Let’s get married in Varykino.”

Distantly she hears Ben chuckle, feels his chest rise and fall as he stops caressing her arm and drops his hand to curl around her waist. “We’ll talk about it again when you’re not dozing off. Good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night, Ben,” she mumbles, and allows herself to drift off in his arms.

So the plan was to keep each chapter at about two-thousand words.

This is a little over three-thousand. Whoops, I did it again. There were bits and pieces in this chapter that I really debated taking out, but at the end of the day I want you guys to know what's going on with their lives, every tiny detail. Because that's the only satisfying goodbye I can give these two, I think - one where we know where they're headed and how their lives will play out. (And yes, this fic is really just one long goodbye to this 'verse. It's like a three-chapter epilogue, basically.)

Tune in tomorrow for the last chapter! Will Rey finally tell Ben her secret? Will they christen every surface of Varykino?? What if they - GASP - decide to elope right there and then??? (Spoiler alert: they don't.)

Anyway, see you then. As always, thanks for reading and feel free to like/reblog/comment/etc.!