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letterboxd · 3 years

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Truffle Hunter.

As Pig snuffles its way up Letterboxd’s best of 2021 ranks, Mitchell Beaupre hunts down writer-director Michael Sarnoski for a chat about some of the finer creative points of his Nicolas Cage-starring meditation on cookery and grief.

In a time when audiences know too many specific plot details of films months before they’re even released, the idea of a surprise sensation feels like a fleeting memory. Yet that’s exactly how one could describe Pig, the debut feature from director Michael Sarnoski. With minimal pre-release buzz and no flashy festival premiere, Pig is a film whose status has been created through sheer quality alone.

This is a true word-of-mouth smash, hailed by critics as one of the best films of the year, as well as quickly earning itself a high placement on our Top 50 of 2021. Jacob Knight praises the film as “an existential rumination regarding how people find meaning in a mostly meaningless world”, while Muriel declares it “the most unexpectedly wholesome movie I’ve seen in forever”. Not bad for a first feature.

Written by Sarnoski, from a story he developed with co-producer Vanessa Block, Pig opens on Rob (Nicolas Cage), a loner isolated in the woods with his truffle pig. Rob makes his living selling truffles to the eager and ambitious Amir (Alex Wolff), but when two people break into Rob’s home and steal his animal companion, he must do whatever it takes to be reunited with his only friend.

A rough day deserves a decent vin rouge.

While that setup led many to give Sarnoski’s film the moniker “John Wick with a pig” when the trailer dropped, the story ends up charting a course away from genre thrills and towards something else entirely. Pig is an exploration of grief, loneliness and compassion, featuring one of the finest performances of Nicolas Cage’s illustrious career.

Raised in Milwaukee, Sarnoski and co-producer Block met in college before working together on the documentary short The Testimony, which focused on the largest rape tribunal in the history of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. That film made it onto the shortlist for the 2016 Oscars, putting the two of them on a path that would lead to their breakthrough opportunity with Pig.

Sarnoski spoke with us about the origins of Pig, the long-term impacts of loss in his own life, the joy of hand-cranked pasta and Bruce Springsteen.

Congratulations on the film! How has it felt seeing this outpouring of love coming for your first feature? Michael Sarnoski: It’s been amazing. Everyone who made this movie felt for themselves that it was special, and we all put a lot of care into it. We also knew that it was a risk, a strange film we figured would hit right for some people, but then plenty of others would think it was boring and weird. We’ve been very pleasantly surprised that it’s a small minority of people who feel that way.

What was the seed of the story that would eventually sprout to become Pig? I had this image in my head of an old man in the woods with his truffle pig. There was something sweet and tragic about that. Then I began asking questions about who this guy is and why he’s out there alone in the woods. What’s his backstory? It all evolved from there.

While the first act inhabits that “John Wick with a pig” space that people were perhaps expecting from the trailer, the story then takes a swerve and becomes a somber, thoughtful character study. Could you speak about navigating that unique arc with your storytelling? We never set out to try and subvert that John Wick sort of genre. We knew that we were playing with that lone-cowboy idea of a film and some of those tropes, but we never wanted to poke fun at that or switch people’s expectations in some sense by choosing Nic to star. We never wanted to “surprise” people by making a quiet Nic Cage movie. It was always just about these characters, what this story is, what we’re trying to explore. I think if we had tried to be subversive it would have come off as hokey.

Silence plays a key part in the film, as so much is being said in those spaces between the dialogue and action. How did you want to utilize the impact of saying more with silence? From early on, we always knew it was going to be a very silent film, and that followed all the way through the edit. Some of us wanted that opening to start out the way it’s done in the movie, where it’s totally silent and the music only comes in at the very end, while others were worried that people would get bored with it. The argument against that was that if they’re going to get bored with that, then they’re going to get bored with the rest of the movie. So, we might as well just lean into it, and let them know what it’s going to be.

From there we gauged how we wanted to approach the silence throughout. There’s some beautiful music in the film that Alexis Grapsas and Philip Klein did an incredible job with that allowed us to bring this beauty and splendor into the scenes. But there were also a lot of really quiet moments where we wanted the audience to be focused on the faces of the characters, and really be feeling the space and letting the sounds of the forest, or wherever we were, come across.

Nicolas Cage, his knife skills, and cinematographer Patrick Scola.

Along with the faces, you focus a lot on hands in the film. Whether it’s in scenes of violence or making food, there’s a real emphasis on what hands are capable of. Where did the inspiration for that come from? Nic was very into the idea of conveying artistry through your hands. He spent a lot of time with local chefs to try and get the vibe of how they moved and how they worked. He was always practicing knife skills in his room. I was constantly waiting for the AD to come up and tell me that we can’t use Nic today because he cut off a finger, but thankfully that never happened. Nic really sold that emphasis on the hands. Those shots could have felt empty if it wasn’t for him. I still am surprised watching some of the little hand choices he made.

I remember there was one shot where we didn’t get it on the day. So, we set it up with his stand-in, and just had him wearing his gloves. We all watched it, and it just wasn’t the same. Nic agreed, and so we reset the entire thing just to get that one shot with his hands in there instead. It was totally worth it. He’s an incredible actor, and it comes through every part of him.

Cage is an actor with an almost otherworldly mythos about him, which allows people to sometimes forget what a tremendous performer he’s always been. What was your experience in building a relationship with him, not just as an actor, but also as a human being? I only have positive things to say. That’s not just a gimmick. From the moment he read the script, he was interested, and he really responded to the character. He was committed to bringing the script to life, and was extremely respectful towards everyone on set. He had no reason to respect me. I’m a first-time director. He could have been a total diva. He could have been whatever he wanted to be, and we still would have paid him and been happy with his performance.

He was very kind, and maybe some of this came from the character, but he was also kind of somber and quiet in general on set. At the same time, he can also be very playful and sweet, even though he was trying to remain in the mood of the character. He set the tone, in a way, for the whole crew. A crew could easily look at a first time director and decide to just slack off and scrape by, because I wouldn’t have even known the difference. The fact that Nic treated me and the material with such respect really trickled down, and was so valuable to the film.

We shot the whole thing in twenty days, so if there had been any weak link with someone not doing their job or not being totally on top of it, we would have been screwed. I credit a lot of that to Nic, and him treating this with an incredible amount of professionalism. I think that’s where a big part of his long career comes from. He’s an incredible actor, but he also takes the art form seriously, treating it as both an artist and as this being his job, knowing that you have to do both in order to get what you need across.

Do you have a favorite Nicolas Cage performance? Other than Pig, of course. There are so many incredible ones. I really love Moonstruck. I saw that a couple of years ago, right before we officially cast him, when I was going through some of his ones that I hadn’t seen. Part of it I think is because I’m half-Italian, and I felt like it was showing me a side of my life that I never realized because my Italian family is on the east coast, and we moved out to Wisconsin when I was very young. I never got to be a part of that kind of thick Italian family, and seeing that on screen gave me a taste of what that would have been like. I loved him in that role. He was the perfect balance of sincere and sentimental, and also over the top when he needed to be.

Grub’s up.

Speaking of being Italian, Pig gets deep into the transformative power of food, and of the right meal. Has food always been an important part of your life? Definitely. I’ve never worked in restaurants. The closest thing was when I worked at a snack bar at a summer camp, which was very fun and also kind of a nightmare in its own way. I think most of the importance of food for me came from when my grandma lived with us. It was after my dad passed away, when I was a little kid, and she became this sort of old Italian cook in the house who was using food as this language of love and also as a sort of control. It had a lot wrapped up in it, this sense that we’re going to have family dinners to prove that everything is fine.

I think any Italian family is that way, but especially in that situation, having that presence come into the house when I was a kid, it made food quite charged for me. It was both a form of bonding and love, but also that control. That was very important to me. As I got older she taught me how to cook some things, and I became interested in that. I had a lot of friends who were great cooks and taught me how to do different things. I’m not an amazing cook, but I love cooking.

I love that act of making something that’s about to disappear. I think if you can be okay with that, and put a lot of time and care into that, it’s kind of a therapeutic thing to do. Accepting transience is a big part of cooking.

What’s your favorite dish to cook? I would say over the pandemic I really got into making lasagne. I had my grandma’s old hand-crank pasta maker, so I was enjoying making my own pasta and lasagne with that. I don’t know if I could pick one favorite dish, but that is definitely one that contributed quite a bit to putting on the Covid pounds.

Rob (Cage) and Amir (Alex Wolff) discuss their business relationship.

There’s a scene in the film where Rob and Amir go to a restaurant and Rob has a conversation with the chef there, who used to work for him, about the idea of losing our sense of identity when we give up on our dreams in order to fill this role that society expects of us. Is that something that you personally connected with? Yeah, people ask me a lot about what I think of the high-end cuisine world, and I have to say that I wasn’t trying to solely express that this world is garbage and phony. I was looking at it as another kind of art form. Any time you have an art form that combines someone’s personal passion with some sort of economy there are going to be conflicts to navigate. Whether you’re a painter, director, writer, whatever, those are going to be things you have to juggle. How true to yourself are you going to stay?

For myself, I’ve definitely found that when I try to focus on doing something that I care about, that’s kind of all I have control over and that’s what I should focus on. Pig was that for me. This isn’t the kind of script that you write where you’re expecting a big payday. It’s this weird movie that for some reason really means something to me.

The scene climaxes with Rob saying the line, “We don’t get a lot of things to really care about”. What about this movie exemplifies the things that you really care about in your life? It’s so many things, and even more things came from going through the process of actually making it and falling in love with Portland. It’s become even more than what it was initially intended to be. I mentioned earlier that my dad passed away when I was a kid, and the most personal aspect of the film for me was exploring that idea of what grief does to us long-term.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve been watching how my family members changed the way they interact with the world and built their perception of the world around some aspect of grief. It’s not those immediate effects of shock or sadness. It’s how those things ingrain into your worldview. I became much more conscious of how I was doing that in my own life. That was the deepest, most general thing that I was bringing to it, and that I was exploring personally through the film.

As far as specific things that I care about, I think I have all the classic things. I care about my family, and my friends. I care about the world, which is why this year has been so devastating. I don’t have one single pig. I think we all have a few different pigs in our lives.

Director Michael Sarnoski on the set of ‘Pig’.

Another scene that really stands out is the one in which Rob returns to his old home and sits with this young boy, having a conversation about a persimmon tree that used to be there. Talk to me about the significance of that moment for Rob. One of the things I love about that scene is that it seems so simple, kind of quiet and basic, but it’s getting into a lot of different things. I will say one thing about that scene. That was the first scene that we shot on the first day of filming. That kid was great, but filming with a child on your first day of your first feature was very much a moment of wondering what I had gotten myself into.

That scene does a few things. I won’t get into spoiler territory, but for starters he’s going back to his old house, so it’s his first attempt to really look at his past in the face, and to acknowledge that. I like that in that moment this is also one of the first times that we hear him speak romantically of food, because those things are very tethered to each other.

We get both the sense that there was a past, a personal path that he left behind, but intricately involved in that was how he interacted with food and his art. It’s the first time that we hear him acknowledge who he was in a way that’s okay. He tells the kid his name, and he’s acknowledging his identity that he’s been trying to hide from or ignore. Through doing that, it’s engaging with his passions and how that tethers everything together. I also thought it was cute explaining what persimmons were to a little kid.

I’ve got to ask you about the use of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘I’m On Fire’ in a very meaningful moment. What made that the perfect song choice for that scene? Obviously, who’s singing it is very meaningful. I liked that song, though, because it’s different from the sappy direction we could have gone with that moment. There’s something very passionate about ‘I’m On Fire’, of course, and it’s a pretty sexual song. It’s really charged, but it also has this kind of ethereal quality to it that’s seductive in a non-sexual way. It washes over you, and it feels very mystical. This sounds so “film talk”-y, but I liked that meeting of that transcendent, abstract feeling with that immediate sense of passion and love and obsession.

Finally, what’s the film that made you want to become a filmmaker? Probably Sam Raimi, his first Spider-Man movie. That was the first time I realized what directors do. I had a very strong association with Spider-Man growing up as a comic-book fan, and I was seeing how someone was filtering their own understanding of this character. Raimi coming from his horror background and being into the nitty gritty filmmaking with practical effects and everything, I got this understanding of how a director touches a film and shapes it.

Related content

Steve’s list of pigs in film

Melissa’s list of films featuring food, chefs, bakers, restaurants, cooking, hospitality, hotels, wineries, grocers

Rachel West discovers Nicolas Cage is her most-watched actor of all time

Letterboxd’s Official Top 50 of 2021—Jack Moulton’s list

Follow Mitchell on Letterboxd

‘Pig’ is currently in US cinemas via NEON, and available to buy/rent on digital.

#nicolas cage #pig #pig film #neon #neonrated #neon rated #nic cage #cooking films #cookery film #films about chefs #truffles #truffle pig #truffle hunter #letterboxd #filmmaker

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ayshaelshamayleh · 3 years

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What is Divine Will in The Arab Israeli Conflict & why is it essential to the current discourse?

The Arab-Israeli conflict has been ailing me extensively for the past few years. Not exactly for the reasons that are common amongst Muslim-born Arabs. But for reasons pertaining to contemplations about Divine Will. As a scholar of The Holy Bible -one who has studied the Quran, both having grown up in a cultural context rooted in it and having had to study it as a spiritual seeker in the process of finding a faith/creed - I am burdened by uncomfortable questions. As someone who believes in God, solidly, I am broken by my inability to understand God’s hand in this war that lives so close-by.

Let me explain my point-of-view: I experience the bible as true word of God, on a personal basis. I live with it. I study it. I model it. I am Arab. I live in Jordan. Israel roots its claim to Palestine in a biblical promise made by God, and narrated in The Holy Bible.

I find it important for there to be Arabs, accustomed with the bible, engaging (and in fact leading) the discourse about the Arab-Israeli conflict. Arabs who are interested in the conflict must know more about the biblical context, no matter what they themselves believe, so that the conversation is more productive than it has been. If your opponent is claiming God is doing this, and it is difficult to understand how it is possible for an entire country to come into existence out of nothing, the question of “is this by God’s will or not?” must be important for every believer or spiritual seeker on both sides. This way you will speak clearer, and more convincingly, using a language all sides understand and relate with. You should not deny religious belief systems are at the core of this conflict, for everyone involved. You can’t care how uncomfortable that process is, it’s uncomfortable for all of us. And if politics, especially in a land heavily documented to be God’s, is a physical manifestation of the design of the energetic realm; it is important for all those who really look for or believe in God, to ask: “what’s up?”, and to consider that a priority question in their outlook, should they be true believers, true thinkers, true citizens.

Let’s deal with what’s in the bible about this conflict. To summarize, in the bible the Jews are promised to be scattered amongst nations, and God’s subsequent redemption brings them back to a Promised Land. From Abraham to Joseph to Moses to Joshua to David, the journey that is the blue-print for the spiritual-Jew takes him/her from living somewhere, God approaching him/her and wanting a relationship, as part of a chosen people (chosen by random, not because they are better than the rest, but just to use them as a sign, a symbol, for His relationship with all of humanity at a certain point in history). So then, like the rest of us, they dance between committing to Him and wanting worldly desires and comfort, falling in the face of fear to truly trust Him, to follow His voice and wait in the silence, to move in obedience, to humble themselves as to have a sovereign God over them. They didn’t do that. As you and I don’t do that. As we all don’t do that.

So then, God -having had good things to give them, good things to promise them, good ways to love them (the quintessential Perfect Lover) - in pain scatters them (‘because it’s over’). He scatters them into Egypt through Joseph, where they move and are eventually enslaved. To taking them out of Egypt, through Moses, wandering a scorched land of a desert for 40 years, so that everyone dies but their remnant (a minority out of them that loved God back in action), who are then given their ‘promised land’. And in the historical bible this does indeed correspond to areas in historical Palestine and its surroundings. David becomes the King of Jerusalem. Solomon builds his temple. Then the cycle goes downhill again, by the time of Daniel, famous for surviving a cage of lions, the jews are back to enslavement in Babylon. The downhill cycle continues.

One important point to mention is that all throughout the Old Testament, the people of God are promised a Messiah, and to define “messiah” in lay terms: it is the someone or something through which we are saved, making life perfect and peaceful (it’s what every human dreams of and is alive in wait of - the perfect peaceful good life; the Messiah is the spiritual linguistic term that corresponds to the tool which brings about that life we dream of; the life-like heaven we pursue, the perfect state of us becoming perfectly ‘corrected’ and at peace with our existence).

Now the New Testament tells the story of the Messiah, who is named Christ Jesus (consider it a random linguistic term for now that corresponds to this ‘tool’). Just to avoid confusions, because life is such that we are prone to mistaking a new car or a promotion or a new wife for a messiah -I just confirm that if you want to delve into the realm of precise language and the human-Divine story in order to discern whether the life you have is the one promised to you by God (or if you are living in a land way off-track), the ‘Messiah’s’ character is historically embodied by a man who happened to go by the name Jesus, at random (just the case, neutral). The things you like and fall in love with remind you of the character of ‘Jesus’. If we are to use his name just as a name of a character that is uttered by some people on the route through which we get to that life-like heaven, it’s just that. The gospel gives you a full and short enough narrative about that character (philosophically, artistically, literarily, poetically, historically, literally) to be able to use it as a reference for your life in that practical and simple, manual-style way - should you be one interested in answers that come through such a pallet.

So this fella, Jesus, a jew himself, a son of the lineage of David, a Christ of God comes to settle the debt between God and humanity once and for all. This guy comes to give us a tabula rasa, not just that, but a permanent stay in the life-like heaven. In fact, he says he’ll be inviting you and preparing us to live practically and truly as children of God. Like we feel that way, experientially. Now as you can imagine, you turn out to be indebted to the God that you avoided, silenced, maybe cheated on, but who still shows up (from Adam to your name). So this ‘tool’ of a Messiah is necessary.

We fully understand the feelings of God on that front through the Book of Hosea (in the Old testament). The prophet of the times was called by God to get married to a cheating wife as a sign of the era and the feelings of God about humanity’s relationship with Him. The endless dancing, not settling, confusion, blurred lines, not making a decision about His presence and involvement, confusion, fear-of-commitment; mess. That wife, symbolizing the people of God, keeps running away into the hands of men (and man-made things), until she finds herself in a slave market. That slave market has modern iterations we are familiar with: selling our souls to jobs we hate, making money that is useless to spend on band aid solutions for the void and the endless pain of wanting life-like heaven but losing the way, insisting that is the only way it goes. That was Hosea’s wife; just like us. Wanting to skip investigating God’s design of life in favor of good times, and “busy-ness”.

Now if you’ve ever been cheated on, imagine that happening over and over for centuries with someone - the brokenness and ridiculousness and unfairness pile up, and Him showing up to create a life for you doesn’t mean the wounds went away or that His showing up is sustainable on an energetic level (think “accounting”). So (to be very simplistic in handling Christian philosophy) something needed to wash things over, resolve you, heal you, get a final fix so the two entities -you and God- could be ‘together’, compatible again, somehow -in friendship? In romance? Him, your Perfect Lover (each up to his capacity in His will). And that route that does that, mathematically and mythically and literally and linguistically, was randomly assigned the name Jesus.

So what would it take God to reconcile us to Him, according to the bible (the new testament)? The answer is counterintuitive and very difficult to accept or agree to believing in. Before I lay it out, there’s this parable in the new testament that Jesus narrates that might help. There was once a man (alternate man with “God”), who owned a vineyard, and worked very hard at it, dug the winepress, built a tower, and lent it out to some farmers (alternate farmers with “us”) and went to a faraway country (alternate that with “life”). When harvest time came, the man (/God) sent his servants (/friends that walk around in your life constantly annoying you about God or things that remind you of such) to get his share of the fruit as agreed. The farmers (/us) responded by refusing the owner’s end of the bargain, so they beat the servants (/annoying friends) and killed them, so the farmers kept the whole harvest to themselves (/as they wished). The man (/God) sent more servants again. The farmers (/us) killed them again. So then the owner of the vineyard sent his son (alternate that with “Jesus”), thinking the farmers (/us) would respect someone as close and dear and connected to him as an actual son in this ordeal, and that we would give this son the rightful share. When the farmers saw the son, they said to themselves this is the heir, come let us kill him and keep his inheritance to ourselves. And so they did, just that. Killed him to get the land (/life) for themselves with no accountability before its owner.

The proposition that is difficult to understand or agree to is that God, instead of finding a system that would make us pay for our unwise choices in our relationship with him, knew we couldn’t possibly manage to do that. So, be patient with me here and see it in mythical terms for a second; God paid the price of our wrongs by sending someone of Himself, allowing us to witness ourselves choose to kill him, and in response He showed us He resurrects, and everything not of His dies, to reach out to us for further correction again. The cycle of life keeps moving in that direction. God is here for good. At His own price. This is what makes “God” God, his capacity to love, counterintuitively. This personally moves me.

The Christian philosophy essentially says God made a truce that is light and easy. If you are drawn to the character of this son, if you love this one who lived loving Him and his neighbor, showing the way, forgiving, sacrificing himself; you are saved and you enter your life-like heaven. The alchemy that happens within you, evolving you, as you pursue your belief in him changes your character into a state able to find and enjoy heaven. Now this life-like heaven isn’t easy. It entails embodying a life like that of God’s son. Loving God. Loving people. Telling the truth, even when it’s difficult. Having people mistrust your goodness. And instead of you choosing to retaliate, choosing to expose your wounds and your pain. Humbling yourself before God and man by asking your Maker for the strength to be good in truthful terms, for the sake of the people’s love for God and God’s perfect love for people. You will be persecuted because of that. You will be whipped. You will struggle. Yet within that life, God Himself works miracles in you and through you. You witness them. You feel Him, real, and strong. You know God. You see Him. Daily. He knows you. Personally. And there’s nothing else you need after that point, apart from enjoying your faith. And thus, heaven is on earth. In that counterintuitive and difficult way.

Needless to say, what I’m describing above is not the ‘state’ of Israel. Let’s tie this back to the Arab-Israeli conflict. One of the reasons the historical Jesus was not accepted by the historical jews is because they were expecting a political King for a messiah. A man who controls life. Who leads them to physical prosperity; monetary, “real”. Christ was too ethereal for the historical jew. Too intangible. Promising a kingdom of heaven, not earth. So those who are jews in today’s world are an expression of a spiritual state that hasn’t accepted that the ‘messiah’ (the tool to life-like heaven) can come. They find it hard to grasp that after Adam and Eve’s fall from heaven on earth in pursuit of the physicality of life and its desires, the story ends with God coming down to earth to be with us. But that “being with us” is inside of us -I hate to break that, I know it’s an overstated statement. It demands letting go of the world enough to experience Him, rely on Him, see Him, find Him within the eye of the soul. Peace comes out of that silliness, that wherever your geo-coordinates may be in the universe, you are in God, and you work hard at maintaining that (through discernment of what is and is not God) and you suffer in His name. Faith isn’t a hobby. Faith is a full-life ordeal.

Let’s tie this back to the issue of the Arab-Israeli conflict again. What is going on has to do with another important belief that is so rare. Jews, christians AND muslims all agree on one thing: The world will end with the second coming of Christ (in fact, to Jerusalem). I don’t need to tell you that in today’s post-COVID era and post-Deal-of-the-Century, etc. reality, many feel -as secular as we may be- that the world keeps feeling like it’s ending. Now since all three creeds (i.e. the majority in this region) piously and unanimously agree that earth is destined towards a direction leading to the “arrival” of Christ, then all who are “correct” by their own standards, should be living in pursuit of knowing Christ, regardless of your religion. Your religion stipulates that, should you be a true believer.

Those who do not know Christ, if they believe in God or are asking questions about God, should learn about him. It is a part of your religion. Social taboos on that front should not concern you, because you claim to believe in God, not people. A life of faith demands a life of your own faith in action, in behavior, in practice - waking up in the morning and working on yourself to find more about your God everyday, about your ‘religion’ everyday. Asking the uncomfortable questions. Anything else is not belief, or creed, it is a facade and a lie. It collapses. If you are unsure there is a God, the most important goal in your life is to go find out whether there is. Don’t wait till a deathbed.

In my twenties I watched my father die over six years. His real and actual deathbed was fatally propped in our living room. And I watched. I watched him reckon with death. I watched his life be accounted for, both in the human realm and in the other one. I watched him apologize for wrongs he had done people. I watched him pray. I watched him pretend to have beings in the room other than my family. He was asked questions by them (very intelligent, logical and concise). He even gave answers he would turn to me and say were right or wrong or ones he was unsure of. He became so beautiful in his withering, the most loving essence of him palpably fragrant. I saw Christ. He was devotedly Muslim. Not in how he applied laws. But how he practiced, so humbly elegant, real faith is something so dense and real, but unseen, unacknowledged, unaccounted for. That humanity is the only one I wish to see.

Life takes time. People have different paces and different paths. Intrinsic in the choices they make about how they live life and what they name things (e.g. ‘Israel’), they express what they worship, you express what you believe is the right modem for life. You can’t control your neighbor. You can just worry about your stuff - another overstated statement, I know.

Here is a political state calling itself “Israel” that believes in doing good for itself and for its people, in hate and at the expense of what’s outside of itself. Is that wrong? They themselves say “no, not when it’s for our best and we are a chosen people”. In my contemplations about Divine Justice, I ache to understand how it is fair that God gives others a choice in how they treat things around them. How is God “God”, if He leaves it all to people? There seems to be no power behind it. Just suffering, and bleeding, and dying on a cross. That’s no God at all - I would imagine the spiritual jew and most Arabs would agree. Not impressive enough to warrant belief. Too passive, many people I’ve crossed paths with have said this.

As a person of faith, I struggle with those questions as well. I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard place. I experience God as so perfect as to give people choice, even in how they treat Him, and in how they treat others. He is magnanimous as to warrant freedom of speech and behavior. But don’t take that lightly, because you will win. So it’s on you in the smallest of moments. Life and how the people around you experience it depends on you and your choices. There is divine judgement but you are allowed to do whatever you wish, it has consequences, but that’s not the reason you do good. You do good because you believe in the intrinsic value of creating a good world (should you live in a life-like heaven, then that’s imperative for you). Doing good to avoid punishment points to a young state of faith, baby believer, there is much space for development. We work towards becoming adults in God.

I fail to understand what sort of life to lead to contribute to the resolution of problems that claim people’s lives around me. I feel the situation, it hurts me deeply. Life and God get confusing to the point of total implosion. To be real, since finding faith, the condition of my life is often signaled by whatever is happening in Jerusalem. If you want to know how I am, look up ‘Jerusalem’. Not because Jerusalem causes my pain at all, but my pain coincides with it, like truth. It’s like we’re in the same box of existence. Not by choice, I don’t even share any genetic roots to the place. I’m a random person of God. That state hasn’t been good.

I feel that an important response (in addition to the other responses out there) to what is happening in Sheikh Jarrah would be to compile resources again and get the people to live in a neighborhood that loves them. Man should not need to negotiate his value amongst the people who live close-by him. In all cases, and despite complexities, man must live amongst the people who are concerned about him, willing to carry him all the way through. I pray that that comes through, and if in any way I am helpful, I’m interested in collaborating.

I’ll end with this good thought by pastor and author Tim Keller:

“Anger is love in motion to deal with a threat toward that which you really love (to disintegrate the threat) – to see what your heart loves the most, you need only ask what you are defending.”

Worth the think.

#Jerusalem Bible Israel ArabIsraeliConflict

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seyaryminamoto · 5 years

Note

What do you think about the allegations against Aaron Ehasz?

Well, I’m pretty disappointed in him. For a very long time he appeared to even be a driving force in featuring more strong and prominent female characters in his shows (both Azula and Toph were supposed to be male characters by Bryke’s vision, Ehasz’s input is often credited for making them who they are), so I guess it goes to show that what you present in your storytelling isn’t necessarily a display of values you hold in real life.

I’m not going to condemn TDP or Wonderstorm as a whole for his actions, but there’s one Twitter thread of allegations that are far too detailed to be dismissed as just “distorted and exaggerated” without genuine proof that that’s all they are. Taking the “innocent until proven guilty” route in these situations only ends up fostering the feeling that this kind of behavior is irrelevant in the face of the grand artistic achievements people like Ehasz can offer the world… and I’m sorry, but it’s simply not the case. I’d like to believe it’s possible to be a decent human being and a good storyteller on equal measure. Presenting yourself as a champion for equality and respect only to completely disregard those values in your personal life means you’re merely selling and promoting ideals you don’t honestly believe in, and it pretty much damages every possible message you could be trying to convey through your story.

I’ll continue to watch TDP, but I admit, this has soured things quite a lot for me and, I imagine, for a lot of people. Ehasz has the opportunity to genuinely reflect on his actions and take a different approach to his future as showrunner, writer and altogether human being. I truly hope he takes it… but I’m not holding my breath. However I may be thankful for some of the brilliant things he gave ATLA, I won’t hold that above the wellbeing of real people.

On another note… something that really bothers me about this situation is how it really brings to light that representation in media has turned into pretty much a tool for showrunners, storytellers, media conglomerates and whatnot. You may have all the rep for all sorts of minorities… but that doesn’t reflect, necessarily, what you truly believe in or how you behave in real life. And if there’s something everyone ought to learn with this, and with other similar fiascos, I suppose: you can’t just trust the real people behind the shows you love to be 100% true to what they’re preaching. More representation of minorities in media is great, but the more it’s pressed on that it’s a matter of QUANTITY rather than QUALITY, the more we’ll see situations like Ehasz’s own, where he can present himself a champion of LGBT rights by featuring female LGBT characters in his show while simultaneously firing or laying off all his female LGBT employees when no one’s paying attention.

Representation and diversity are being turned into a tool to get in with the “cool crowd”, to get the fans to throw all their money and support for a show with zero regard of the quality of said representation. Ultimately, I guess fandom needs to be more critical in the ways that matter. And I don’t mean “instantly hate on everything that doesn’t portray minorities as perfectly pure and morally flawless individuals or groups” or “boycott everything where minority characters die”: what I mean is that people need to start taking storytelling more seriously as what it is, storytelling.

Stories aren’t just a vehicle for political agendas of any kind. Stories are meant to show you different worlds, to let you live different lives through them, to experience existence through someone else’s eyes. In many cases, storytelling can be an exercise in empathy, and that’s what makes it ripe ground for representation of all sorts… but if you don’t care for what kind of story you’re being told, if you only privilege “how much rep I’m getting” over “what kind of rep I’m getting”, this trend will never stop. Big studios, big writers, they’ll keep on giving you what you want, breadcrumbs, just to keep you buying, watching, spending time on their stuff when they have to make the minimum effort for it.

I was recently thinking about it… I’ve been working on a story for close to 7 years now. I’ve made countless efforts to keep my storytelling consistent and solid even if it seems I’ve failed more often than not. I’ve slid through the cracks and weaved whatever extra worldbuilding was needed for the story I was writing… and yet I take one look at how the showrunners behave, and just today I ran into an interview where they basically just implied “We set things up mediocrely so fans could do the rest of the job for us”. The whole notion of readers and viewers interacting with art to “fill the gaps” has been misconstrued and completely defaced in recent times: they don’t have to work for it. They barely need to make any efforts to sell their ideas to fans. All they have to do is create something, promote the shit out of it, make sure people are watching it, and then reap the rewards as fans go crazy interpreting so much more than what’s really there. And they keep getting away with it… because we’re here putting in the efforts they don’t care to.

I think the entertainment industry, as a whole, needs to change. I’ve already started pondering a few ideas on how that change could come about… but I’m not exactly in a situation where I can make it happen anytime soon, let alone can I guarantee that anything I come up with will work for good. But I’d like to think we’ve had too many wake-up calls in the recent years, and as much as media is doing better with representation as of late, there’s a lot of ground to cover still. Two seconds of representation don’t make up for an entire show written without any of it in mind. Filling in the gaps for showrunners and creators is fun except for the fact that you’re putting a fuckload of work into something that will result in no real change beyond what you may affect within your fandom, because those showrunners and creators will disregard what you do (especially if it’s fanfiction) and every interpretation and perception you may have of their characters and world, because you’re just a tool for them.

Sounds so very fatalistic of me to say all this, I know… but Ehasz being in a startup company kind of had me thinking he’d be innovative, different from the big names in entertainment, and so far the way TDP’s fandom had been treated had definitely looked like something new to me. Now I can’t help but think fans are just another cog in the machine. And if we don’t want this to continue, we need to start looking for media worth promoting, worth defending, complex, smart, written not for profit but for genuine love of storytelling. Maybe the efforts we ought to make shouldn’t be about hounding popular creators to cater to our needs, or about doing their jobs for them by filling the gaps they left in their stories out of laziness or carelessness… but to promote the unpopular ones who are glossed over or forgotten when they’re actually making the kind of content we’ve been looking for. Until this changes, I don’t think Ehasz will be the only story we’ll see along these lines in the coming years.

#anon #aaron ehasz #if someone wants a read more I'll add one just let me know #I'd been thinking about this stuff for a long time to be honest #long before this mess happened #it just drove the nail further in I guess #something's rotten in fandom culture #and big showrunners have taken advantage of it #and will continue to do so #unless we do something about it

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teruthecreator · 5 years

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if you're comfortable, could you say what specifically you hated about the finale? i never got into amnesty but i liked balance so i would like to know how disappointed i should be ://

okay i’m gonna explain this in-detail exactly Once bc i’m trying rlly hard to just forget about the whole epilogue and keep it moving like that shit never happened, so for anyone else who is asking me why i don’t like the finale (and im not saying you’re wrong for asking, anon, it just seems that when you vocally do not like a thing there are hundreds of people who come out of the woodworks to ask you why and i think thats kinda Huh, Weird of everyone but like whatever) i’m gonna lay it all out here on the table and you can take this as you will.

i’m not gonna be getting into fistfights with people abt this so if you disagree please don’t try and banter with me. i am running on

also, CRITICISM OF ART DOES NOT MEAN CRITICISM OF THE ARTIST. I AM NOT CRITICIZING THE MCELROYS AS HUMAN BEINGS, BUT RATHER THEIR ARTISTIC DECISIONS IN TAZ: AMNESTY. MORE PEOPLE NEED TO UNDERSTAND THAT THERE IS A SEPARATION BETWEEN ART AND ARTIST, AND ONCE YOU (AS AN ARTIST) POST A PIECE, IT BECOMES SUBJECT TO CRITICISM. I AM NOT BRINGING GRIFFIN, JUSTIN, TRAVIS, OR CLINT’S CHARACTERS INTO QUESTION; I AM SIMPLY GIVING A CRITICISM ON THE SHOW THEY’VE CREATED AS A WORK OF ART.

oh, this goes without saying, but i will anyway: SPOILERS FOR AMNESTY (IN GENERAL, BUT ALSO FOR EPISODE 36)

i’m gonna start off by saying, i don’t think the whole episode was a total disaster. there are two things mainly that have ruined the whole experience for me, but for the most part i thought the like first 2 hours of this episode were a lot of fun! the fight scene was a little bogged down in the rolls imo, but it didn’t deter me too much from the overarching boss battle. the intro was a sick concept, i enjoyed the callback bits spliced in w newly scripted bits from mentioned past encounters, that was all well and good. i loved beacon in the episode, and god do i wish he stayed for the whole thing.

my problem mainly sits with the epilogue, which is why i think the whole episode turns sour in my mind. because the epilogue is supposed to be what satiates your desire to know more, right? not to reference balance too much (bc these are two completely different stories w different premises, and for people to so readily compare them is kinda wack. that being said, they are two stories made by the same people that use an epilogue to wrap up the loose ends, so im gonna make this one comparison), but the epilogue told us, the listener, all the things we wanted to know about after the day of story of song. we got to know what they did, a little bit of their interpersonal relationships, and we even got a big group scene with the killarey wedding!

this epilogue, though, feels like it left so much still on the table. one of those things i will swing back to later because it is the largest part of my argument, but after all of this time we still don’t know why everyone at the lodge got exiled! no one talks about it! we don’t know how dani ended up there, or jake, or barclay, or moira, or anyone! they don’t reference the banishments at all, which i think is a huge shortcoming figuring that is the core premise as to why these characters exist in our pc’s world in the first place.

i also feel like the concept of the worlds being divided for a long time is kind of a dumb way to go about framing what they do After The Fact. like, they could have had those scenes happen without the looming concept of them being divided, especially when their big reunion scene is like 2 minutes long and basically does nothing. what would have been a cooler premise is if billy connected the worlds, and the worlds worked together in rebuilding themselves. we still could’ve had the same bits happen (for the most part), but i just think that whole separation bit kinda alienated the pc’s (especially thacker).

but everything up to aubrey’s epilogue bit is fine. i have some problems, but it’s fine. where i started to completely abandon the work itself though is duck’s bit, and i’m gonna get into it by saying this: I know Justin Mcelroy is not legally required to make all of his characters gay, but this whole scene was just a big reminder to me that this show is done by 4 straight white men

and yeah, my big problem with this scene is the fact that justin had to make Duck/Minerva a thing. because it adds nothing to the story while also being a very skeevy concept in-general, and it reduces minerva’s character down to the Hero’s Girlfriend trope and it’s so comphet and she doesn’t deserve it.

my first grievance with this: It adds nothing to the story.

had justin not even mentioned the relationship part of their interaction before the scene actually took place, this scene would be like every other scene involving duck and minerva prior to this. duck says honey once, and even that could’ve been played off as duck just being affectionate to his friends (which is a thing, i call several of my friends “my love” irl and it isn’t a big deal). minerva doesn’t even use pet names, she calls duck by his full name, which is exactly how she addressed him in every other scene! duck’s speech is a genuine heart-puller, but it was completely soured by the fact that justin had to premise this entire scene by saying duck and minerva are a thing.

my second grievance: it’s a skeevy-as-all-hell concept.

this whole premise is nasty seven ways from sunday, and it is my biggest problem with duck’s bit as a whole. for starters, and i think more people need to mention this, minerva meets duck on the night of his 18th birthday. which means duck has literally just stopped being legally considered a minor before minerva appears before him. and honestly, i would still consider duck a minor in this case because he has literally just turned 18!!! his brain has not developed past one of a 17-year-old on the exact date of his birthday, and i argue it will not until he is at least in his twenties. keep in mind, your brain does not stop developing until you are about 25. so while in the legal sense, duck is an adult, in both the mental and emotional sense at that exact moment, duck is still a minor. AND he’s still in high school, as referenced in his response to her call to duty: “i got class tomorrow”. and minerva is old enough to have become the minister of defense for her homeworld, go through an entire war, and have several other chosen ones (including leo tarkesian, who is at least 20 years older than duck) before meeting duck. so that makes her much, much older than duck when she meets him. and i don’t care if they had barely any interaction after that first moment (though they did, as justin legit talks about when he introduces minerva as a concept to the show), that still establishes their initial interaction at a massive age difference. which, regardless of anything, makes their eventual relationship so genuinely messed up.

sure, you can argue that when you get older age doesn’t make that much of a difference, and i would agree. my mother is 53 and her husband is 63, that’s ten years. but my mother and step mother did not meet at 8 and 18, they met at 50 and 60. the initial interaction makes all the difference between “older people meeting and having a relationship” and “a very messed up situation”.

also, in this same argument, taking the mentor-student relationship and turning it into a romantic relationship IS SO MESSED UP!!!! GENUINELY AND HONESTLY MESSED UP!!! i feel like i don’t need to explain this because there have been so many examples already as to why this is a relationship you Should Not turn romantic, but i will anyway because it frustrates me so much that justin completely glosses over this!!! the power dynamic of a mentor-student relationship, in whatever way it is portrayed, displays a power balance that is heavily leaning to one side. there is not an equal distribution of power amongst the two because one person is teaching the other. the one person is weak to the others wills and whims because of lack of experience. think of your high school teacher or college professor; if you started a relationship with them, people would raise so many questions because you are not at equals to the teacher/professor. even if they treat you different, and even if they no longer teach you, it all has to do with the initial interaction. and minerva was still duck’s mentor up until either episode 34 or 35, when she handed off the title of Herald of the Astral Mind to duck. that means for nearly all of their interactions, there was a mentor-student dynamic. to have that turn into a romantic relationship is so sketchy and weird and leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

my third grievance: it reduces minerva’s character down to a girlfriend trope, and it’s comphet as hell

my friend tin (@taako–waititi) phrased this so well in the big group chat im in w her, so imma just quote her on this and then go into the comphet stuff:

“i was dming max about it and they also mentioned, quote, ‘her story was never about romance. it reduced her down to ‘competent woman becomes endgame girlfriend’ trope’ and they are so right it makes me fucking pissed. regardless of any ‘mutual respect’ and ‘emotional intimacy’ kind of thing going on that some people are arguing for, it’s something that didn’t need to happen because minerva’s character becomes that. my thing is mutual respect and emotional intimacy between two people can. exist. without it being. romantic. like. friendship is. also valid. i personally don’t think that mutual respect and emotional intimacy are two buttons that you press to make the machine churn out a romance”

not only does it reduce minerva’s character to tropes, but it also is extremely comphet for a woman who is so heavily wlw-coded or lesbian-coded and it just angers me. you could argue that she could be bi, but if we look at canon for just its face-value, the only romantic interaction she ever has is with a man, which basically makes her straight. this isn’t like aubrey’s situation, where travis clearly states she is a bi woman who is just in a relationship with another woman in amnesty. griffin doesn’t state anything about minerva’s sexuality and then she’s paired off with a man right at the end. and you could argue that she isn’t wlw or lesbian-coded, but i am not the only one who is wlw and thinks this, so i feel like i have more of a ground to stand on in this opinion. and this just feels so, like, textbook compulsory heteronormativity it made me feel physically sick when i heard this bit in the podcast.

so that’s my first big issue with the finale, fully explained. my second issue with the epilogue is that ned’s death continues to be disappointing and his character arc is never completed, which just tanks the whole show for me.

i’ve talked about this several times since ep 28 about how ned’s death was stupid and did nothing for his character arc, but i’m gonna reiterate my main points for the people who find this post without knowing my whole blog:

1. ned’s main interpersonal conflicts are just brought to the surface and never fully delved into before his sudden death. ned doesn’t ever get to explain his history with boyd and why he had to steal shade tree to mama or barclay or really anyone besides vaguely to aubrey.

2. every character is just immediately expected to feel sad about ned’s death, despite the tension that still remains right up until the very end. aubrey shouldn’t have even known that the shapeshifter framed ned because that’s all explained once she goes to sylvain, but i think travis just assumed she did because he heard the interaction between ned, mama, and barclay. so she should’ve had Way more conflicting feelings about the whole thing, but ned’s death is just angst-bait so that doesn’t happen.

3. ned’s death doesn’t make roll sense because clint rolled a mixed success and mixed successes, by definition, are supposed to be less severe moves than a failed roll (which gives the gm the ability to make a hard move). there isn’t really anything harder to do to a character than kill them, but even if you wanted to argue that if clint failed the roll the hard move would’ve been ned failing and letting dani get shot, it still doesn’t change the fact that clint rolled a mixed success when slamming into the pizza hut sign at full velocity and came out of that alive (severely injured, naturally, but still alive).

so, yeah, there’s that. and then theres the fact that griffin doesn’t ever give us any other scenes involving ned directly. ned only becomes a reference from 28 on, which is so disappointing given ned’s importance to the other two pcs. and i understand that the mcelroys have a lot of trauma related to death, but griffin shouldn’t have killed ned off then if he did not want to talk about death in graphic detail. we all have trauma. we all want to avoid topics. but to kill ned off and then never talk about his death in great relation to the others is a genuine disservice to ned’s character.

the day episode 28 aired was the same day i buried my grandmother. i would have loved if death wasn’t brought up, but i don’t control the podcast. the mcelroys do; they had the ability to avoid this topic in a more servicing way to the characters and they didn’t. that isn’t to say they are bad people for not doing it, but it makes the finale even more disappointing because it means we never get the full rounding out of ned’s character arc. he becomes this like brief reference that is, once again, angst-bait or emotional fuel and i feel like he didn’t deserve that. he deserved a genuine reference, a genuine moment. even a dream sequence i would have appreciated!!!

griffin had sylvain directly point at ned in aubrey’s flashback in ep 35, and then did nothing about what that could have implicated in the finale. it sours the entire episode in a major way and disappointed me immensely. there should have been more done with that topic and there wasn’t and i will never forget how deeply it hurt me and turned me away from canon as a whole. not to be ned kin on main, but ned was the backbone of this show and the exact moment he left was the exact moment the whole thing went downhill. it turned less into a story about growth and adversary and amnesty and more into a waiting game for when this very loose end was going to get wrapped up.

i wanted to enjoy this episode. i tried so hard, y’all. but just the thought of ned loomed over me the entire time and i was waiting for a more proper completion to his arc, and it never happened. and coupled with that very bad and skeevy duck/minerva bit i was just so frustrated and hurt last night.

so, yeah, that’s my whole spiel. you are free to disagree with me, but keep that opinion to yourself because i’m not getting into it with anyone. i will just block you; it’s better for us both, anyway.

#taz spoilers #taz amnesty spoilers #ignorance cloud on #im not putting this into the main tag bc i dont want people to bitch at me abt that #so if this shows up in theres its bc tumblr has a terrible algorithm

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hazelandglasz · 5 years

Photo

Sweet, Sweet Temptation

Word count: 12.727

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairing(s): Arizaphale/Crowley (Ineffable Husbands) ; Hastur/Ligur ; Beelzebub/Gabriel (Ineffable Bureaucracy); Background Minor Relationships

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Beelzebub, Hastur

Tags: Alternate Universe-Humans, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food Porn, Bibliophile Aziraphale, Gourmet Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Awkward Flirting, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley started working at Heavs and Hens, F.A., but they thought he asked too many questions, and frankly, he didn’t like his colleagues’ attitude. (Well. Except for one, but he never got the chance to get close to the blond cutie.) So he left. Now he’s working in a pastry shop and life is infinitely better. (Well. Most of the time, since neither his boss nor his colleagues are too often in the shop and he’s left to his own device, which is really for the best.) Baking is fun, tempting customers is even better, and if there is a certain blond who keeps on coming back to the shop, well, Anthony is not one to deny himself that pleasure.

A massive, massive thank you to the artists who managed to create such beautiful art for this fic, to the mods who set all this process up, and to my betas for blessing this mess!

Artist: IG Hufflepuffbetty (Art Post) / @hufflepuff-betty

Artist: @scribblemakes

😇😈😇😈😇😈

They say they fired him, but if you were to ask him, Anthony J. Crowley would tell you that he quit before they could.

Or, more accurately, he would tell you to bugger off and leave him alone, but if he felt like giving you an answer, that is the one he would give you.

Joining the financial advising firm was never his idea of a good time, really, but he did because he could and that it made his mother happy. But as weeks went by, Crowley discovered some things.

About himself, and about the firm’s ways, and both were inextricably in opposite directions.

He discovered that the more answers he found, the more questions he got.

That questions were not exactly welcomed, at Heavs and Hens.

That asking questions was the equivalent of lighting yourself on fire in the middle of a family dinner--a sure way to get everybody’s attention, but at what cost?

That fairness and obeying to the idea of the law was not a top priority for the partners.

And that fairness was one of his major core value (along with curiosity, which, if you have paid attention, should tell you how bad an idea it was for Crowley to work there).

So he quit, not with a bang, but with a swagger.

(And a comfortable “keep your mouth shut” pocket money.)

Oh, Crowley doesn’t hold any lasting feeling toward his former colleagues--especially not for Gabriel, that pompous ass who kept on stealing all of Crowley’s ideas and notes for his own credit--but there is a, oh, how can he put it into words, a chance of something greater that was missed with one particular junior adviser.

The man must be approximately Crowley’s age--old enough to be an adult, young enough to still have hope and energy--, with curly hair so blond Crowley isn’t quite sure it is natural, blue eyes that remind Crowley of a Spring sky, and the perpetual shadow of a smile on his rosy lips.

Yes, Crowley could wax poetics about this angel of a man who passed his desk once, eyes on a pocket watch while Gabriel was berating him for being too soft with the clients.

Crowley also knows one thing about this former colleague of his, that could-have-been-something-more-but-wasn’t, one thing that nobody else knows--if they knew, Crowley has no doubt about whether the man would still be working at the company or not.

(The answer is a resounding “not”)

The man, Mr. Eastgate is all Crowley knows to call him, is not as robotic as the other employees and, behind his soft smile and perfect attire, hides just enough of a dark side to be interesting.

How does Crowley know this to be facts?

Crowley saw a memo that miraculously disappeared from the system the following day.

A memo stating that while Mr. and Mrs. Godson would have been very interesting clients for the firm to acquire--read, very profitable clients who would have ended up with the clothes on their backs, if at all--, Mr A. Eastgate thought it best to tell them to invest their savings in a more secure venture, such as Apple shares or any other investment they could actually profit from in the future.

Which, if you weren’t aware, goes against the grain for a financial advising firm.

Tells you a lot about the kind of ethic and the character of Mr. Eastgate, that’s for certain, but where Crowley wouldn’t have been able to resist the need to rub it in everybody’s face, Mr. Eastgate apparently possesses much more diplomatic talents and decided to just …

Swipe it under the proverbial carpet, and play dumb whenever asked about it.

Crowley has to admit it: he respects that.

In addition to his already unbearable crush on the guy for simply looking cute, that’s the only reason he has a pang of regret as he leaves the firm’s building with his potted plant and his severance check.

So long, Mr. Eastgate.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale may not be the best financial advisor in the company, let alone in the world, if only because he doesn’t like putting people in harm’s way, and financial enterprises often lead to harmful conclusions.

But he’s good with numbers, and people listen to him, so, financial advisor it is.

When A.J. Crowley is summoned in the boss’s office and leaves with a smile on his (handsome, unusually handsome) face and a swagger to his walk, sunglasses firmly in place even indoors, Aziraphale feels something akin to regret to see him go--the man was probably the only of his colleagues Aziraphale could stand.

Sad to see him go, but delighted to watch him go, if you can catch his drift.

Good Heavens, what a sight.

Anywho, Aziraphale needs to get back to work, now, doesn’t he?

After all, collecting books is one pricey hobby.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Plant in hand , Crowley lets himself stroll the streets down to the parking garage where he left his beloved car.

As content as he may be to be done with all of those self-righteous lunatics, a question keeps on nagging him:

What is he to do with his life now? Pester his neighbors until they want him blown to smithereens?

Not that he would particularly mind, Crowley delights in being a bother to his admittedly boring neighbors.

But there is a limit to the amount of little offenses one can come up with on a daily basis, isn’t it? And staying idle is really not in his temperament; again, lounging in the sun and doing nothing is a fun past-time, but there always comes a time when his mind cannot stand the passivity.

No, there is no way around it: Crowley needs to find himself a new job, one that will not make him feel like needles are piercing his skin every time his values system is breached.

A quiet, nice job, with almost non-existent colleag--

Oh, look at that shop window.

All thoughts about his future, near and far, come to a standstill as Crowley pauses in front of a bakery.

“Tempting Bites”, an interesting name for sure, but it is the content of the window that really gets his interest.

The cakes are all, indeed, bite-sized, but elegantly decorated--if a little on the morbid side, if Crowley is actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Yep, that is a tombstone on that grey-glazed éclair.

The pastry cannot be bigger than Crowley’s index finger (sure, he has long, pianist hands, as his mother called it, but still, it is a size-reference) but the fondant is still delicately decorated to mimic granite, and the tombstone is engraved and, dare he say it, sculpted to perfection.

The woman behind the counter glares at him, raising one eyebrow when he replies with a smile.

Daring him to enter her queendom, no doubt, and Crowley has never been good at resisting a dare.

“Good morning,” she says in a deadpan tone, “may I tempt you with one of our delights?”

Crowley’s smile only widens. “I would love to try the éclair in the window,” he replies, eyes perusing the store’s shelves. “And may I get a bag of chouquettes?”

The puff pastries are just, well, too tempting to pass, what with the black and red pearls of sugar decorating them.

“Temptation accomplished,” the salesperson says in a monotone, ringing his purchase. As Crowley goes to pay, he spots a sheet of paper behind them.

“You are hiring?”

They blink at him before sighing. “Yes, we do. Do you have any experience in baking?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you mind if the hours are long and the pay minimal?”

Crowley beams at her, leaning over the counter. “Not at all.”

“Are you a felon?”

“Would that matter?”

For the first time since he entered the shop, the hint of a smile appears on the person’s face. “Not at all,” they reply, “but I have to ask.” They shrug, pulling a piece of paper from under the counter. “Here, fill this and send a picture of your I.D. to the number inscribed on top.”

“Right away, boss,” Crowley replies, giving them a jaunty salute with the piece of paper.

“Call me Beelzy.”

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Okay.

If we’re going to continue with this story, there are a couple of things you need to know about Aziraphale Eastgate.

First of all, as previously stated, he is quite the bibliophile, collecting all first editions of British children’s books.

(Yes, it is a collection that requires a lot of time, care, and money.)

(Yes, Mother, he’s aware that he is an adult and that there are better things he could do with his money than chase after kiddy books.)

(No, Mother, he has yet to find a woman to marry and carry on the Eastgate’s legacy.)

((If only she knew.))

Second of all, but perhaps not entirely unrelated to the first point, Aziraphale considers himself an epicurean. A lover of good and beautiful things. A man capable of appreciating the finest things in Life, from a good book to a good meal.

After all, C.S. Lewis said it quite eloquently, “Eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.”

Third of all, as brave and smart as he vows to be on a daily basis, Aziraphale hates being confronted.

All three are needed to understand how conflicted Aziraphale has always felt about the bakery around the corner near the office.

(All right, so maybe the fact that he is a bibliophile is not particularly relevant to this part of the story. But presenting Aziraphale without insisting upon his love for books would be criminal, criminal indeed.

Back to the point.)

Because on the one hand, bakery! Provider of scrumptious cakes and food!

But on the other hand, the person usually behind the counter makes him feel like he’s about to enter a ring just to prove himself worthy of the cakes.

Oh, he has seen many of his colleagues and many people coming out of the shop with little black bags, so the confrontational attitude may just be in his head, but still.

For now, he has only savored the pastries with his eyes, for their aesthetics and satisfies his need for sweet goodness in other places.

(No one needs to know about this, but his favorite place is a little, how should he say, hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Theater district that serves the finest sushis in all of London and got him addicted to crepe cakes. Di-vine, to say the least.)

That being said, he’s reconsidering his avoidance of the bakery.

The sight of a certain shade of red hair behind the window is most definitely to be blamed for this change of mind, but Aziraphale would never admit it, even under threat.

(It depends on the kind of threat. Though he tends to avoid it if he can, Aziraphale is more than capable to handle a little brawl, shall the need arise. But threaten his books or his closet, and chances are Aziraphale will fold like a … well, like a crepe.

Oh, crepes.)

As it is, Aziraphale is not so easily tempted, so “Tempting Bites” and his possibly newly hired and very tempting salesman will have to work a little bit harder at convincing him.

Or, to be more truthful, Aziraphale will need to be sure that it is his infamous former colleague who is now behind the counter, in order to ensure a fruitful encounter.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley is many things, but he is not a liar.

When Beelzy asked if he had any baking knowledge, he did not lie when he said none whatsoever.

But. He is a very fast learner.

“Crowley!”

And. He has a lot of imagination.

“Crowleeeeey!”

Not necessarily a bad combination--he supposes it depends on who you asked.

“What. Is. That.”

Crowley beams at his boss and at his colleague.

“That, my Lord,” he replies with a small curtsey, “is a pumpkin brioche.”

“A … brioche.”

“Yes.”

“A bit on the nose, Crowley,” Hastur drawls from behind him. “An orange brioche, shaped like a pumpkin, and you flavor it with pumpkins.”

“Try it, Hastur.”

“No thank you.”

“Try it before you ditch it.”

Hastur rolls his eyes at him but takes a knife from his pocket anyway, cutting two slices of the brioche.

Beelzy’s face barely shows any reaction, but then again, their face is usually expressionless. As it is, the slight uprising of their eyebrows is all Crowley needed from them.

Hastur’s reaction, in comparison, is far more immediate and satisfying.

“WHAAAAA--”

“Yes, Hastur?”

“But--! How--! Beelzebub, how did he do this?”

Beelzy takes another bite, waving the slice in the air. “Well, there are definitely spices in the dough of the brioche--you’ve been too generous with the cinnamon, Crowley, curb your enthusiasm there--reminiscent of the infamous pumpkin spice latte, and there is the matter of the gooey center … Citrus?”

“Lemon zest and orange compote.”

They nod, swallowing the remains of their slice of brioche in two bites. “Good product. We’ll get the high school population and the office population tempted in no time.”

“Only a matter of days until they’re ours.”

Hastur recovered from his shock--or from his distaste of cinnamon, whichever sounds best--and is now smiling like he came up with Crowley’s creation.

“I’m glad you approve of my idea, my Lord,” he simply says, pushing Hastur out of the way with a hip check.

Beelzy leaves the kitchen as the bell above the door rings and Hastur comes far too close for comfort.

“One of these days, Crowley,” he croaks, “one of these days, you’re going to run out of ideas. And then--”

“And then we’ll be more alike than ever, Hastur! Won’t it be wonderful?”

Hastur snarls one more time before pulling his phone out of his pocket--to text his boyfriend about all the things he wishes he could do to Crowley to make him suffer, no doubt.

Crowley picks up the last piece of brioche from the plate and nods to himself. Indeed too much cinnamon, but he lost track of his spices while he was preparing his test batch.

See, a certain blond head happened to walk by the kitchen’s window when Crowley was seasoning his dough, and, well.

Crowley preferred to follow its tracks than to follow his idea.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

That is most definitely Anthony J. Crowley arranging small brioches in a basket in the bakery’s window.

Aziraphale finds himself dry-mouthed at the sight of these long fingers carefully placing one delicate peachy confection after another on a checkered napkin, and he would have an awfully hard time telling you which of the two brings him to push the bakery’s door.

“Good afternoon, how may I tempt you--,” Crowley starts, spinning on his toes before coming to a stop as he sees Aziraphale.

The way he stops and the way he gawks at him from behind his tinted glasses makes Aziraphale blush and preen.

“--today,” Crowley finishes his welcome, a small smile appearing on his face. “Well, well, well. Welcome, Mr. Eastgate.”

He knows who I am.

He knows my name.

Say something, Aziraphale, before he thinks you are under the influence of something illegal.

“Hello, Crowley.”

There, short and to the point.

Oh, dear Lord, he’s leaning against the counter like some sort of Michelangelo’s sculpture.

“Tempted by something, Mr. Eastgate?”

“Oh please, call me Aziraphale, Mr. Eastgate is my brother Uriel.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley repeating his name should not awaken such warm tingles in his lower regions, and yet, here we are, aren’t we?

Maybe it’s the way his tongue seems to hiss on the ‘zee’ sound and curl around the last ‘el’, maybe it’s the way he says it like Aziraphale himself is the delicacy about to be devoured.

“Earth to Aziraphale?”

Oh, right. He didn’t enter the shop just to leer at his former colleague and ever-present fantasy-man.

“Forgive me, Crowley,” he manages without a stutter, “I was, um, that is to say,” so much for not stuttering, well done, “your buns caught my attention.”

An army of angels passes by, as Crowley’s smile widens into a smirk. “Did they now? Flatterer.”

Aziraphale blinks at him until the words that left his mouth fully register. “Oh! Not those buns! I--I mean! The edible buns! Brioches! In--in the window!” He groans, placing his hand over his face. “Can the floor swallow me now, please?”

“What a waste it would be,” Crowley says quietly, his smile less mocking and more … gentle. “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, your appreciation of all my kinds of buns will be my little secret.”

Aziraphale can literally feel the color of his face taking a turn for the crimson. “G-g-good to know.”

“Now, about the pastries in the window, would you care for one?”

Aziraphale relaxes with a deep breath. “That would be lovely, yes, please.”

Crowley nods and goes to pick a couple of perfectly round orange brioches to put in a paper bag, and Aziraphale watches him carefully.

There is clearly more to Mr Anthony J. Crowley than meets the eye (and a sight it is already, look at those lines, those curves!).

What a pity that he didn’t get closer to the man when they shared an office--now, if he wants to be better acquainted with him, Aziraphale will have to come to the bakery quite often, won’t he?

As he takes a bite of one pumpkin-flavored brioche at the bus stop, letting moans that scandalize and, or, amuse his fellow commuters, Aziraphale comes to realize that it won’t be much of a hardship to pursue a friendship with his former colleague, present favorite baker.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to cross the street and turn toward the bus stop to fall to his knees behind the counter, one hand pressed against his heart.

So not only the man looks like an angel, but he decides to attack Crowley with puns, albeit unintended, and a delicious flush that Crowley wanted to follow under that crisp, white shirt?

Cruel, cruel, cruel.

Cruel and delicious torture.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

As time goes by, Crowley comes to really appreciate his new job.

Sure the hours complicate his social life, but Crowley never really had a social life to begin with, and he’d rather be in the lab in the early morning to tend to his garden of herbs and berries and try new recipes than go out and, what, dance on a sticky dance floor in the hopes of finding someone who will only be second-best to the man he really yearns for ?

He’s not that much of a dancer anyway.

And he has standards.

“I’m warning you, you better do as I say or there will be consequences.”

Luckily for him, now that both Beelzy and Hastur know he can hold the fort alone, they tend to mysteriously disappear and leave him to his own device.

All the better for Crowley to experiment to his heart’s content.

All the better for Crowley to enjoy the company of one particularly faithful customer, too.

Aziraphale comes almost every day now, several times on particularly gruesome days in fact.

By some kind of magic, the shop manages to always be empty when Aziraphale enters it, allowing Crowley to take a break with a man who is slowly becoming a friend.

Crowley doesn’t talk much, not in his nature really, unless a bottle of strong alcohol is involved, but he is a good listener.

And there are very few things in this world as entertaining and satisfying as Aziraphale daintily devouring Crowley’s cakes while ranting about his colleagues.

The man is made of contrasts, and Crowley …

Well, Crowley loves it.

Him.

Whatever.

You’re not in his head.

So what if he made a detailed mental list of all of Aziraphale’s preferences in the matter of tastes, uh?

What about it?

So what if his heart tries to compete in the Gymnastics Olympics every time the doorbell rings?

What are you going to do about it? Mock him? Tell him that he is an idiot for pining after a man who, clearly, seeks his company?

(Well, you wouldn’t be completely wrong about that, even Crowley would admit it. Not out loud, never out loud, but he would admit it.)

Trust him, he knows that this is bordering on ridiculous, this pinning and sighing and burying his feelings in yeast and flour whenever Aziraphale leaves.

Ridiculous, yet productive.

He just put a batch of his matcha, sesame and crushed hazelnut loaves out of the oven, right before the end of the working day, when Aziraphale comes in.

“Hmmm, that smells heavenly.”

“That’s the yeast fucking.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them--he entirely blames Hastur for the phrasing (and his twisted mind for actually enjoying it)--and he looks up toward Aziraphale in alarm, with an apology on the edge of his lips.

Except that Aziraphale, while clearly startled by Crowley’s words, seems to be even more enthused by them, if the beaming smile on his face is to be trusted.

It’s blinding, truth be told, even with the protective sunglasses Crowley has to wear at all times to protect his sensitive eyes from any light.

“The yeast f--”

“I mean, it’s the dough,” Crowley interrupts. He’s not sure he would survive hearing Aziraphale actually curse.

He’s already as infatuated as can be, there is absolutely no need to add another layer of hidden bastardry into the mix.

Aziraphale hums, his amused smile hiding possibly jokes that would kill Crowley on the spot.

“And what, pray tell my dear, did you do to make the dough rise so deliciously?”

A thousand arrows into the chest probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.

(Probably.)

Either Aziraphale has taken a secret vow to kill Crowley with innuendos while not doing anything about … whatever is brewing between them, or he is really that oblivious and Crowley’s mind just has a dirty filter.

Whatever explanation works, Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Green tea and roasted sesame seeds,” he replies before shimmying his shoulders. “And my personal touch.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. “As in …?”

“As in, that’s my secret and you won’t get it, as angelic as you may appear.”

Aziraphale looks surprised for a moment, before turning bashful. “An-angelic? Me? No, I’m not, I’m just... I’m just me.”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, mentally listing everything he would love to do to the people who ate this man’s self-esteem.

Then he starts mentally listing everything he could do to restore said self-esteem, and, folks, it takes a turn for the graphic with the speed of light.

“You are just you,” he finally says, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, “and that’s all it takes for you to be angelic.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s face darkens, but his smile is more assured already. “That’s … probably the nicest thing anyone has ever s--”

“Oh shut up,” Crowley sneers as he straightens up, “I’m not nice.”

Aziraphale makes a show of zipping his lips shut, but his shy smile is still there when he leaves.

😇😈😇

When Crowley leaves the shop, not too long after Aziraphale, the skies have taken a turn for the gloomy and seem ready to open and throw a flood on them all.

Crowley allows himself a moment of self-pity. Even if he takes the bus instead of walking home like he intended to, there is no actual bus-stop.

Hence no shelter.

Hence his new boots getting soaked and his evening ruined.

Raising his head to the heavens just as the first drops fall, he mouths a heartfelt “why” before making his way to the aforementioned bus-stop.

Only to find a blonde head and a beige trenchcoat waiting under the most Aziraphale-Esque umbrella possibly conceived.

“Aziraphale?”

The man in question looks startled before beaming at him. “Crowley!”

Without another word, he lifts the umbrella higher, giving Crowley some room to shelter himself from the downpour.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans for the evening,” Crowley says, digging his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid.

Like, on the top of his head, snake his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

That would be a terrible, awful idea.

A deliciously awful idea.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I did,” he replies, looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye, “and then decided I would rather be at home, with a nice cup of cocoa and a book--and some secret bread someone just created.”

His bus comes and leaves and Crowley cannot be bothered to leave the cocoon of warmth that the umbrella provides.

“Which bus are you taking?” Aziraphale’s voice is muted as if the umbrella really shelters them both, not only from the rain but from the rest of the world.

“I--I think it just drove away.”

Aziraphale looks at him more directly, a crooked smile on his face. Not mocking, no, just …

A smile that speaks a thousand words.

A smile that says, “I know what you did, and I know what it tells me about you and about us, but I won’t say it aloud. For now. Because this is comfortable and nice too.”

Or at least that’s how Crowley reads it.

“Looks like mine is delayed,” Aziraphale simply says. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

Crowley smiles, tired but content. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Eastgate?”

“If there is enough cocoa for one, there is enough for two, my dear Mr. Crowley.”

😇😈😇

For the life of him, Aziraphale doesn’t know what he was thinking.

He entirely blames Crowley’s tight pants and warm smile and--and ...Well, he entirely blames Crowley for being Crowley for his enthusiastic yet unplanned invitation to go to his place.

If he has to be completely honest, Aziraphale’s place is … Not somewhere you invite someone without careful planning beforehand.

(Especially someone who could potentially see more of the place than any random guest, and is possibly someone Aziraphale would like to see in the said apartment more often than not.

Possibly.

As in, always and forever.)

Because, and not that it is a piece of information that is absolutely needed but it bares being told at least once, Aziraphale is messy.

“Ooooooh,” Crowley starts, low under his breath the moment Aziraphale lets him in, an amused look on his face. “You’re messy.”

It does bare being told twice, to be honest.

What puzzles Aziraphale is the sheer delight in Crowley’s voice. He glances around the living room, slash, kitchen, slash, dining room, slash, personal library, and tries to give it an objective look.

There are empty, dirty mugs in the sink, but otherwise, the kitchen area is clean-ish.

There are … oh dear Lord, there are dirty clothes on the couch where Aziraphale came home last night, too tired to get to his bed but not tired enough that he didn’t feel like indulging in a little one-on-one session with himself and his thoughts before succumbing to sleep.

(If said thoughts involved the very person now standing in said living room, well, that’s for Aziraphale’s shame to feed on.)

Three books are opened, stacked in a precarious pile on the coffee table.

At least Anathema is nowhere in sight. With any luck, she’s asleep on Aziraphale’s bed and won’t bother sniffing around.

(Aziraphale feels like introducing Crowley and Anathema would bare more consequences than introducing Crowley to his family.)

Some shoes and ties create a parkour-worthy arrangement around the room.

On his shelves, it’s not a mess. It’s the perfectly organized chaos Aziraphale has chosen as his way of putting his collection together.

All the editions of one book together, naturally, arranged per publication date, of course.

So it looks a bit in disarray in relation to the sizes and the conservation states.

That doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but he can see how, added to the rest of the room, his shelves give a distinctively chaotic vibe.

Still, Crowley is not running for the hills or making fun of him as some other people did in the past.

(Gabriel is a judgmental asshole who wouldn’t make the difference between a sketch by E.H. Shepard and a napkin at the bottom of a dump, and he can suck on his minimalistic design for all Aziraphale cares.

Still hurts when he makes fun of Aziraphale’s prized possessions.)

No, quite the contrary. Aziraphale can only gulp when he spots Crowley strutting, really, the man is strutting in his living room, caressing the back of Aziraphale’s chair or browsing the shelves, the same delighted look on his face softening as he goes.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he says suddenly, voice barely above the sound of the rain hitting the window. “How did you get your hands on this one?”

Aziraphale forgets all of his embarrassment at the state of his home to see what caught Crowley’s attention.

“Sendak?”

“Not just any Sendak, you little minx. Quite the controversial item, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale can tell that his cheeks are now matching some of his books binding. “Well, no respectable collection--”

Crowley snorts and raises one eyebrow.

“No collection would be complete without Sendak’s entire body of work, now would it?”

“Dreaming about baking in the nude, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s brain flies out the window and into the gutter. “I--you--but--”

Crowley snickers, reaching for the copy of “In the Night Kitchen”.

Aziraphale takes it first, clutching it to his chest. “You demon! Do you enjoy making fun of me?”

Crowley’s smile slowly melts away. “I am not making fun of you, honest. It’s just …” Crowley looks frustrated, searching for his words and that alone appeases Aziraphale. “I like finding out that there are more layers to you than what you usually let people know, okay?”

It’s raw and honest and, frankly, adorable.

If Aziraphale wasn’t so worried about losing Crowley’s friendship, he would jump in his arms right there and then kiss the sarcasm out of him.

(It would take a while. Maybe even a lifetime. That doesn’t bother him. He’s willing to spend that time on this task.)

As it is, Aziraphale simply puts the book back on its shelf before clasping his hands in front of him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Aziraphale chances a look at Crowley, who is busy pretending he finds the pattern on Aziraphale’s floor mind-riveting.

“How about that cocoa to go with your loaf?”

Crowley visibly chokes on air.

“Of bread! Your loaf of bread! That I bought!”

“... Right.”

Aziraphale all but runs to the safety of his kitchen where he gently smacks his head against a cupboard.

“Are you all right, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale closes his eyes one moment before letting out a deep breath. “Do you have a milk preference? And do you want some sugar in your ….?”

Crowley appears next to him. “I wouldn’t mind if you have sheep milk--easier to digest.” Crowley takes a step that puts his hand almost on top of Aziraphale’s. “And I think I have all the sweetness I need.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale is absolutely not using his countertop as a crutch to keep himself upright while Crowley is standing so close to him.

Dear Lord, he smells like a cologne-scented pastry, and that is more appetizing than it should be.

“Perhaps if you mixed some honey in it, though …”

Aziraphale can’t help but beam at Crowley. “Now that’s an excellent idea, my dear! Go, sit, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

Crowley frowns at him, silently muttering “a jiffy?” but still complies with the command.

Aziraphale focuses on preparing their drinks, cutting slices of the delicious green tea loaf and putting them on a clean plate--more of a feat than you’d think--before joining Crowley.

And that’s when he almost drops the tray.

Because Crowley is not sitting on the couch, oh no Sir.

Crowley is sprawled on the couch, spread on the pleather like caramel on a crêpe.

“Com-comfortable, I believe?”

“Hm-hm.”

Aziraphale straightens up and bumps his hips against Crowley’s feet. “Leave some room for me, will you?”

Fussing over the cups and saucers, Aziraphale completely misses the fond look Crowley addresses in his direction as he sits more properly.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

“What are your plans for the weekend?” Crowley asks, wondering if today is the day he’ll finally get brave enough to ask Aziraphale if he’d like to--

“Would you care to accompany me to the auction I texted you about? Afterward, we could go get some sushis ….”

“Why do you need me, exactly?” Crowley cuts in. “It’s not like I know anything about books.”

(This is a blatant lie, for once. Crowley knows it, you know it, his shelves of astronomical and botanical books and romance novels know it. Aziraphale, however, does not. This will have to wait for Aziraphale to actually come to Anthony’s place, and, well, sorry dears, but Crowley is not there yet.

Pace yourself and enjoy the moment, will you?)

Aziraphale toys with the paper napkin, wringing it into oblivion. “Well, if I remember our brief moment as colleagues, you always seemed to be the … responsible, shall we say, um, perhaps, the sensible kind of fellow.”

Crowley barely resists the need to bark a laugh at that. As it is, he keeps it to a smirk stretching his lips as he leans back in his chair.“Hardly.”

“Now come on, dear,” Aziraphale tuts, oblivious to the way Crowley’s eyes widen at the term of endearment, “you would do a fantastic wingman to contain my enthusiasm.”

Crowley briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling--dear God, there is no way his former-colleague-turned-friend-could-be-more is not doing it on purpose, is there?--before sighing. “Why is there a need to contain your enthusiasm?”

Aziraphale gives him a look.

“No, seriously, Angel,” he continues, this time being the oblivious one to the stunned look on Aziraphale’s face at his choice of words, “you do make a decent living, working for those vampires, why would you need to, um, contain your enthusiasm?”

“Because that’s the … reasonable, err, thing to do?”

“Screw reasonable, Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims. “You’re not harming everybody, you are not going to spend all of your money during an auction. After all, there is only one book fitting your collection--”

“Oh. You looked at the catalog I sent you?”

“Of course,” Crowley shrugs, mildly offended. “So if you’re only looking to buy one book, why not splurge a little?”

“When you put it that way …”

“Treat yourself, Angel!”

“Clever tempter.” Aziraphale tries to look angry, but it only comes out as unbearably cute.

Crowley lets himself smile as fondly as his heart desires at Aziraphale. “Not much to tempt when it’s already what you wanted to do.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So, will you come with me, Crowley?”

Oh, right, he never actually gave an answer did he? “I guess. If nothing else more interesting comes my way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What? I may have hundreds of invitations waiting for me to give them a reply.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice just lower enough to awaken an unidentified heat in Crowley’s stomach, “you’re the one who asked me if I had plans over the weekend.”

With a pat on Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale is up and already at the door with a wave. “See you Saturday on New Bond Street, Crowley!”

Crowley is left stunned in his chair, looking after the blond curls bobbing down the street.

The little devil.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

To be completely honest, Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley would show up.

After all, it is his only day of freedom before going back to a job that is far more physically demanding than Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale would completely understand if Crowley decided to just sleep it away.

(He would understand. He would be disappointed and sad, but that would be for him and for his pet to know.)

But no.

Next to the entrance of the auction house, in all his glorious lankiness draped in black, stands the man starring in a lot of Aziraphale’s dreams lately.

Oh, kindly get your mind out of the gutter, not all those dreams are of the pornographic variety.

(The key-word here being “not all”.)

Crowley’s hair is out of his usual messy bun, flowing in crimson rivlets around his angular face. Sunglasses firmly in place even though it is a cloudy day in London.

As for the rest of his attire, one would call it “punk chic” if one even dared to try and qualify Crowley’s …

Well.

Crowley as a whole is inqualifiable, isn’t he? Almost …

Ineffable.

And here he goes again, waxing poetic over Crowley while being too shy, awkward, afraid, to do something about it.

Would that be so hard? “Hey Crowley, thanks for coming, after the auction, would you fancy some dinner? No, not like the hundreds we already shared, no, this one would be special. A date. I’m asking you on a date. No? Preposterous? Oh, alright, back to business as usual then, see you Monday at the bakery.”

See? Not that hard. Hardly more than a band-aid ripped from one’s skin.

… Right. As if that simple mind simulation didn’t rip Aziraphale’s heart out of his chest, stomped on it before putting the beaten pulp back for him to heal.

“Right on time, Angel.”

The pet name never fails to cause more aortic gymnastics and Aziraphale beams at Crowley. “If right on time means half an hour before the auction, then, yes, right on time.”

Crowley digs his hands in his pockets, face turned to the ground. “I know you want to find a good spot to observe without being observed,” he mumbles as they enter the auction house and are directed toward the room. “Half an hour to do so sounds reasonable.”

“I appreciate the effort,” Aziraphale says lightly, lighter than he really feels. “I thought reason was your kryptonite.”

A crooked smile appears on Crowley’s face, and he pulls his glasses down just enough for Aziraphale to see him wink. “Among other things, Angel.”

Crowley takes two strides as Aziraphale is glued on the spot.

That--that was flirting, wasn’t it?

It has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Aziraphale is going to lose his darn mind trying to read between Crowley’s lines.

(And he loves every second of it, don’t get him wrong.)

“Now, do you prefer to sit in the back, or somewhere in the middle? I’d prefer somewhere where we can talk without disturbing anybody, even if the walls have ears,” Crowley is rambling, strutting--there is really no other way to put it--strutting his stuff back and forth across the room where the auction will be held. “Do books have ears?” he mutters, to Aziraphale’s complete delight, before snickering in a way that can only be described as adorable, as much as Crowley denies being anything approaching “adorable”, “cute” ou even just “nice”. “Though I suppose they can be eared.”

It requires a lot of focus on their surroundings and a massive amount of self-control for Aziraphale to keep himself from throwing himself at Crowley and kiss the living daylights out of him right then and there.

“Get it?” Crowley insists, his smile far too much for Aziraphale to handle. “Dog-eared?”

“I get it, dear,” Aziraphale says, willing his cheeks to return to their normal, pale complexion. In a very satisfying turn of event, his blush seems to transfer to Crowley’s cheeks, too. “Very funny, and contextually appropriate. Kudos.”

Crowley gives him a little curtsey before pointing at different seats. “So? The choice is yours, Angel.”

Oh, Aziraphale knows that there is a slight percentage of Crowley’s choice of pet name which is vaguely mocking. He knows.

He does love being called “Angel” by a man who looks like one himself, only in a more lustful way.

(Can angels be lustful creatures? There is a probably a whole moral and theological debate to have there, but he’ll keep it in mind for their next date-not-a-date-God-he-wishes-it-was-a-date.)

“Right this way,” Aziraphale points to two seats in second to last row, somewhere around the middle. “Perfect view, perfect to bid.”

As if summoned by magic, a paddle seems to appear in Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale eyes it warily as Crowley twirls it in the air. “Planning on bidding, dear?”

“Yep. You should get yours too.”

“Seriously?”

Crowley looks over the rim of his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale. “Deadly.”

Aziraphale attempts to glare a him as he stands, taking a double take to make sure that his companion is not pulling his leg. When Crowley has the audacity to make a “go on” motion, Aziraphale huffs and puffs all the way to the paddle counter.

“And what, pray tell, do you plan on bidding on, exactly?”

“Something awfully overpriced, just to make some idiots pay more than they should.”

“Oh, be serious, Crowley.”

The room fills up one person at a time, but as far as Aziraphale is concerned, it’s just the two of them.

“If you must know,” Crowley replies, a faint blush appearing on the apple of his cheeks (and on the tip of his ears, that is just … Aziraphale has no words), “while browsing the catalogue you sent me, I spotted a copy of a book that could look good on my shelves.”

“As in …?”

“As in, wait and see, good things come to those who wait, for Pete’s sake!”

Aziraphale smiles crookedly at that, as discretely as he can manage.

If he had any doubts, they’re all gone now. There is definitely more to Crowley than meets the eye. The man is not as blasé as he would like to appear.

Or maybe, just maybe, he only lets Aziraphale sees under all that nonchalance to show his true self.

That possibility almost makes him faint.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention,” the auctioneer calls with a too-white smile. “Let’s begin with the first lot of this English literature, History science and Children’s book auction, shall we?”

😈😇😈

It’s not that Crowley is a bibliophile--far from it.

He simply has a profound respect for books and the answers they can provide to all the questions in the Universe.

And sometimes, just for the fun of it, he likes to splurge on books which show how far Humanity has come, in terms of knowledge.

The irony of it all, and, though he’ll never admit it, the hope that lies between those lines.

If humanity is capable of growing out of a pit of superstitions and darkness, the future cannot be as bleak as it looks, can it?

Which leads us to the present moment, to the book he spotted in the aforementioned catalogue and wishes to purchase if it fits his splurging budget.

Rachel Bell Maiden’s “The Canape Book”.

The small book doesn’t look like much, on its podium, barely held upright by the handler’s gloved hand.

And yet, Crowley wants it like he doesn’t often want for things.

(A look on his left tells a different story, but a, this is not the place nor the time, and b, Crowley himself doesn’t want to admit to himself that he yearns.

Humans can be stupid like that.)

The green binding is pretty unique, or so Crowley has learned online, and he really, really ...

“Starting the auction at 200 pounds, do we have a bidder, I have an offer at 250 pounds …”

Crowley raises his paddle like a sword in the air.

“300 pounds to paddle 666. I have an offer at 325?”

One more lift.

“350, 350 to paddle 666. What about you, Sir, care to raise the stakes? No? On the phone?”

The auctioneer looks around the room and Crowley starts sweating. As it is, with the fees, and everything, the book is going to be right on the verge of extravagant for his budget.

But it is a good purchase, if only to find recipes to try with Aziraphale, sandwiches and cocktails that will make for splendid afternoon and fantastic evenings, perhaps a prelude to more if they--if he ever gets himself together.

“Going once, going twice …”

“Come on,” Crowley mutters between gritted teeth.

“And sold to paddle 666, congratulations sir.”

“Yesss,” Crowley cannot help but hiss as he puts the paddle away.

Still in the rush of the auction--and yes, it was a rush, shut up--he slides his hand over Aziraphale’s next to him.

And Aziraphale doesn’t move it away.

Oh, no, quite the opposite actually: he turns his hand to clasp Crowley’s firmly and doesn’t let go.

“Congratulations, dear,” he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle Crowley’s skin. “I hope to be as successful in my own endeavor.”

Crowley smiles bashfully. “Thank you, Angel.”

The fifty or so lots after that go by without Crowley noticing them.

A not so small part of him wishfully thinks that Aziraphale doesn’t pay much attention to it either.

When Aziraphale straightens up in his chair, paddle at the ready, Crowley turns his attention back to the room.

The big lot of the sale isn’t up yet, but a few heads are turning toward the three tan-leather bound books.

“Now, lot 69, a 1840 printing of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, in 3 volumes, signed by the illustrator George Cruikshank, we have a lot of interest from buyers over the phone, let’s start this auction at 1200 pounds. 1200, 1300, thank you Sir, 1400 for you Emma, 1400 over the phone, 1500 for me, 1600 over the phone with Tang, 1650 for me, 1650, do I have more bidding?”

Aziraphale raises his paddle and Crowley can feel his heart beating faster in his friend’s behalf.

Well, “friend”.

Whatever they are.

“1700 pounds for the paddle 29472, thank you Sir. 1700 in the room, not with me, not on the phone.”

Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, a proud smirk on his face.

“And 1800 for the paddle 75005.”

Aziraphale and Crowley snap their head toward the part of the room pointed by the auctioneer’s hammer. A smug looking person raises one eyebrow at them.

Aziraphale scowls at them and lifts his hand.

“1900, paddle 29472.”

“2000, paddle 75005...”

Crowley glances back at the catalogue when Aziraphale reaches 3000.

“Angel,” he whispers, “you’re at the higher estimate.”

“These books are mine,” Aziraphale growls back, and while the sound goes straight to Crowley’s bloodstream, it may be time for this whole affair to end.

Glaring at the back of Mx. 75005’s head, Crowley waits for them to lift their paddle, again, and turn to smirk at them, again.

Which they do--so predictable.

Crowley discreetly brings his thumb to his throat and hisses.

The person seems appropriately taken aback.

Aziraphale lifts his paddle one more time, bringing the auction to 3500 pounds.

“3500 pounds for paddle 29742, do you wish to continue, Sir?”

The person hesitates, glancing at them one more time. Crowley lowers his glasses to glare them into submission.

And then they shake their head.

“We’re at 3500 pounds for the gentleman with the paddle 29742, do I have any more bidder? Going once, going twice…”

Aziraphale is the one reaching for Crowley’s hand this time around.

“And sold. Congratulations, Sir. Now, moving on to lot 70 …”

“Unless you wish to stay for what most of these people consider to be the important lot of this sale,” Aziraphale whispers, his hand still clasping Crowley’s, “we can take our leave.”

“Do you want to see how it goes?”

“Nah, I’ll check the final results online.”

“Sure?”

“Sure. Let’s go. I feel peckish.”

“Peckish.”

“Indeed. How about some crepes?”

“Lead the way, Angel.”

😈😇😈😇😈

“Well, wasn’t that fun?” Aziraphale says happily, hands clasped in his back as they walk down the street.

“It was fun,” Crowley replies, a crooked smile on his face. “Especially to see that side of you, Angel.”

“Which side, my dear?”

“The feisty, slightly bastardish side, of course.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, he does, but even if he felt like lying to Crowley, he couldn’t possibly procede. And he can admit that he did let out his … inner bastard.

“Right. Well. I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

“You have no idea.”

Crowley’s voice catches Aziraphale’s attention. It’s soft suddenly around the edges, almost tender, almost fond.

Almost smitten.

Aziraphale searches Crowley’s face for more clues, but beside this smirk that has indeed softened into a grin, his blasted sunglasses block Aziraphale’s “reading”.

“Crowley …”

“Angel …”

They both start at the same time but Crowley shakes his head before Aziraphale can tell him to go ahead. “Never mind that. Where are you taking us?”

Aziraphale considers pushing it, once and for all--speak your mind and heart, damn you, so I can snog you senseless in the middle of Oxford Circus--but Crowley is not the kind of man you can push into confession, that much Aziraphale knows now.

“To my secret spot.”

Crowley’s face instantly matches the crimson lining of his jacket. “Cool. Do you take all your dates there?”

“I never brought anyone there, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale replies over the pitter patter of his heart at the mention of this afternoon being a date. “But I--I want you to be my guest there.”

They reach a crossroad and Aziraphale brings his hands in front of him, nervouser and nervouser as Crowley remains silent.

Until, that is, Crowley’s hand enters his line of vision.

“Crowley?”

Crowley is not looking at him, but he still wiggles his fingers, prompting Aziraphale to take it.

“I would love to see your secret spot, Angel,” Crowley finally says, voice barely covering the hubbub around them. “I am--I am honored.”

It’s only because he knows the way so well that Aziraphale doesn’t lose them both in the streets, floating as he is on his very own cloud.

“This,” Crowley says with as much doubt as he can put in a single syllable, “is where you take me to have crêpes?”

“Indeed it is.”

“This restaurant? Really?”

“Don’t pass on such a hasty judgment,” Aziraphale tutts. “‘For by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemned’.”

Crowley groans as he follows him inside the tiny Japanese restaurant. “Quoting scriptures at me now? Why, oh why would you do that?”

Aziraphale salutes the owner before taking “his” seat, inviting Crowley to join him. “If only to make you admit that you knew the source of my quote, you fallen soul. And to gently ask you not to say another word before you have a chance to try their desserts.”

“Fine, fine, I suppose I can put my judgmental side on hold for a moment with you.”

Oh. Wow. That’s too much, too fast, wow.

All Aziraphale can do on the outside is clearing his throat and pulling the menu in front of him.

“I mean--” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him short.

“Should we split one plate of crêpes, or should we share two plates, I don’t know, I--I, um, I know I have built an appetite with the adrenaline and all, but how do you feel?”

Crowley shrugs, pulling off his glasses to clean them with his scarf. “You’re the connoisseur, you decide. I’m putting my faith in you, Angel.”

But all of Aziraphale’s knowledge and appreciation for the crêpe cakes on the menu flew out the window the moment Crowley’s eyes came into view.

They’re such a peculiar shade, a mesmerizing golden amber Aziraphale could bask in for all of Eternity.

“-raphale?”

“Uh? Sorry, my dear boy, I was--I was lost in thoughts.”

“Pure, happy thoughts?”

“Enough to make me fly if I had any fairy dust.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth, the smile left behind enough for Aziraphale to gather that he has a joke on the tip of his tongue and is refraining out of the goodness of his heart.

“You were saying?” he asks instead, folding back the menu to focus on Crowley, now that those jewelled eyes are once again hidden.

(What a shame, but what a relief for his poor heart, too.)

“I was asking you what was your favorite cake?”

“Depends on my mood,” Aziraphale replies, more comfortable on the subject of food. “A good vanilla crêpe can do the trick but when I feel like treating myself properly …”

“Yess?”

“Chestnut and chocolate is my go-to.”

“An interesting combination.”

“A scrumptious combination!” Aziraphale claps his hands. “Oh, that makes my decision easier. We must simply try that.”

Aziraphale’s favorite waiter approaches and they exchange a few words in Japanese before Aziraphale places his order.

As he leaves them to it, Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who is gawking at him.

“What?”

Crowley clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly. “You--you speak Japanese?”

“Oh, yes, I do, don’t I?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, fingers drumming on the tablecloth.

Aziraphale starts fidgeting under such intense scrutiny. “What’s so special about it, anyway? I’m sure you speak other languages, too.”

It comes out a bit more defensively than he really intended to. There is just something about Crowley that reveals his darker side.

Crowley smirks, still drumming on the table. “I speak Scottish, if that counts.”

“Of course it does.”

“And I suppose I can manage with French, but nothing as … exotic as Japanese.”

“French?”

“Tout à fait.”

Isn’t it funny, how we sometimes discover things about ourselves late in life?

As it is, until this very moment, Aziraphale had no idea that a few words uttered in French could affect him as it does.

But affected he is, and to his core.

“Mighty useful, French, when you enjoy baking,” Crowley continues, seemingly unaware of the sudden heat threatening to consume his companion on the spot. “So many French words just to talk about ingredients. Beurre noisette, crème pâtissière, sucre boulé …”

“Would you teach me?”

Crowley stops in his tracks and looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “French, or baking?”

“Both?”

Oh, it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t see how either lesson could turn into an apocalyptic sort of disaster. He does, he absolutely, with great clarity, does.

But on the other hand, this kind of apocalypse would inevitably lead to him and Crowley spending more time together, getting closer, until Aziraphale would be able to whisper his freshly acquired vocabulary into the meat of Crowley’s skin.

So, yes, Aziraphale would take the risk of an apocalypse of embarrassment for the reward of successfully wooing Crowley.

“That could be fun,” Crowley replies just as the crêpes land on their table, his hand suddenly covering Aziraphale in a sneak attack. “If you teach me something in return.”

Oh, boy.

“What would you want me to teach you?” Aziraphale asks.

“You could teach me Japanese,” Crowley replies, taking his hand back--both a blessing and a curse. “Or fencing.”

Aziraphale freezes. “How do you know I fence?”

Crowley sits back in his chair, cup of tea in his hand as he slouches. “Something in your posture, Angel,” he replies, gesturing in Aziraphale’s direction. “It was either fencing or horse riding.”

“And how do you know it’s not horse riding?”

“Hard on the buttocks, horses. Bit of a flaw in the design, if you ask me. But you don’t strike me as someone who would inflict such pain on his buttocks.”

Such a sentence promptly produces images of Crowley thinking about the comfort of his buttocks, which, if you are in Aziraphale’s mind, doesn’t take too long before derailing into Crowley taking care of his ass.

Not that Aziraphale’s mind needs much prompting to go in that direction nowadays.

“Touché,” is all he can say without making a fool of himself in the middle of his favorite restaurant. To cover for his sudden silence, he picks up a fork to dig into the crêpes.

Ah, crêpes.

Even when they are average, they are the superior dessert, snack and culinary creation altogether.

Aziraphale takes a moment to enjoy his first bite. Much like a French philosopher, Aziraphale thinks that as enjoyable a thing may be, nothing can surpass the happiness brought by the first bite, first sip, first encounter.

The crêpes are thin yet soft, with a delicate crispy ring on the edges. In the center, the pieces of chocolate are on the verge of being completely melted, but not yet, while the crushed chestnuts are bringing some texture to the whole plate.

Aziraphale hums in his delight, before pushing the plate toward Crowley. “Where are my manners? You’re the one who has to try this for the first time.”

Crowley picks up a fork, turning the plate so he can face an untouched part of the crêpe. Aziraphale carefully watches his face for his reaction.

His mind takes another turn for the gutter at the way Crowley flicks his tongue at the fork before closing his lips around it, but then.

Then.

Crowley’s eyes widens, visible even from behind the tainted lenses and he lets out a soft, heartfelt moan that seems to fly directly through Aziraphale’s veins and straight to his heart.

“That’s--” Crowley starts, a pink flush appearing on his high cheeks. “It’s delicious!”

A small part of Aziraphale’s mind takes pride in making his … friend discover such a pleasure, but most of it is entirely consumed by the way Crowley looks at the moment.

Amazement colors his features, and the largest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on his face stretches his lips.

If Aziraphale thought he had a crush on the lanky man before, that is nothing compared to the rush of, well, Love he feels right now.

“I can understand why you kept this place a secret, Angel,” Crowley says, picking a second piece of the crêpe cake. “This is truly a slice of Heaven.”

Aziraphale lets out a short giggle before smothering it with a forkful of cake.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley removes his glasses completely before cupping his face in his palm. The sight of those golden eyes, with their oh so particular shade, short-circuits Aziraphale’s brain.

Particularly because of the fondness warming them.

“May I tempt you for dinner?”

“T-tempt me?”

Crowley cocks one eyebrow at him. “Well, asking you for dinner on my terms means making you leave work early, thus tempting you away from them all.”

“Them?”

“The parasites who used to be my colleagues.”

And just like that, the warm feelings in Aziraphale’s chest melt away. “Parasites?”

Crowley must hear the change of tone in his voice. “Well,” he straightens up while managing to still slouch in his chair, “you know. Gabriel, Michael, all those who act all holier than thou.”

Aziraphale feels hurt--he isn’t quite sure if he feels attacked or if it’s just a sense of professional duty. “Aren’t I one of them too?”

Crowley puts his sunglasses back on. “You work there, yes, but you are not one of them,” he replies emphatically.

“How so?”

“I know so.”

Aziraphale swipes his face with his hand. “I know I should take your words as a compliment, but what makes you so sure that I’m not like them?!”

Crowley smiles at him, blinding and, and, loving, yes. “I know you would never take advantage of the people who have faith in you,” he replies simply. “And that you are more layered than any of those buffoons.”

“Oh.”

“And given the chance, you wouldn’t work for them.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Crowley. “Oh really. And what would I rather do?”

“I think that you would be way happier if your job involved books and making people happy.”

Aziraphale blinks at the image those words paint.

Far too appealing an image. He needs to stir the conversation away from it.

“To answer your earlier proposal …”

“Hmm yes?”

“I would love to let you tempt me.”

“Great.” Crowley beams at him. “Meet me at the bakery around 5pm.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

😈😇😈😇😈

The thing you need to know about Crowley is that he’s a perfectionnist.

Oh, maybe you already gathered as much about him from the rest of the story already.

But anyway, that is to say that in preparation for his date--because yes, this is officially a date, if the previous day wasn’t already one--, Crowley spends the night trying to figure out the best sweets to treat his angel to.

(Yes, his. Aziraphale is his. Move on.)

He considers making a decadent crepe cake, perhaps even on with a heart hidden in its center, cliché be damned, but does he really want to enter a competition with Aziraphale’s favorite dessert on their first date?

No, he doesn’t. Maybe later, once they will have dated for a while, for a special occasion perhaps.

No, for now, Crowley needs to blow Aziraphale’s mind and tastebuds.

(No, Crowley is absolutely not considering blowing anything else. Who do you take him for?

… If the mood seems right.

Maybe.

Possibly.)

The rest of the meny is fairly simple: Crowley knows Aziraphale’s tastes now. Fresh, quality ingredients, some fancy ones but nothing that can take him away from the ultimate prize that is the dessert.

So he decided to start with oysters (which doesn’t require a lot of preparation, juste the mignonette sauce).

Pros: it’s easy, fresh and aphrodisiac.

Cons: the shells. But Crowley will deal with them later.

For the main dish, Crowley goes with a pancetta and butternut squash risotto.

Pros: he can prepare it in advance and simply reheat it when needed (and he totally prepares it while considering his dessert options).

Cons: well, there are ways to fail at making a risotto, but this is not Crowley’s first risotto. He knows where the potential failure lies, and he sidesteps it like a pro.

And now back to the dessert.

If everything goes as well as Crowley wishes, thinks, hopes it will go, then by the time they get to dessert, they will both want to get closer.

Maybe kiss.

Maybe hold each other.

(Oh, to feel Aziraphale’s soft body pressed against his. Now that would be his treat.)

In order to to so, Crowley has two choices, really.

Either a dessert they can feed to each other, like an ice cream or a mousse of some sorts, or a dessert they can nibble on, like some kinds of biscuits or--

Hold that thought.

Crowley applauds himself before going through the pages of his book.

“Good Nommins: Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Recipes”, a book he got from his great-great-great-great aunt. All of Crowley’s recipes are a variation he played from those ancient recipes.

And there is something he thinks will do the trick.

So, yes, he spends the night trying recipes, finding ways to recycle what doesn’t make the cut (an unsuitable cookie is only a good cheesecake crust waiting to happen) until Crowley is sure he has the right treat.

And now he is.

At 5 a.m.

Which means that there is no point in going to bed now, is there, since he has to be at the bakery in one hour.

That’s alright, though. Crowley doesn’t really mind, especially considering the ultimate goal. Mission Woo Aziraphale Eastgate out of his waistcoat, dot dot dot, is a go.

😈😇😈

Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale in front of the bakery and he does his best not to be nervous.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Crowley is too tired to hide that Beelzy managed to surprise him.

“I’m waiting. For my, um, my friend.”

“Right,” they drawl, fixing the brooch on their lapel. “Your … friend, the blondy from the vampire office.”

“You know them?”

“Got my loan from them.”

Crowley can’t help but pull a face.

“And my regular booty call.”

Crowley’s grimace takes a turn for the worse. “Isn’t that what people call a boyfriend?”

Beelzy makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be gross. Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Should I worry?”

“Do or do not, I don’t care. Bye!”

Crowley is still frowning after them when Aziraphale taps on his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good afternoon, dear!” Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels. “So, where are we going?”

Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, bringing the rocking to a stop.

“Follow me.”

😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know what makes him trust Crowley so much that he’s willing to follow him through the streets of London until they reach what looks like an old factory.

“What is--where are we, dear boy?”

“My place, Angel.”

(I told you it would come in the proper time, didn’t I, dear readers? Good things come to those who wait.)

“Your--your place?”

“I thought it would be better to have an intimate setting for our, err, first, you know,” Crowley says while opening his door.

Aziraphale’s brain has already melted at the word “intimate”, but the design of Crowley’s flat finishes the job.

Given the look of the building, Aziraphale expected something rough, somehow bohemian. The idea doesn’t quite fit Crowley’s general look, but what does he know, right?

But that flat!

Everything is sleek and modern, except for the kitchen which has a wooden counter, but even that part of the flat is in the darker shades, black wood and metal.

Though the space is not big, the whole space is tidy and sparkly clean, a complete opposite to the way Aziraphale himself keeps his own flat. Next to the windows, which could be seen from the outside, stand giant plants. Monstera, succulents and alocasia fill in the space, probably eating up the light during the day.

It’s the most luxurious private garden Aziraphale has ever seen. Next to them, in the biggest sunlight spot, stands a vivarium with a napping snake.

Now, that fits the picture of Crowley he has built in his mind.

“Welcome to my casa,” Crowley tells him, taking off his jacket and sending it with a scary accuracy onto the hook. Aziraphale doesn’t trust his own talent and goes to hang his own coat. “I hope you don’t mind Newt?”

“You have a lovely home, Anthony,” he replies instead, looking around. A door is closed, probably leading to Crowley’s private parts of the flat--and Aziraphale is now very intrigued to know more about the kind of bedding Crowley likes to sleep in, while the main room is split between the living room, where the plants are, and the kitchen, where Crowley is standing.

His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, good Lord.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies softly, simultaneously opening the refrigerator and turning the fire on under a large pan.

For some reason, hearing his first name in Crowley’s mouth is even better than the pet name he got used to.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Make yourself comfortable, angel, and perhaps open a bottle of wine?”

Aziraphale works quickly to open the bottle of red wine in order to be able to return to his gawking at Crowley in action.

“Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“This is a date, right?”

Crowley freezes before nodding.

“I’m really glad it is.”

Crowley comes to sit at the table too, a large plate covered in oysters and a light vinegary sauce. He has a small smile, almost shy. “I’m really glad too.”

“Oh, oysters,” Aziraphale can’t help but sigh happily. “How did you know that they are my “péché mignon”?”

“I had a hunch,” Crowley says, pushing the plate toward Aziraphale.

“You have a lot of them, about me?”

“Quite a few.” Here is that smile again, soft and warm and reaching into Aziraphale’s body to seize his heart in the most tender way.

Aziraphale tries to hide his blush by slurping on an oyster, the peppercorn and the vinegar heightening the ioded taste of the mollusk.

“That’s delicious.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you so good at cooking?”

That, more than anything else, gets Crowley started, and the hours tick by as they devour the plate of oysters and then the entire pan of risotto, spoonful by spoonful, while Crowley talks about his childhood, his desire to cook and his incessant need to ask questions to understand, really, the why’s and how’s of the universe. Aziraphale interjects some questions, mostly savouring both the food and the way Crowley seems to lighten up from the inside as they move to the plush looking couch in the living room. Truth be told, he becomes more alive the emptier the bottle becomes, sure, and his speech makes less and less sense, but it only makes him more attractive in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And then, then--” Crowley pauses, pouting. “What was I saying?”

Aziraphale blinks, and yes, he is quite inebriated himself. “Something about fish soup?”

“Bouillabaisse! Yes!”

“What about bulibaze?”

“... I don’t know. But it’s bloody good.”

Aziraphale starts giggling, and when he looks up again to pour himself another glass, Crowley is sitting far closer than he was just a moment ago.

“Oh.”

Crowley’s hair is ruffled and soft-looking, begging for Aziraphale to pass his fingers through them. His eyes are dark, a golden circle surrounding his irises. And his mouth is …

It’s calling for Aziraphale’s touch, that’s what it is.

They both lean closer, and Aziraphale licks his lips the moment Crowley bites on his lower lip.

“I have dessert.”

“You--uh?”

Crowley leans back, still close enough that Aziraphale can feel his body heat radiating on his left side.

“I prepared a dessert. For you. A special dessert.”

I could be happy with you as my dessert, fleetingly crosses Aziraphale’s mind but in the ranking of his sins, gluttony must supersedes lust because he is immediately curious.

“A special dessert for me?”

Crowley winks, the devil, before jumping out of the couch and sautering to the kitchen.

While he waits, Aziraphale tries to compose himself.

Oh, he has every intention of bringing what almost happened to something that definitely happened, but he doesn’t want it to be a drunken, or worse, rushed moment.

Hence the composing.

“Tadaaa,” Crowley singsongs as he brings a plate to his coffee table. The plate is covered in thin golden biscuits, as thin as paper, rolled up and folded.

“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale picks up one of the biscuits. It’s amazingly light and buttery. “What are those?”

“They have two names,” Crowley explains, pushing forward Aziraphale’s glass. “They’re known as gavottes, or as crêpes dentelles.”

Aziraphale recognizes the first word. “Those are crêpe biscuits?”

“Yes.”

“And you made them for me.”

“... Yes, angel.”

Aziraphale delicately puts the biscuit back on the plate.

“What are y--”

Crowley doesn’t get to finish his sentence, his lips otherwise occupied by Aziraphale’s.

After months of dreaming about it, picturing how it would be, the reality of kissing Crowley is even better than he imagined. It’s soft and passionate and clumsy and perfect, all at once.

Crowley wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer until Aziraphale is practically lying on top of Crowley on the couch.

Clumsy? Definitely.

Uncomfortable? Just a little bit.

Everything Aziraphale wished for? And more.

Crowley moans into the kiss, and it’s not necessarily the good kind of moans. Aziraphale pushes himself up. “Everything alright, my dear boy?”

“Hm-hm,” Crowley replies, looking a bit dizzy. “Just, let me--agh--” Crowley winces, reaching behind him and picking a book. He glares at it, putting it on the table, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. The love and adoration in those golden eyes render Aziraphale silent. “Better. Now, where were we?”

Aziraphale smiles, caressing Crowley’s cheek. “At the beginning of forever, I believe,” he whispers, before diving in for another kiss.

(They do get to the gavottes, eventually, once Aziraphale is out of his waistcoat and his shirt is opened, and once Crowley’s pants have been opened.)

😈😇😈😇😈

It’s a heartbreak to part, but on the other hand, they make the journey from Crowley’s flat to the street where they both work together, so Crowley counts that as a win.

He waits for Aziraphale to pause at the entrance of his building, smiling at him one more time before they meet again in the evening, before entering the bakery.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.” Beelzy’s words contrast with their tone, but Crowley is used to that by now.”

“What can I do for you, my Lord?”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“I--I do. Did I give you the impression I wanted to leave?”

“No. Then again, I don’t usually care.”

“Oh. Then why--”

“I don’t want to work anymore. So. Are you interested?”

Crowley feels like he has entered the Twilight Zone. “Interested in?”

“In the shop, you imbecile. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Not really, no. But I could be interested.”

Beelzebub smiles at him. “Not so dumb after all then. Take your time, think about it, and come back tomorrow with your answer. I’m off now.”

With that, they walk out of the shop, leaving him alone with more to think about that he thought he would have on this day.

😈😇😈

“Are you interested?”

Crowley walks back and forth in Aziraphale’s living room, after retelling him of his boss’s proposal.

“I am! Of course I am!” he exclaims. “Fancy me, business owner. In charge of …”

“Of everything.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m sure you could do it,” Aziraphale points out, before sipping out of his mug of tea. “You have all it takes to turn this business into a success.”

“Except for the will to be responsible for it.”

“Hm.”

Crowley pauses. “Do you really think I could do it?”

“I do. You’re smart, creative, intuitive. You can do it.”

Crowley leans over the table to kiss Aziraphale before resuming his walking around. “But what of the money?”

“You have your severance money from Heavs.”

“True.”

“And, um.”

“What?”

Aziraphale wiggles on his spot. “I could, um, invest in it too?”

Crowley freezes. “You? What?”

Aziraphale stands to come in front of him. “I have money I could invest in your business.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish; he’s sure it’s not attractive, but he can’t do anything else.

“Or better yet?”

“Better?”

Aziraphale nods. “I could … be a partner.”

Crowley feels his face heating up but he focuses. “A partner?”

“Yes.”

“Care to develop on that idea, Angel?”

“I could--that is, I have been thinking.”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and then unloads all of the following in seemingly one breath.

“I have been miserable at my job for a while now, even though I’m quite good at it. I just, just, have enough of it, and I don’t think my soul can take much more of it. Meanwhile, I can see myself having a library of sorts, making my books available for all to peruse and enjoy while, I don’t know, maybe, savor some mini pastries?”

Crowley stares at him.

That idea is crazy.

Demented.

Completely out of this world.

Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

… Exactly what he wants, without ever knowing he did.

And yet, what comes out of his mouth next doesn’t make much sense either.

“You’d let people eat or drink near your books?”

Aziraphale had his mouth open to keep on babbling about his plans, but Crowley’s interjection brings him to a halt and he beams at him.

“I would. Would be rather hypocritical of me not to when I do it so often, wouldn’t it?”

“Ah. Right.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Was that your only objection, my dear, dear boy?”

Crowley’s brain fires up before he can get back to his senses. “I would love for us to be partners.”

“You would.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea, Angel.”

Aziraphale pulls on Crowley’s hand, pulling him closer, pulling him to him so they can kiss. “I do have a lot of ideas, Anthony.”

“Can’t wait to test them all, Aziraphale.”

(It takes them a moment to get their shop running, but eventually, Londoners get to enter “Above and Below”, thus named for the nurturing of the mind, through the books-- above-- and the body, through the food--below.

Crowley finds a way to make one-bite delicacies that match some of the books and Aziraphale is the one making the match when it’s not obvious.

They work well together, what can we say?)

~~ The End ~~

#good omens big bang #gobb #masterpost #sometimes i write #hufflepuffbetty #scribblemakes #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #good omens au #food porn a plenty

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alchemist-shizun · 5 years

Text

I Can See My Kingdom Now

Read on Ao3!

Chapter 3: Time and again boys are raised to be men

Word Count: 10,176

Characters: Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Deceit.

Pairing(s): Eventual Logicality and Prinxiety. (hints to Royality, they’re forced into an arranged marriage)

Warnings: -Mild cursing (there's just one cuss word) -Minor character death -Negative thoughts -Panic attack -Insomnia -Some kind of selective mutism -Toxic parental behavior -Mentions of hallucinations -Food mention -Self-esteem issues and self-deprecation

Summary: Growing up isn't easy for anybody. Especially when you're the new around, when you feel like you lost everything or when it seems you have the world against you.

A/N: Or of how I’m projecting slightly into one of the characters. As for the next update, I don't have much ready so you'll have to be waiting a bit for it, nothing specific this time. I'm currently working on a Prinxiety one-shot that I hope I can release soon, plus in September I'll be participating in the little event with daily prompts dedicated to the series. Also, I'll be soon starting the last year of high school, so updates will be definitely slower, but I won't give up, promise. Thank you for sticking around till now, I'll hear from you soon!

✾

❝ You are broken and callow Cautious and safe You are boundless in beauty With fright in your face ❞

The first years through his “learning how to be a valuable prince” had passed, and Roman was already grateful for the castle servants, who seldom sneaked in his room extra food. It wasn't like they were making it too hard for him and basically throwing knowledge at him or expecting him to be a natural and ace every single lesson.

His teachers adjusted to him, they let him take his time and were more than happy to explain concepts more than once.

It was just that he felt like he had to learn how to live all over again: first came posture, back at the orphanage none really cared if you were walking, skipping along the pavement, even running at times.

Here you had to keep your body in a particular position, your head straight, especially among other aristocrats. Your step had to be measured, every part of your body talked for you most of the times.

A step back could mean disdain, fright, a step forward could be interest, trust, a hand towards you is a chance to dance or an offer for a hug.

Roman had met many nobles, apart from the royals from Tinfea, after he came back to the palace; they all wanted to congratulate his parents and meet the famous lost prince. The story they knew was that a naïve servant had let the gates open and he had wandered outside by himself until he got lost for good.

As a child, he liked the attention of numerous people, but how to behave around them wasn't exactly his expertise.

Every time he did something unusual, the strangers would mention how adorable he was. His parents would smile and stroke his hair gently, a sign that, regardless of his inexperience, he was doing a good job.

To help him to get used to it, servants that casually met him in the hallways reminded him of his posture. Eventually, he got there.

While also practicing that, which reminded him to always look up to people and never look down on them, he learnt what kind of behavior he had to keep during meals, which silverware to use, how many servings there were in each meal, which one was his reserved seat.

To make it fun, he established a game between him and his parents: it consisted on guessing the food that was going to be served by the kitchen servants. It was a secret between him and the cook, but he'd occasionally sneak in the kitchen to get a “general idea”, as he liked to call it, of the possibilities. He totally wasn't cheating. Besides, he loved how his parents compared him to a magician every time he succeeded.

They made everything easier for his age, enjoyable even.

Everyday he learnt something new and everyday he was aghast: it happened even as he woke up in his chambers for the first time.

He had been woken up by the gentle daylight of the morning that was peering through the translucent curtains, pulled apart by one of the servants he had seen going around the corridors before going to sleep.

He had tried to snuggle closer to the covers and the pillows, shielding himself from the eventual tasks he had to complete during the day.

The servant had approached him and, with honey-like words, they persuaded him to get up. Only that he was simply expected to sit up on his bed.

Ever since he came to the castle, a servant would meet him in the morning to wake him up, then they'd be helped by a couple more to bring in the room a dressing table with a mirror, a chair, some objects and utensils they needed, meanwhile one of them would look into a wooden case full of rich fabrics that Roman didn't even know to distinguish.

The servants always helped him get up on his feet, they led him to the chair to sit down and they washed his face, his hair got combed and treated with products that made them soft and perfumed. Different types of oils and creams were smeared every day on his skin as they undressed him, careful not to get the night vest dirty.

No wonder they forced him to take a hot bath every night.

When they were done with that he got up, almost completely naked, and they proceeded to help him put on his clothes, which were layers on layers of various types of cloth. He didn't even know all of their names.

He looked at his minute figure on the tall mirror nailed on the wall which was perpendicular to the bed: splashes of red, gold, white and black blinded his sight as he noticed his hair tied at the nape of his neck.

After breakfast he had his first lessons of reading and writing in the library; his teacher was the same one that taught him about the history of their kingdom. She was an old lady with a streak of bright green in her white hair and a perpetual knowing look that made her seem like she had lived as long as the planet had existed. As if she knew everything there was to know.

Roman had always found her somewhat intimidating, which led to an ever-growing respect towards her: in a couple of months he had been able to read fluently and write with little to no mistakes.

The lady was amazed at how he kept practicing and demanding for books narrating fables. To the point that, unable to stop herself, she finally asked.

« What is it that interests you so much? » she lent him the second book that week, she was afraid she would run out of them soon. She made a mental note to send a man to the nearest kingdom.

« They remind me of the village I was in. » he said, eyeing the book cover with enthusiasm.

« How so? »

« I used to make up stories with a friend! » he looked up at her with a warm smile « Father said I'll visit him soon. » he added, excitement in his eyes.

Something sour set in the lady's mouth. She knew better, as always.

She couldn't help but smile back and place her hands her hips.

« Perhaps after you learn a bit of those history lessons I gave you, will you? A prince has to know everything about his kingdom if he wants to rule someday, understood? »

He let out a small huff « Of course, ma'am. »

She pat his head. « That's good. » and, as she stared at his back to check his posture while he walked away, a sad look couldn't help but make its way through her face.

After Roman had mastered all the first lessons, he was taught how to speak properly in the presence of nobles, elders, young people and the plebs in general. It was a surprisingly young servant that helped him, since sometimes it could happen that some wise and skilled enough servants could be “promoted” as teachers for the king's children.

All the letters in front of the prince seemed to swirl around his head and pressing at both sides when he looked at all the different meanings a single word could have. All the different ways that you could say something so that you could be understood by all types of audiences. The best moments were when he used the wrong linguistic register and he ended up talking to a kid the way you would treat an emperor.

At the same time he took up art lessons with that same servant. Roman found out they were not only good at how to behave with someone but they could also make the nicest instant portraits. The first one she did of him, he hanged it right after in his room, on the side of his half-empty bookshelf he asked his parents to bring in after a couple of gifts from his history teacher.

The second reaction was simply a request to teach him how to be as good as them. So they started going out of the palace daily, then into the gardens, to just sit down and draw from reference. He kept trying, transforming nature in swirls of colors and pencil figures.

Before he could say he was pretty good at it, a couple of years would have to pass, but he was content enough with just staying outside and enjoy the artistic point of view his servant offered him.

Twice a week, on the other hand, they stayed inside and flipped through a history of art book, full of pictures and analysis of the paintings or architectures.

Then, there was one of Roman's favorite things: he began sword fighting lessons. A valuable prince needed to have an eclectic knowledge and skills, but most of all if he wanted to protect a whole kingdom, he had to be able to protect himself first.

One of the Royal Guard's knights was lent to teach him; Roman believed he was going to have one of those basic lessons in which you went into the backyard of the castle, out of earshot not to disturb anyone with the clanging noise of metal.

Never in his life he would have imagined to be led into a ballroom and met with a curly dark petrol-haired man and a mischievous smile: he had two perfectly created wooden swords behind his back, like a ninja about to unsheathe his own katanas.

Roman approached the man with a confused yet composed look and when he stopped a few feet away, he held that stare.

The knight's expression shifted to a thoughtful one, never leaving that slight curve of his lips; he saw Roman, a tiny child, refraining from taking his eyes off of him, a well-trained man from the Royal Guard. And he didn't find fear in those honey-like irises, he was expectant. Rigid, but ready.

At this point silence had been enough to still keep her around. The knight threw a sword at the boy with no warning, it was definitely a test for his reflexes.

It was a habit that he always did with his new apprentices, it felt like some kind of superstitious gesture, if the person didn't catch it was probably going to have a lot of trouble teaching. On the other hand if they did …

The knight could only watch as the hilt of the wooden sword flew in Roman's hand, perfectly adjusting to his grip.

… well, it was going to be fun.

« I like you. »

The prince flashed him a satisfied smile.

The older man got a few steps closer and leaned down, Roman could see the red in his eyes that previously he thought was an unusual shade of brown.

« Shall we dance? »

Always busy with lessons and writing down stories to read to his loving parents, Roman found himself being fifteen, the village and its inhabitants was a distant memory he couldn't have the luxury to think about.

He didn't even realize he stopped asking about Virgil. He didn't realise he stopped thinking about him or the orphanage. It was less hurtful to pretend it all didn't exist than accept he would have never been able to come back. They hated him by now, probably.

His history lessons were so persistent he could now recite all his ancestors' lives backwards. Or in alphabetic order. Or in any kind of order, really. As he let go of the lessons he had mastered, new ones would come up almost instantly and, sometimes, take away even more time than the ones he had before.

Not that he wanted to complain, he'd be exhausted enough to have no trouble sleeping and never waking up a single time in the middle of the night. Which made the actual waking up ten times more challenging.

But most of all, he loved a lot of the lessons he got. Especially singing. You don't know where Roman is and it's time for his daily walk around the front garden's sculptures? He's probably moving around a large room and singing his heart out.

What was frustrating but also very surprising was how good he sang, as if he was a natural, born to entertain those around him with enchanting melodies.

His teacher couldn't believe it the first time he heard him. Soon enough, they had started a duet of voice and harp strings, creating symphonies in every different possible way.

Sometimes they really had to drag him out of rooms to participate to at least thirty minutes of his other teachings, and yes, a prince needs to know about the gods, the pontifex can't do everything by themselves.

Roman walked down the castle's external stairs, as white as the clouds above him, he occasionally thought that maybe there was a spell keeping them so clean and candid.

There was an old sage leading him towards the marble sculptures that ran along the garden's limit. Same impeccable color of the castle.

Nothing got ruined in their royal bubble, it seemed there was an invisible defense around their property. That was were the odd legend of their kingdom came from.

« Remember this one? » the sage, another one of the teachers, pointed to the marble figure they were standing in front of, halfway through the garden.

« Yes. » Roman studied the sculpture, an androgynous-looking anthropomorphic god stared him down, eyes white and empty, they had a crown on their half extended left arm, with bifurcated tips at the top.

The other hand kept their vest up, pressing it on their chest, over their heart. The pattern on it displayed, in a bas-relief, detailed and messy curves and swirls.

« The God of Death, ruler of the Underworld, also called “Dark Kingdom”. That's the reason of the crown. » the old man nodded, satisfied with the answer, but that wasn't where Roman had finished. « The vest suggests the symbol of dark magic, as they were believed to be the First Sorcerer. »

« You could have stopped before … »

Roman arched an eyebrow, it was unlikely for a man like him to be skeptical towards the Forbidden Topic. « I'm not afraid of two words. »

« You're aware of the reason why we refrain to mention it, aren't you? »

« I am. But I don't think it is right to belittle a God, or conceal one of their most important features, only because of a human dilemma. Isn't it impious to bend a deity's description to a mortal rule? » Roman turned back to his teacher, expecting a frown on the man's face.

Instead, the facade the sage was keeping up suddenly fell, only to be replaced by a satisfied and content expression; he pat the top of the boy's head while nodding slightly.

« Very good, Roman. I take you've read those books I suggested? »

The little prince showed a sheepish smile. « I guess I enjoy myths. »

Their conversation went on, the topics somehow brushing philosophy at times, but was soon abruptly interrupted by the loud noise of hooves on the stone pavement between the two sections of the garden.

Their glances turned towards the entrance, where a carriage was let in through the gates.

Both prince and sage straightened their postures and waited for the mysterious person to show themselves. They didn't expect a boy around Roman's age to come out of the carriage, all dressed up as an obvious piece of nobility, by himself.

As he got closer, Roman could notice the sneering look that engulfed him, red hair almost looked like fire under the hit of the sun rays.

The boy stopped a few feet away from them, then bowed down. « I am Desmond Ananke, marquis of the kingdom of Elis. » when he looked up, he found himself transfixed by those pitch-black eyes, as dark as a moonless night, or the moment right before your eyes adjust to the blackness of a room.

He felt dizzy for a second, was that even natural? Magic?

He came back to life when he felt the sage's hand being placed on his shoulder, when he looked over to the teacher he surprisingly found a sour expression. Roman decided to just nod at the boy, a cue for him to state the meaning of the visit.

« My parents agreed upon sending me for the monthly donation we had planned decades ago. » he turned his head to the older man. « I'm positive you wouldn't mind if I helped myself up the stairs to meet the sovereigns. » a smirk was all he needed to show for the man to understand.

He stayed silent for a few beats, then let go of the prince and stepped aside.

Desmond, before excusing himself, got a closer look to the boy. « So you must be the famous Roman Bia, I suppose. » he held his hand towards him, if he expected a handshake, he wasn't ready for the marquis to take his own hand and place a kiss on the top of his knuckles.

He looked up at him, Roman's hand still close to his lips « Your surname means “brutal strength”. I wonder if your delicacy can contrast that. »

Roman had no clue what that meant, he felt Desmond's stare on him, the warmth his hand was irradiating on his skin and the general discomfort of the whole situation. Was he supposed to answer? Was it a compliment? Did he know …

« I wonder if you're aware our prince is only fifteen and has been promised to the prince of Tinfea for five years by now. » Roman was glad his sword fighting teacher had come to the rescue, he was probably being late to his lesson.

The marquis eyed him, his smile slightly faltered and he carefully snatched his hand away.

Without any further word, he excused himself and began pacing towards the palace.

Roman had retrieved his hand as if he had just touched a burning pot, only that the only fire he felt right under his skin was dancing around his cheeks and ears because of the embarrassment. He looked at the place where the marquis once stood with a confused expression.

What was his deal?

« That motherf- »

« Language! »

« Gods! » the knight put his hands on his face and slid them up on his hair in a desperate gesture. « Stop lecturing me, dad. »

« I am not your father. » the sage gave him a puzzled look while the knight rolled his eyes.

« Maybe when you stop treating me like a child, you won't be. Well! » he clasped his gloved hands together and turned to a silent Roman that was wondering whether or not he should have let them have their moment and leave. « Ready for your lesson, kid? » Roman simply nodded.

They excused themselves from the elder and the knight, Crowley was his name, as he finally recalled, slid his arm around Roman's shoulder in a friendly way, only to lower down a little and speak to him more clearly.

« Look, that guy from before? Bad news. » he made a face. « I'll tell you, just because our kingdom is so awesome, the more outer people try to take advantage and benefit from us. »

« They're envious? »

« That's an understatement, but yeah, pretty much. » Roman felt some kind of burning feeling in his chest.

« Can't they just focus on improving their own kingdom instead of taking things from us? »

Crowley grinned. « Oh, is our prince getting bitter? »

« Hah. Not at all. I'm keeping my cool here. I'm in perfect conditions. » he flashed him a perfectly constructed smile. « See? »

« Sure, my lord. In perfect conditions of pretending, should I call the jester and tell him to call some actors to join you? »

« Oh, gladly, thank you so much. »

As they entered the fighting room, chuckling, they made their way towards their steel swords and started their usual sparring.

« Still, you should know … » the swords kept on clashing with no result. « … that boy from before talked about a donation. »

Roman started to lose some ground. « Yes? I never heard of that. »

« In my opinion, it's stupid. Arcadia has to donate part of our treasure to help other kingdoms. »

« What? » Roman's movements looked even more aggressive, tenacious.

« Apparently, it's the only way to assure they don't move war against us. » he sighed as Roman made a mistake in his posture, but regained it quickly.

« Wouldn't that lead us to eventually fall? It's not like the gods gift us gold every month. »

« That's what I've been saying. And the king's advisor too. They're ruining us anyway, this is only the slower method, the king said. »

« This is ridiculous. » the knight noticed Roman was basically throwing all his hits on him.

« I know, not to mention that marquis clearly wanted to woo you. »

« Woo me? »

« He wanted to marry you, to, of course, get your nobility status from the kingdom's alliance. There's no love there. » Crowley noticed Roman's expression hardening with rage. « Only strategy. » the prince scoffed, annoyed. « Like a mere tool. »

That's when Crowley realized his tactic was working and, in a matter of seconds, he found his sword clattering to the floor. Roman stopped moving, awed by his own doing and looked up to his teacher both smiling widely.

« Well done, kid. » he reached to pat his head, but Roman ignored that and wrapped his hands around him in a happy hug. He literally started screaming of joy.

« Gods, I did it! Did you see that? Did you see how I landed that sword? That was awesome! » he trailed off complimenting himself and pacing around the room, excitement printed on his face.

Crowley, amused, kept on watching Roman's little burst of happiness. Still, he realized it was now time for him to let other lessons take up his time. Like …

« Courting. This guy needs to learn courting. »

He was sixteen when it happened. Roman was enjoying one of the books his literature teacher had recommended, sitting at the library's table. He loved those lessons and was waiting for them to start.

His eyes lit up when he heard the door opening, but he never expected to find one of his servants and a gloomy expression. They approached him and took his hand while watery eyes threatened to start tearing up.

« Crowley is dead. »

That was the last thing he heard before zoning out, his heart sank and he felt numb; his hearing stopped working, it was as if the servant was talking to an inanimate object. They continued talking about how he died while helping a kingdom in a battle and was found lifeless, but Roman's mind couldn't process any more information.

Crowley is dead.

He could still see his mischievous red eyes in the corner of his own, now covered by a tragic and dark veil, his mouth agape as if he wanted to say something but there was nothing else to say at the same time. It was written all over his face.

Crowley is dead.

The servant brought him back to consciousness by touching his shoulder, the memory of his teacher doing the same burned in his mind, tears welled up in his eyes and found the strength to sprint away from a startled servant and run down the castle halls.

Crowley is dead.

He knew who he was looking for. His sight was clouded, making it harder to recognize his surroundings. He didn't care he was running, he didn't care his sobs could have been audible from outer space. He received concerned but knowing looks by anyone he crossed paths with. Then he found the room.

Crowley is dead.

His trembling hand turned the shiny and cold handle that almost blinded him. After closing the door behind him he rushed over to the person he knew needed comfort the most, just like him.

Roman hugged the sage, Nicephorus, he hugged him tight and pretended they didn't notice each other's red eyes. They also pretended they didn't hear their crying, seemingly unstoppable. Nicephorus pretended he didn't lose who could have seemed like his son, Roman pretended he didn't lose the brother he never had.

You can never judge whether someone's life was happy until it's gone.

Roman was seventeen. He was also finally allowed to make little trips outside of the palace and meet his people: he went mostly around the center, where his parents didn't prohibit him to go. Seven years kept inside the castle, busy with his education and getting to know his parents and kingdom, and everything about the village was now long gone from his mind, a distant memory he didn't dig into anymore.

Saying that he was well recognized by his people was an understatement. The people loved him. They cheered for him when his carriage made its way towards the center's plaza. He'd greet every single one of them, he let them hold his hands, he kissed little children's heads and willingly let them lead him through the city.

He wasn't like those royal people that looked down on the plebs with indifference from their carriages, he enjoyed interacting with others, being able to confront his life with the one of the others.

He often listened to their problems and realized that this type of confrontation helped the royalty greatly in fixing the kingdom's problems for the better; dealing directly with the people that faced issues that could be resolved was one of their best mechanisms.

And not only had he a great relationship with his people, but also the one with his servants couldn't be of any less importance. They were happy to spend time with him when his parents couldn't, as much as he was grateful for them for anything they had done.

People outside stopped believing he was a real prince, how could someone so kind-hearted have no dark feature?

They didn't know about his nightmares, for sure.

Or all the times he felt like he was remembering something of the night he disappeared, only to break down right after, the only comfort being his mother's embrace.

And despite being surrounded by a multitude of loved ones who loved him back, they didn't know about the loneliness he felt when he finally reached eighteen.

« Roman, dear, the Pais family is coming very soon, will you come to meet them? »

Yes, even with a guaranteed fiancé.

Royal courting was weird in their days: the two promised could see each other little to no time at all, preferably spending as less time together as they could. Meals with parents were fine, they even had the luxury to sit in front of each other, talk sometimes, but out of those? One or two hours a day were enough, thank you very much.

So, what the Tinfea and Arcadia families were doing to follow these unfathomable laws was meeting once a year, celebrating one year less to the upcoming wedding.

And now that Roman was eighteen, well, things were only starting to get faster.

« We're going to speed up the preparations with them today, you can finally spend some more time with the lovable Patton, aren't you happy? » his father was at his left as they made their way towards the entrance of the castle.

« Truly charmed. » he mused, not particularly focused on his question. It wasn't like he didn't want to meet him, or thought he wasn't at all an appreciable companion, but the little time they spent together wasn't enough for him. He wasn't even allowed to send letters; their relationship only started as acquaintances and went back to strangers after a couple of months of not seeing each other.

Roman thought that was ridiculously inconvenient for both of them.

« Wait, is Logan going to be here? »

« Honey, of course, he's always been. » Roman made a slightly frustrated pout at that.

« Don't be like that. He's their closest advisor. »

« I know, but I don't like him. He makes me feel incompetent. »

« He's older than you, Roman, it's normal if his knowledge is higher than yours. »

« And you should respect him as such. Then you will get along just fine. »

The prince sighed, he couldn't argue with that. What they always said was that he could at least act like he was glad to have someone as guest.

Furthermore, he loved acting. He couldn't remember how many times he had sneaked out to get to the local theatre to watch actors perform, or perform himself after he made sure none was there.

« Oh, I forgot to tell you! » Roman's mother turned to him, beaming. « This time, they're going to stay here longer. We're going to put into action what Logan had suggested two years ago. »

Well, that was certainly new.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Patton had often wondered why things were a certain way.

He sounded like a kid when he kept on asking different questions about the subject he was debating with someone.

Why were clouds like that? Are stars motionless? Why is grass green and not blue? How come animals didn't talk, do they even understand us?

As he grew up and reached adulthood, the questions would change into more soul-searching ones.

Does happiness really exist? Is the mind more important than the heart? What's the difference between justice and revenge? When is it required to be selfless and when is it allowed to be selfish?

One time at fourteen he found himself stargazing and wondering if he could even reach the stars one day, that sky glitter that winked and smiled at him every night. He had approached Logan's chamber and ran in the room out of breath, at which a startled seer blinked a couple of times, frozen still, and looked at him with arched eyebrows.

« Hey Lo- » a couple of short breaths. « You're a magician, right? »

A slow nod came from the older boy, whose gears began turning in his head, trying to predict which kind of outcome that conversation was going to lead to.

« So can you fly?! » Pat had clasped his hands together in little fists in front of his mouth and leaned in towards the chair his friend was sitting in.

Logan wondered if he could have either expected that kind of question or if he definitely wasn't aware this scenario could have ever taken place.

Eventually, he decided to get up from his chair and, kindly, escort Patton out of his room, while the prince whined about wanting to reach the sky.

After he closed the door behind himself, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought back an amused smile that was threatening to form on his lips.

Of course, he lost, but in his defense, he was pretty tired.

After the prince's fifteenth birthday, Logan wondered sadly why they had to unquestionably stop attending lessons together; they had less time to spend with each other now that Patton was up to courting lessons most of his day, while he retreated to his room pretty much always to self-teach himself the remaining of magic knowledge. His sovereigns told him he didn't need teachers anymore, they meant to praise him for his own talents at such a young age. But he didn't somehow feel satisfied.

On the contrary, his heart sank when he stopped in front of their closed room and heard that they were actually glad their son was going to spend less time with him and that they couldn't wait to get rid of him.

He stayed silent and moved on.

When Patton reached sixteen, Logan decided he hated feelings.

He hated feelings because he could not conceive his kingdom's rules and what sometimes they did to people, how it changed them and made them treat him from a respectable member to a simple servant undeserving of any kind of attention. He decided to stop showing such feelings as he now found them useless: what could he do with his emptiness? The anger? Disappointment? Loneliness? All the other emotions he didn't want to name? Things that only slowed down his work?

Well, there was one thing he surely could do, which was bury them deep inside and never listen to them again.

And so he did.

At seventeen, Patton was having a mental breakdown. Too many things were happening at once: preparations for the wedding (already, though Roman was still fourteen), the fate of the curse approaching which he tried to ignore, his teenage mood swings, him reaching soon adulthood and the always more persistent lessons. About literally anything.

It was especially the lessons that stressed him out. In one of them in particular, in which he had to learn how to dance but was failing miserably, he concluded it was best to abruptly storm out of the room and take his frustration out on the grass he was stomping as he made a beeline for the flower garden of the east side of the castle.

Stressful tears were prickling his eyes, he carefully wiped them away on his sleeve, growing discontent was spreading inside him since he didn't want to cry, and yet he was too vulnerable to stop himself. Why did he feel so weak?

Patton took a deep breath and made his way through the garden, hands curled in fists at his side, when he eventually had to stop himself once again.

Logan was sitting on the ground, a couple of feet away from him, he was leaning on some flowers, examining them, while some objects – related to magic, Patton thought – were lying all around him.

Suddenly aware of a viewer, his friend- wait, were they even still friends? How long ago was the last time they talked for real?

Patton grimaced, he couldn't even remember that.

Nonetheless, Logan looked up at him with a blank stare, it only faltered for a moment as he noticed the slight redness around the prince's pupils.

They kept staring silently, until eventually the mage broke the silence between them, after he turned his attention back to the flowers he was observing attentively.

« What can I help you with? » there was no real interest in his voice, no signs of concern (although he definitely knew Patton was missing his lesson), the lack of anything bothered the prince in a way he couldn't comprehend. It's like that uneasiness you feel when someone slightly moved everything in your room and you can't tell what has changed.

Patton as well couldn't tell what had happened to make their relationship so different from before.

And maybe it was exactly because of that, maybe because of how much pressure they were putting in him, the expectation of his parents that he could master all his teachings in no time, the absence of the comfort he once found in friendship with his servants, whatever case it may have been, that he found himself dropping on his knees and throwing his arms around Logan's shoulders.

Patton tried to hide his face on the other's robes, tightening his grip as little sobs shook his body.

Whatever grudge Logan could have been holding against him (which, mind you, he didn't, since Patton was just that impossible to despise), he cast that aside and surrounded the younger one's chest with his own arms, hesitantly.

They sat there for a couple of minutes as the prince let out all the displeasure and the other boy just tried to help with soft rubs on his back.

As soon as he felt an ounce of relief, Patton broke the hug and took a deep breath, after muttering an apology.

« I don't know what's happening. To me, or in general. » he sighed, a hand touching his forehead while he looked down.

Since they had basically been ignoring each other, he was expecting a remark, he thought he was going to tell him he was an idiot and it was his fault, he would have believed that.

Instead, Logan nodded. « That's perfectly understandable. »

Patton looked up at him in confusion and disbelief. « How? »

A humming sound escaped the mage's throat. « How about you describe what is bothering you? »

« Uh. » he was looking at the sky, but focusing on his thoughts. « It's like I'm in a cage. Everybody's telling me what to do, what to wear, how to act. Or who I have to talk to. » he looked Logan in the eyes. « When was even the last time talked properly? » his azure irises darkened in a greyish color. « I feel like I have no friends anymore. »

Logan's heart sank at the words, he knew he was included in that group and he couldn't help but feel ashamed for accepting the distance they suddenly began to keep, instead of doing something about it.

« It is only normal that you're getting badly affected by the situation. Look at yourself, » Patton lifted his hands to observe them. « you're clearly stressed out. Are you getting enough sleep? » there were so many questions he wanted to ask. They barely saw each other out of meals.

« Do I, they expect me to be asleep the moment they escort me to my chamber. »

One problem less ticked off of Logan's mental list.

« We both know your drinking and eating schedules are practically perfect, so I guess this is partially about pressure. Everything at once. »

« Yeah, it's mostly because of this “perfect” you said. Everyone expects me to be perfect, my parents- »

« That's it! » Logan abruptly interrupted, pointing a finger towards the sky, a knowing smile making his way through his face. He dropped the objects he was carefully putting away in his bag.

« Uh? I barely finished … »

« Listen. Don't you think your parents are a bit … too much into this? They have started preparations way ahead of time, they can't stop talking about the wedding's details when neither you nor Roman reached adulthood yet. It seems to me that they want this more than you do. To the point that they don't care about your feelings. » the words tasted sour in his mouth, talking badly about your king and queen wasn't exactly the main topic in a kingdom, but he saw the prince slowly nod in agreement.

It wasn't the first time he had noticed that, either.

« My feelings … yeah, they're definitely messed up. » he found the will to giggle.

After a beat, Logan continued with his reasoning « I can't honestly believe you forgot my most important lessons. » he looked away to open the only vial that was lying on the ground and poured a drop of its content on a dying withered flower that immediately blossomed in a soft pink hue. When he looked back at his friend he met a confused but pensive gaze, mixed with amazement by the little magic trick.

« You're your own person, Patton. You don't have to act like anyone but yourself. Break free of those puppet strings, they're not unbreakable. You can be a prince in your own way. »

Patton showed him one of his brightest smiles, gaining all the inspiration he could have ever possibly asked for. He could still be himself while having lessons or while in front of other nobility members.

« You're right! » he beamed, getting confidently on his feet. He felt like he could take on the world by himself. « Plus, how much can they go against a prince? »

Logan rolled his eyes. « As much as they like if he starts getting full of himself. »

« Aw, come on, I was just kidding. »

They made their way towards the castle's ballroom, while catching up on the things they had been up to in the past year.

Time, of course, flew by in an instant and they were already facing the entrance of the ballroom. They stopped in their tracks.

Patton turned to the magician. « I don't know if a “thank you” is enough. But I appreciate that you didn't reject me being all emotional. » he then shrugged with a small smile. « Sometimes I get overwhelmed by the smallest things. »

Logan shook his head. « You don't have to thank me. I only helped a friend in need. »

The prince almost jumped in joy at the label, it was a sign their relationship wasn't destroyed by outer circumstances, which was what Patton had feared the most. How could he have gotten such an amazing friend? He felt the desire to surround himself with more people like him.

« And remember, if you don't understand something, write it down. Only then it might become clearer. » the seer shared one of the most important pieces of information he could give in order to prevent future breakdowns anytime soon.

Patton considered carefully his words as if he had just found out a glowing treasure, then nodded. « Will do. » he made to turn away, placing his hand on the door's handle.

« Sorry for forgetting what you taught me! » he apologized with a sheepish grin. Logan only chuckled and started to step away, when he got called again.

« And Lo? » he gave him his full attention and suddenly found Patton's hand on his arm.

Patton gazed deeply in his dark eyes. « Please, talk to me more. »

And just like that, he disappeared into the room, resuming his dance lesson with a lighter feeling in his chest.

It was the moment in which Logan felt a colder spot where the prince's hand once was and his cheeks burning red that he decided he hated feelings even more.

At eighteen Patton understood that he could be a bit freer, but his parents wouldn't let it slide so easily. At least not without some guilt trip or psychological pressure.

King, queen, prince and seer (who had also become their personal adviser since they didn't find a way to get rid of him) were sitting on a carriage, seemingly talking about topics of no relevance. But one would know better than believe aristocrats didn't measure their every word, sticking hidden meanings or snide remarks in sentences here and there.

It was their charm, how they could hold a conversation while talking about something completely different.

« Did you hear about this? They say that Roman kid had already caught up with his lost lessons in less than two years, isn't that a prodigy? » their favorite topic was throwing Patton down with their “oh-so-perfect” examples.

They always told him so many things about him, things he wasn't even sure were entirely true. So many voices went around castles. Ever since Arcadia's prince came back, he had been in everyone's words and minds.

Of course, Patton's parents used all the information they could get, thinking they could have been able to attach those puppet strings back to his body.

They tried and sometimes they succeeded in grazing even just slightly his self-worth.

Self-esteem issues weren't late to the party as well.

Patton noticed a pattern in the arguments: they would find anything that didn't please them, blame him and eventually start to criticize him. His looks, his behavior, his intelligence, either the first thing they saw or the first thought that came to their mind.

Initially he apologized as much as it felt fake. But he didn't like lying every time there was a fight, though doing the opposite made the situation worse.

His parents would get frustrated by his silence, the yelling would increase for minutes until they got tired and gave up on him.

So Patton only stared at the marble pavement, his eyes danced around its colored details, a blank expression surrounded his face; when they finally let him free he'd only run back to his room.

After that there were two different outcomes: one would simply picture him crying to let out all of the horrible things they told him, as if he could shake them off and forget about it.

The other would display him lying down with a weird feeling in his guts. It was something that mixed with wanting to fight someone and wanting to fight himself. As if he deserved to feel pain. But the only thing he allowed himself was to think of all the remarks he could have done, if only they didn't make the situation worse.

Many could wonder how he managed to endure the whole thing. Patton had the kindness of his servants to get him through the day, the food they sneaked in every time he left during meals because he couldn't just bear it.

And he had a best friend he could rely on anytime he wanted or needed to vent. Especially when he saved him from annoying situations.

The conversation between his parents continued, their eulogy towards Roman never seemed to stop.

Patton breathed out slow and deep through his nose, he knew the last thing he needed was a reminder of his inferiority complex when he was on his way to Roman.

The funny thing about it was that he couldn't even blame Roman for how he felt, on the contrary the boy was always so sweet and welcoming. It was more how everybody portrayed him to be the perfect prince he could never achieve.

« On the topic of talents. » Logan, the foretold savior, spoke only after giving a sidelong glance to the younger boy.

The sovereigns immediately shut their conversation to Patton's relief.

« Since we are second in prosperity to Arcadia, I was thinking we should value our people more. » he had them hanging on his every word. « Maybe we should organize some kind of event that aims at that specific goal. »

The two adults' faces lit up, ideas flowing in their minds. Every argument on how to somehow be better than Arcadia was valid for both of them, it was the perfect diversion.

« We definitely agree. Please do tell us what you have in mind. »

Instead of going off with one of his explanations, (that often became monologues), he turned to Patton.

« What about you? Would you like that? » a faint smile crossed the prince's lips, ignoring the voices in his mind that said “How can he give his opinion? He understands nothing of it!”

« I would love that, Logan. » he nodded. « It would be ideal for our people to stand out in their specialties. I'd want to know if the best poems ever written belonged to one of our humble and simple villagers. » he stopped looking out the window to glance at his parents' shocked expressions, their mouths left hung open upon hearing his valid opinion. Suddenly they didn't have anything to remark.

He felt something very similar to pure bliss. Then he shifted his gaze to Logan. « Don't you think? »

Pride glimmered in the magician's eyes. « Exactly my thought. We could also participate or just watch, if so you desire. »

« Thank you for your suggestion! » Patton smiled even wider and Logan knew that he also silently thanked him for the attention.

After Logan finished displaying his idea, the sovereigns kept quiet for the whole trip to Arcadia's castle and Patton couldn't have been any more glad about it.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

How could he have been such an idiot?

Hopes and dreams, fake abstract concepts made up only to ruin people's expectations.

What was hope? It only meant relate to the future in a way that will eventually result in experiencing anxiety and anguish, whether it is a happy future you're looking for or a negative outcome that you're fearing. It is never something that helps you relax, but it keeps you in a restless mood, always unsettled because you know you're waiting for something and you're paying very much attention to it.

It is as if you're waiting for a delivery that has even the infinitesimal possibility to get lost into the nothingness. Or waiting for a person that promised to come back, a promise that has a high percent chance to be broken anyway.

But your hopes get in the way and erase any pessimistic belief, without realizing you're actually deteriorating yourself. With hope comes illusion and after that you're only left with pain.

Growing up, Virgil learnt to take nothing for granted and have very little trust in all the people who presented themselves in front of him.

To say that his parting from Roman had been a hard hit for him was an understatement: ever since then, he had never been able to get close to someone just as much or have any friendship quite as strong. It didn't feel worth it anymore.

Everything constantly reminded him of Roman and he just was so tired, he wanted the world to stop.

There had been many attempts by the school's children to get him to cheer up, but every single gesture failed its goal like they weren't even trying hard enough. But they were, when he wandered in the streets the villagers would greet him with a genuine smile on their lips, Virgil would only nod at them, unimpressed by the sudden interest.

Kids had tried to play with him, offered to go spend time in the woods together, but nothing could do. It reminded him too much of him and their memories were the last things he wanted to experience all over again.

He was eleven when hope started to fade out and disappointment took over him, a wave of sadness brushed his feet as strange thoughts began to force themselves into his mind.

These thoughts were the ones that tried to keep him awake at night, they persuaded him to think that it was better to embrace the darkness of the night, in which none would bother him as they all drifted off to sleep.

At first they scared him, so much he tried to scream to throw them away, panic didn't help his breathing problems and every other night his parents were kneeling down in his room, trying to steady him in every possible way.

At twelve, things were getting impossibly worse, because he couldn't help but comply to those musings. The first time, he found himself getting up from the small mattress, a myriad of thoughts screaming at him, so much that he preferred to stay silent, afraid that if he were to part his lips the harshness of howl-like shrieks would escape his mouth and leave him with little to no voice. The second time, he was found deadly still, bloodshot stapled open eyes, in front of the village's town hall at five in the morning by a pair of very concerned and frightened parents.

At thirteen night didn't exist anymore and the fair skin under his eyes slowly faded into a dark and purple-ish tone, he decided it was not worth to have those oniric impossible encounters in dreams or nightmares, even if his sleep deprivation did quite help making the unreal look real during his waking hours. His daylight hallucinations.

He had stopped talking at all, only considering someone when he really thought it necessary, scared they could catch him interacting with the unreal, unable to tell one from the other.

At fourteen he had visited all the doctors and magicians his family could reach, and at times their solutions were too … expensive. Out of the eight of them, there was one that stuck with Virgil, his words often played in his head as a reminder that, yes, something was definitely wrong with him. He couldn't remember his full name, something with Emile … was it? He was the only one that talked about his head. His mind; Emile's eyes had glowed, a light that made him look quite mischievous, though he truly was kind-hearted, and Virgil felt like he was piercing through his soul.

He had told him it was a mess, inside his mind. Virgil could have sworn he had heard a crack in his voice, as if he had been about to cry or needed consolation, after feeling how he did daily; but then again his reality was fake most of the time.

At fifteen the tables turned. Most of the villagers just chose to avoid him. Even if bullying didn't exist in his school, his classmates would have been too scared to approach him. A little part of him was glad he could occupy his mind with all the issues that rained down on him at once, so that he could shove his oldest problem in the deepest part of his heart and never think about it again.

It had been five years.

He couldn't say he was always successful, the best case scenario displayed a train of different thoughts that would suppress the topic he didn't want to think about. But other times … the outcome would destroy his mind.

He had never gotten angry at Roman for disappearing into the void.

He couldn't help but put the blame on himself; for god knows what reason why, he started feeling like Roman had now found better people, what if they had been friends out of pity? Sure, they were good at make-believe, and yet … Roman had never left him alone. He did feel genuine, after all.

There was too much contrast between his beliefs, but somehow he still couldn't help but crumble down in his own self-deprecation. It was none else's fault but his if he never came back. For all that he could know, by now Roman had probably already found plenty of people like him; better than him, perhaps, which wasn't that much of an impossible quest. It wasn't like he had any particular talent or was special in any way, really. Being replaced could have been just as easy even in his small little village.

He was still fifteen when he finally stepped into their forest after 5 years, for some reason he had gotten sentimental and, almost magically, his feet led him in front of the forest's entrance. He was retracing the same path they had followed the last time they were together, the sparkles caused by the sun hitting the water were already blinding his eyes as he stepped down the hill that now looked much smaller than how he remembered.

And then, the one thing that would change his life forever.

He looked at his left and that same fox from five years earlier was standing there, a cold glare piercing him through golden irises, Virgil thought he had lost his mind and the hallucinations due to lack of sleep were getting worse.

But the creature looked different, yet quite the same, he could tell it was the same one he saw, even though it seemed older.

Black fur was now added to its former colors at the base of its paws. It seemed it wanted to frighten him, but also persuade him.

Virgil held its stare, the animal didn't seem to move an inch.

« What? » he snapped, arms slightly opening in the act.

The yellow-eyed fox started pacing towards him, an elegant posture was still somehow kept in its cautious movements.

Virgil didn't take his eyes off of it, it felt like 5 years earlier: it was as if there was some sort of force tugging him in a particular direction. It was stronger than before and the lingering feeling of the animal's glare on him provoked some sort of persuasion and curiosity altogether.

The little villager just stood and watched as the creature paced forward until little to no space was left between them, then something switched in its expression after it looked around and set its focus back on Virgil with gloomy eyes.

Was it looking for Roman?

« He's not here. » Virgil wished he had said it with the most collected tone, but surprisingly found his voice cracked as if it had been smashed through a thousand palaces. It sounded rough, colliding with the ethereal aura of the place. The fox tilted its head slightly.

« What are you waiting for? It's not like he will come back. » another crash, he felt himself rapidly break down like most of the times when he listened to the thoughts screaming and raging in his head. He let his burning eyes fall to the ground and close, as the dark corners of his mind took completely over him.

« … ever. He won't- » his breath hitched and when he opened his eyes again he was on the ground, almost at eye-level with the pitying creature. He looked at his hands in terror, they were trembling visibly, his breathing grew shorter, sharp, but never like those wheezes he learnt to recognize. This was something else. How long had it been since he had last spoken to someone?

This was worse. So much worse.

His fingers brushed his cheek to find it soaking in overflowing tears already making their way on his skin; he digged his hands in his hair as to hold on for dear life. He hated when this happened. He had no control over himself, he felt hopeless, more helpless than usual, rationality flew out of his body, it was as if all of his feelings had smashed the button of “overload”, while a clutching sensation weighted down his stomach.

His mind raced between flashbacks of his childhood, belittling himself, the urge to just give up and lie down forever until someone would eventually pick him up and live his life in his place.

He was completely huddled on himself when he felt something soft trying to make its way through his limbs, as if it wanted him to relax his body and get his arms away from his face. Virgil had no choice but to comply and let the fox … help him? He felt too weak to care about what was happening anyway.

When the animal started brushing its head against Virgil's hand, he suddenly remembered about one of the doctors' suggestion; he opened his eyes and focused on his surroundings.

Five things he could see. The green blades of grass, the glimmering lake, those funny shaped clouds, the trees all around him and the fox by his side. He took another deep breath that he let out from the mouth.

Four things he could touch. The lightweight of his simple clothes, the soles of his shoes, his bangs brushing his forehead and the soft fur through his fingers. He closed his eyes.

Three things he could hear. Birds flying out of their nests to get some food for their nestlings, his rapid breath slowing down, little fishes occasionally jumping out of the lake and then back on the water.

Two things he could smell. The flowers that had started blossoming in that period, the simple essence of the forest's nature.

One thing he could taste. Oh. Had he eaten yet today?

His evened out and steady breathing had him finally relaxed, he kind of felt a smile tugging at his lips for some reason, maybe it was the comfort of the little animal, maybe because he finally got a hold of himself.

But while he pet the unusual friend, there was something he didn't notice. Someone he didn't see, but that could see him. It was somewhere Virgil had never reached. One of the deepest parts of the forest.

The man grinned in his dark room while the only source of light was a cloud of magic smoke in front of him, beaming with the picture of Virgil sitting on the grass and smiling at the fox.

The brightness touched his face with delicacy, yet you could make out the details of it with simplicity.

Like the burnt skin on the left side of his face that made it look like little scales were all over his cheek. Or the literal glowing, bright yellow eyes that slowly turned into a mild shade of white as the vision and smoke both faded away.

The man in the dark smirked.

« Perfect. »

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edgarbright · 5 years

Text

[ Initial Musings after Leonardo’s Route; Spoilers ]

Everyone else finishing up Leonardo's route: Tears, public breakdowns, ready to fight the sun

Me finishing up Leonardo's route:

If I described his route in one word, I would perhaps use underwhelming.

He's a wonderful and super attractive man, don't get me wrong! If you want therapeutic support, he's definitely your guy! He loves MC, he cares about MC, he exists for MC. (Although for a man who is also kind of horny, his spice leaves a lot to be desired and that's with premium attire lol)

But if they had changed his name from Leonardo to Sergio, I would never have thought he was an artist, an inventor, a man in love with learning and exploring, a forward thinker with a galaxy brain who is the poster child for the Renaissance, which is a time when beauty and love and science rose up. There was nothing to show that he had a procrastination problem, that for such a brilliant creator he only finished a handful of works in his lifetime, that he prioritized the pursuit of discovery and art for art’s sake, and that paid commissions were dragged out for years while he jumped between personal pet projects.

What we did get was a smoker with an incredibly kind heart and a touch of sadness who lives in a horrendously messy room. He is so disinterested in creative pursuits that he didn’t even name the cat he has had for like 2 years.

And if his route wasn't in a game with the word vampire in the title, I would have entirely thought him human. I would have thought EVERYONE in that mansion was human. There is absolutely nothing that hints at vampires in this route except at the beginning when Arthur drinks the rouge, but that could have been a practical joke at the MC’s expense.

There is, however, a scene at the end where Leonardo gets seriously injured and survives, but it wouldn't be the first Ikemen game to critically wreck a suitor only for him to walk it off a week later. It’s only at the very end of the route that we’re told Leonardo thinks himself a monster, and this idea is given no preface. We are not given evidence or hints as to show us why he thinks this way, either, when his life, by all means, is incredibly normal despite him living in a house brimming with handsome men and outliving everyone he’s ever known.

Then there is a throw-out about him attempting alchemy, but we aren’t given the time to settle into the idea. All the interesting bits about Leonardo are saved for around the 24th chapter mark of a 26 chapter route. It felt like the writer realized they had spent too much time coddling the MC and realized they needed to make Leonardo more interesting in his own right, which is bizarre because he’s supposed to be the Leonardo da Vinci.

As for the MC, she is one of the least favorites I have encountered. She is the epitome of acting like a child so her suitor can act like a man. Thankfully Leonardo comes across as a mature, attractive, and capable person all on his own, but that makes her look even worse for her immaturity.

The MC is sat down (with Saint-Germain, dreamy sigh goes here), is propositioned with a request, is provided options with explanations so she can make an education decision, makes her choice, and then proceeds to act like a child for what felt like half the route. It is incredibly unromantic, to me, that Leonardo has to literally drag her out of hiding so they can proceed with their Fake Dating. What a waste of a great trope! No one was forcing her to be with Leonardo. Even he was surprised when she agreed to play along. Honestly, they should have just put us all out of our misery and cancelled the deal. Maybe have the MC realize her mistake on her own.

(Easy concept to fix this I came up with just now: MC and Leonardo cancel the deal because the MC is so obviously uncomfortable despite agreeing, and then have another vampire or two come at her when they realize she doesn’t have Leonardo’s ~protection. MC realizes she is responsible for own safety, has to use her one brain cell to the best of its ability, and we get to see vampires being vampires. Nice!)

Instead, it took her around 9 to 10 chapters before she acknowledged Leonardo wasn’t really that bad a guy -- which is extra bizarre because he’s never presented as a bad guy ever? everyone respects him? the townspeople love him?? I don’t recall exactly how long she’s been in the manor by this point, a week most likely, which leaves approximately two weeks for her to fall head-over-heels in love with him before the climax.

Two. Weeks.

And then they are proclaiming their undying love for each other by the end?? Is this Romeo x Juliet? I know Shakespeare is a character in this game but did he write this route!?

It should be said that Shakespeare was a perfect GENTLEMAN in this route, btw. I assume his darkness is shown elsewhere. But the scene with him at the ball was great and informative and mysterious and I love him. Also Saint-Germain, when finding out what went down between Shakespeare and a particular acting trope, continued to show his support and admiration for Shakespeare and his writing. We all stan a proactive and dedicated playwright in this house.

Speaking of Saint-Germain, in his minor supporting role, he SHONE in this route, which is why my love for him is especially bursting and we super stan him! You can tell he cares about the MC, from her comfort to her happiness to her safety. When Leonardo and Saint-Germain came to save her, Saint-Germain honestly stole the show because his anger and passion felt real and plausible and inflamed. I got the real sense that Saint-Germain would literally tear apart everyone in that room. (Those are his guests and you do not touch his guests...) Meanwhile Leonardo goes to rescue her by proclaiming that he has never loved or will ever love another woman except her (you’ve known her for, like, 3 weeks at this point, my guy), and it’s just so over the top and weirdly focused (obsessive?) it felt fake and forced to me.

To be honest, if it wasn’t because of Saint-Germain, Shakespeare, and having friends who are promoting their faves (I’m listening!!!), I might have been inclined to call the game boring and drop it. This was a lackluster route that did not live up to the famous name of Leonardo da Vinci, provide any supernatural elements, create an endearing romance, or offer historical resonance or insight.

There were still several heartwarming and entertaining moments, from seeing Leonardo in town to meeting the watch-maker to the bathing house scene with Theo and Vincent (LOL) that I do remember fondly! Wonderful smaller set pieces, but sadly none of them large enough to bridge the gap.

#my ikevamp #ikevamp leonardo #leonardo's route #leonardo route spoilers #when i say rambling i mean rambling #my first route didn't go as well as i hoped...

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epistolizer · 5 years

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Hit and Run Commentary #125

When liberals insist that there needs to be a conversation, what they really mean is that they intend to browbeat and berate the general public until they surrender ideologically just to be allowed a semblance of peace and where the prevailing conventional wisdom is allegedly altered to such an extent that disenfranchisement and even potential violence against the few remaining stalwart critics is viewed as a viable option.

Of conditions at facilities warehousing urchins dragged across the border, a Southern Baptist theologian lamented, “Those created in the image of God should be treated with dignity and compassion, especially those seeking refuge from violence back home. We can do better than this.” But at no time did he offer to board these individuals in posh and palatial Southern Baptist Convention properties. If we as a nation weren’t concerned about the dignity of these souls, wouldn’t they be disposed of at the border crossing? One notices at no time did he urge parents to remain with their children in their respective homelands or for the regimes from which these individuals originated to improve conditions for their citizens.

For Boo Beep failing to consent to being Woody’s breeding sow and for Jessie The Cowgirl taking over as the new sheriff in Toy Story, homeschool activist Kevin Swanson invoked I Corinthians 11:11, stating that man is not independent of woman nor woman independent of man. But that only applies to those that are married. For no one else has right to control you in that sort of manner. As much as aspiring cultists might want to, you can’t make someone marry someone else.

The same homeschool elites jacked out of shape that characters at the end of Toy Story aren't married off would probably toss a bigger fit if these pairings were formed in a manner other than the parents selecting the mate with the decision subject to approval by pastoral authorities.

It was said in a homily on SermonAudio that one will not find the right relationship until one has found satisfaction in Christ. Given that we still endure results of a sin nature until we depart this world, such never fully happens. Ironically, these hardline exegetes are usually of the sorts that toss fits if people aren’t married by the time they are 23 years old. Second, if one has found satisfaction and completeness in Christ, why bother getting married? Solely for increasing the size of the herd as the brainwashed girl remarked in the South Park episode on homeschooling?

In analyzing the Avengers films on Issues Etc, columnist Terry Mattingly referenced in what seemed an almost condescending tone “Evangelicals and their minivans.” So exactly how else is one supposed to get around if one spawns the requisite number to be categorized as sufficiently pious? It’s not like there is a variety of station wagons on the market to select from these days.

Instead of condemning singles that stay to themselves, perhaps Southern Baptist elites should have gotten after those for the most part married that can’t seem to keep their hands off the underaged.

The media is outraged at the existence of a secret social media group where border agents are alleged to have used vulgar terminology. So apparently the media can teach us to say these naughty sorts of things. We apparently just aren’t allowed to repeat them.

If the government is not allowed to ask how many residing within the nation’s borders are actually citizens, by what right can it ask how many flush toilets are in my house when I am the one paying for the amount of water that flows through both?

Pastor Mark Dever and his herald theologian Jonathan Leeman of the Capitol Hill Baptist network of churches insist that one is in a state of sin if a believer does not hold formalized membership in a church. But aren’t their membership contracts (or “covenants” laying over the vernacular a hyperpious coating most will lack the courage to question) terminable only upon death or membership transferred not to a congregation holding to the fundamentals of the Christian faith but rather one within their particular network of churches themselves sinful? How is this appreciably different than the billion year contracts aspiring Scientologists are compelled to sign before induction into the sect?

In remarks about church membership in a Ligionier Ministries podcast, theologian Jonathan Leeman remarked that those leery of such commitment are doing so to avoid accountability. But aren’t such individuals in a sense justified to be skeptical of such intrusion into their lives when a number of congregations that look to this particular thinker as one of their leading theological beacons stipulate in their membership covenants that such an arrangement is terminable only upon death or one sidedly when those in authority rather than the mere pewfiller decides that their walk with Christ might best be cultivated elsewhere? Contrary to Dr. Leeman’s flippant dismissal, there is more to this reluctance than not “wanting to live in the light”. It is about reticence over being compelled to live by pastoral preferences spelled out nowhere indisputably in the pages of Scripture and about the perdition it sounds like some churches might put an individual through if they come to the conclusion that they just have got to leave a miserable situation.

Elder Jonathan Leeman of Cheverly Baptist Church in an oration on church membership at Southeastern Theological Seminary admonished that great care must be taken to keep the line between world and church clear. Has he brought this up with his 9Marks colleague Isaac Adams who affiliates with a group of Christian hip hop artists advocating recreational cannabis? In this same oration, Jonathan Leeman pointed out the dangers of allowing non-Christian musicians to play in church. Perhaps he could similarly clarify his position regarding Christians extolling the delights of recreational cannabis or do they get a free pass when they are not White?

In an oration at Southeastern Theological Seminary, Elder Jonathan Leeman says that he likes to drive along Embassy Row in Washington, DC to see the flags of the various nations. Many of these represent nations engaged in outright tyranny and oppression. Others subtly restrict freedom of expression in the name of tolerance and diversity. Yet to this theologian, the flag of the United States is so vile that it must be removed from the nation’s churches for fear of upsetting foreigners often from these repressive lands happening to visit an American church in America.

In an oration at Southeastern Seminary, theologian Jonathan Leeman said that there needs to be a conversation about the requirements of church membership. Usually when someone says that there needs to be a conversation than means that they will be the ones doing the talking which will likely consist of a lengthy list of demands and you will be seriously berated if you raise any objections, questions, or calls for clarification.

In an oration on membership at Southeastern Theological Seminary, theologian Jonathan Leeman joked that the first membership interview was Jesus asking Peter who do you say that I am. But nowhere in that did Jesus strongarm Peter into signing a contract stipulating that the Apostle was bound to a single congregation for life or that he could only transfer with permission to another within a particular network of specified churches. Secondly, nowhere in the interview was Peter required to elaborate a serious of raunchy past escapades that would make a soap opera screenwriter blush.

In a Capitol Hill Baptist podcast discussing race, it was remarked that Black South Africans have a remarkably forgiving ethic. So are tires filled with gasoline placed around the necks of victims set ablaze and land seized from farmers for little reason other than that they are White the sort of social justice policies these New Wave churches would like to see implemented?

In a Capitol Hill Baptist podcast discussion about race, theologian Jonathan Leeman remarked that some have been hurting for months and some have been hurting for several hundred years. So wouldn’t one of these individuals have to be an immortal like Duncan McCloud born 400 years ago in the Highlands of Scotland?

In the new wave Baptist circles out there, the American flag and patriotic anthems are out. In apparently are hip hop albums where on the cover the artists appear to be puffing weed with insignias resembling three intertwined sixes bringing to mind the Mark of the Beast. But what do i know? I apparently just stoke unfounded fear.

If the party line is that an elder of a church no more represents a church than any other church member when the name of the particular elder is among the first things that pops up when researching a particular church, those about to have their church manipulated out from under them are hopelessly naive regarding about what is on the verge of rolling over them.

In discussing race in a podcast, Pastor Mark Dever and Dr. Jonathan Leeman discuss how they wished more racial minorities would take part in the pastoral internship program of Capitol Hill Baptist Church. You will note that at no time did the duo ever articulate their willingness to resign their own lucrative, prestigious positions to toil in manual labor and obscurity for the purposes of giving life to the utopian vision that they not only want imposed upon everybody else but also demand you celebrate enthusiastically if you wish to retain the church-bestowed designation of acceptable Christian.

I was verbally upbraided that I am obligated to “set my prejudices aside” and “to be open minded” in regards to two pastors discussing things as Christians when the perspective being addressed might end up becoming the preferential interpretation among the potential leadership of an unspecified in these posts congregation. So, in other words, I am apparently obligated to set aside the Biblical admonition to be a Berean in a church that claims to adhere to sola scriptura. So what other Biblical injunctions am I to also set aside for the time being? So why am I obligated to open my mind to new interpretative winds blowing into a church when apparently other minds are as closed regarding cautions I have raised?

In a sermon on church membership, theologian Jonathan Leeman rhetorically asked do you hang with those that do not look like you? Other than my father and brother, I don’t “hang” with anyone. Is family interaction also now to be verboten in New Wave Baptist Churches that don’t simply impart to you knowledge regarding God’s word but seek to take control of those aspects of your life over which the church once offered teaching but left you to yourself to implement?

It was remarked that, if a church member skipped several Sundays during the summer to go fishing, they ought to be disciplined. But in such an instance wouldn’t the church run the risk of the individual leaving altogether?

By Frederick Meekins

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ibatronic · 5 years

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Still Alive...

BEFORE YOU READ!

The following does get really personal, so please read (if you so choose) with an open heart and genuine sense of compassion and sensitivity. It's also many things I've wanted to get off my chest for ages. The following will also explain my mood in the past two journals I made. It does end on a lighter note, I promise.

It's been ages since I've posted anything online, let alone anything here... Remember months ago, when I had posted a journal about the slump I was feeling and then posted an artwork of me… slump drawing? There’s more beyond me simply losing motivation to make more art. And a few of you might have noticed I posted a rather… shocking status update in which I threatened suicide. Following that post, a lot of the unpleasant feelings and thoughts that I believed were gone came back to haunt me. Additionally, many things in my past came back to haunt me, prompting me to go soul searching and try to better myself.

For those not in-the-know, I have been suffering from clinical and manic depression for about the past 6 years. Speaking in real-life timeline, back in the 6 years, I remember that it started with my severe trouble making friends, communicating with others socially, and trying to fit in with others. My depression wasn’t just caused by my low turnout in the friends department, but also because I'd never truly felt loved by anyone… not even myself. As I grew up, I had no friends all throughout middle school and no friends all throughout high school, and then came to terms with the fact that I have no friends at ALL! Things like having no friends really did have an effect on me… I gave friendship and putting myself out there an earnest try, but after the many times I got hurt and betrayed, that was the end of it for me. People like myself who are alone usually spend their time practicing something they like, in my case being my art, writing, and studying. From other sources and from my own experience, it helps to be noticed for your talents and interest. This pretty much tied into, if you’d notice, why I was actively moping around DA Forums grousing on why my work doesn’t get as much attention as I’d hoped or why those that are recognized do get it. Sometimes, I feel annoyed that noone cares about my work, not even my relatives. My original work. Like, on DeviantArt, I recall fan-art and fan-artists get tons of favorites on their work. While the highest I've ever gotten was 11. I've put hours, days, and sometimes weeks into these and noone cares. And it's mostly criticism that doesn't even make sense. I just want to tell them how hard it is to make the art, but showing people who aren't interested in the hobby will just make them annoyed about it. Everyone is expecting a @$%^ing anime master from every artist and I just don't get it. Some of the time people will make annoying re-colors to get the respect and attention they want, but they do get both of those things in the end. Mostly, how it goes is: A person will make a rather undeveloped character. Then, they will take someone else's artwork and color in their character. Then they will claim it as their own. Then, they will get hate and attention. The person will 'cry' over it and say that they are going to leave that site. People will feel bad for that person, make the person fan art, subscribe to or watch them or whatever, and the person will be filthy-famous and have tons of friends in the end, even though they didn't do jack @$%^! Or they just stoop so low just to get-rich-quick. Argh! I just don't get it any more! I try to hard making quality animation, art, videos, but no one cares what so ever!

I’ve had nobody. Nobody cared about me. Going this long without someone besides therapists to confide in, or someone to comfort you or share their likes and dislikes with could really mess you up...

An ordinary day for me back in high school that I rarely overlook, was my recurring plight when it came to being around others. For the majority of my life, I had been nothing but an outcast to people my own age, I never fit in with them since they never truly accepted me as their friend. From what I can remember, each year, I was either on my own or hung out with a group of kids as they talked amongst themselves while I just remained silent. And each year, I make the mistake of even having the tiniest bit of optimism that things just might be different. Having been alone and neglected for a long time, I spent every day seeing what it felt like to be going through what I think are quite possibly the worst years of my adolescent life, with my best and only friend gone (he moved), while I was stuck amongst people whom I felt care very little about me. Now, I’m by myself and with some content. Everyday I would go through the same routine—morning academic classes, lunch break, after classes, dismissal—counting the hours as they go by. For kids that suffered from anxiety or depression, like me, they were sent to the Social Work team where they can vent out their problems and try to uncover any solution or coping mechanism to get by the school year. For me, it might've been a different story because ever since my depression started, I received little check-ins from anyone, not even my own parents, relatives, or any old friends I once had (ones that I talked to in elementary or middle school that won’t talk to me anymore). Most of the time in school, I refused to show any emotion, trying to keep them all bottled up as I go through eight hours by hours while the other students talk amongst themselves and don't pay attention to me.

In life, I find what it is like to be in complete isolation, triggering memories of how I had endured loneliness in my childhood and used to be the timid, awkward, and sullen oddball, knowing that there is noone around to brighten my day, only the sound of other kids talking amongst themselves and having fun much to my envy is all I can hear. On one night as I walked home, I realized that I am really alone, having no idea where my life is going at that rate, or if there is someone out there who really cares about me because not a lot of people have spoken to me for a while ever since I became a high school student years back and regret not getting in much contact with them to see how things were. Plus, my closest relatives, such as my parents and brother are not really much help in my condition. As much as I try to talk to them, I don't get the feeling that they truly understand. The way they respond whenever I attempt to console to them is very dismissive and inconsiderate, further supporting my belief that not even they care about me. In the time I'd wrote this, I swore off telling them any ounce of my problems, as if they would actually care...

Even worse was enduring bullying and abuse from other students that triggered bad memories of what caused me not to be so trusting of others. And, I could not fight back against them all that much, doing nothing other than reacting, glaring, snarking, or giving the occasional finger, which wouldn't last long as I am often overpowered by their popularity, dominance, and miraculous ways of getting reactions out of me. Unless I were lucky to find some kind of way of hitting them. There were some days which ended with me getting sent to the principal’s office in order to acknowledge my mental illness with the staff, not to mention what feelings of trauma I get whenever I’m bullied or harassed by some dastardly kid. Sometimes after the bullying, I would have meltdowns or end up running back to my haven so nobody can see my silent (nonexistent) tears of regret and sorrow, even ignoring whatever pains those bullies left on my heart and body. Sometimes the pain is so intense that I can no longer bottle up my emotions, yet now I refuse to show it in front of others and would rather do it alone in my haven so I can be on to do so freely. The only words I can whisper to myself is “I hate myself…” This is also the case for cyberbullies and predators I've fallen victim of in the past—people have anonymously been mean and hurtful to me, and what's worse is that I REALLY cannot do anything about it besides reporting, especially for pedophiles who have managed to lead me on in the past and take advantage of my open wounds just to get an easy nail... Speaking of bullying, I think it's safe to assume that I'd also sufferred the same at the hands of my own father! In the past, and during my childhood, he would abuse me by striking me every time I screwed something up, even if it was a minor or honest mistake. Being both verbally and physically abusive, I can't exactly say I felt truly safe when around him in hindsight, worrying that one slip-up in front of him could result in another clean bruise on my body. Recently, I recall my father once barging into my room at night while I was asleep and interrogating me about some sort of misunderstanding with his credit card and certain online marketing website. Instead of actually filling me in on what happened or what was going on, he would yell me these questions with no fathomable context whatsoever. Even worse was that initially I was suffering from sleep inertia, so I definitely couldn't quite catch on quickly. Eventually, things led to things, and a heated argument erupted between us, prompting us to get into a shouting match and for me to release all my pent up anger on him, even getting physical and delivering a few blows to him thus further angering him. The incident left me with mixed emotions of confusion, sadness, trauma, and all topped with insomnia since I could not go to sleep for the rest of the night. The things he said to me during all this made assured me that he definitely didn't care about me, and that I was expendable just like all his other abandoned love-children... The feelings, it burns. It is when nobody says happy birthday. It is when family members say they love me yet don't show it. They don't know how to love me, and that is the same as not loving me. It is being alone at lunch. It is being alone and lonely all the time. It is spending hours online finding out how others managed to cope with the stinging feeling I get before I go to bed when my head starts spinning with all the evil truths that nobody cares about me. Sure, some may say they do, but who wants to listen to me talk about my passions? Who wants to help me out? Nobody... Nobody even wants to take time out of their day to spend it with me. It's reading books on how to make friends. It's moping for hours wondering why nobody even likes me, much less loves me. It's changing appearances and attitudes only to be rejected and alone and remain unloved. It's questioning who I am entirely, it's masking who I am and changing who I am and feeling like I'm crazy. It's wishing I could be okay with the fact that nobody loves me but it still feels like a hot hand gripping my throat and a heavy weight on my chest. It's replaying every comment in my head over and over. It's terrible, I can't talk with anyone about it because nobody cares. It hurts, God it hurts!

There was one thing during my time in high school that I could confide in, besides art and drawing…

Back in mid-2015, I remember working hard on a series called “Tails for Hire”; one that parodied the already-parody, Sonic for Hire. With the help of an online ally from Kentucky, I was able to finish it and upload it to YouTube that summer. At the time, my YouTube channel was nothing but cobwebs of old, rather second-rate videos. That was until the first episode of Tails for Hire was released. To my surprise, it garnered over 5,000 views the first week it was uploaded, and I was blown away by the good responses and relatively fair criticism. For the first time, I felt… significant! In retrospect, I realize that what lifted my spirits seeing the comments on my TFH videos was the fact that I had some company. Afterwards, my partner for the video, Tales499 and I talked fairly often, I made another (now former) friend on Skype from Norway, I had so many notifications of comments on the videos. I didn’t feel so alone during all this. I guess I wanted people to talk to and share my feelings with in order to quell my loneliness and compensate for my lack of friendships. I’ll admit, the internet was harsh at times with me, but I learn over the years (and now), that it’s a way of helping you grow thicker skin. This all might explain why I felt the yearning desire for popularity on different social media platforms. Though, I have to admit it does sound rather pathetic for me to console to people behind screens instead of face-to-face.

As some of you who know me from my YouTube channel, you’ll know that Tails for Hire is currently on an undeterminably long hiatus, as of June 2016. Currently, no return date was thought of, but don’t fret, one day… ONE DAY, Tails for Hire will return… At this point the hiatus is more of a hibernation.

Months later, after I finally graduated high school, leaving behind the four years of emotional torture I had endured, I was ready to head to university! Or at least, I thought…

I won’t get too deep into the details of what happened there, but I will say this—everything that I struggled with in my early-to-mid adolescence came to haunt me in university as if I was cursed. No matter how hard I tried to suck it up, I didn’t make any real friends or meaningful relationships in university. When I noticed all the other students at the school, I felt generally inadequate—it reminded me of all things that others are better at and how I'm don't have anything to offer anyone. At the end of December 2018, some of you might recall me making a status update on DeviantArt of me contemplating suicide, and that if I don’t post anything the next year, I might have actually gone with it… Few of you showed your concern… But, while I did appreciate it, I felt that people will only care when it’s too late… I’m sorry if I scared or confused some of you. If I EVER feel suicidal again, I’ll see it that seek immediate help.

Short story—public Safety, many counsellors, my roommates, and one of the deans had come to me saying how worried they were about my well-being after hearing reports of me acting strange and making suicidal remarks. This also ties into the fact that the way I've been feeling has caused me to occasionally miss some of my classes, not be able to focus well, and worst of all... develop some suicidal thoughts... I even explicitly fantasized of jumping off a roof or a window to kill myself! I'm sorry if all this info came up out of nowhere. Eventually, the Dean highly recommended that I be put on medical leave until it is decided that I'm fit to come back to campus. I wasn't too fond of the idea given that I worked so hard in coming to this school and at least tough my way through the first semester. But apparently, it's for the best... When others ask why I would even think to kill myself, the only overarching reason I can give is "I'm worthless!" When people notice that I've been OK for few days or acting normal, it's just that I've been manic. When I look at others, I always think of the things I can't do! I'm an artist who can even get noticed, I'm a guy who has never had many friendships that lasted long, I'm a wimp who can't work up the courage to confront others, I'm a university student on medical leave! All of these things and then some are what trigger thoughts of how my life is a joke! But somehow, during those times when I contemplated suicide, I actually felt free! Almost giddy, and that I could finally kiss this worthless life good-bye!

At the moment, I’m going through professional help and trying to keep myself busy during my downtime. Part of me says there’s no hope me, but part me says one day, I’ll be back to my old, wholesomely manic self again. Step by step… it just might happen.

Lately, I’ve tried to get back into the passions I once enjoyed, get the ideas I’ve had out there as if someone would want to see them. But, I still struggle in finding the motivation thinking of the very disheartening outcomes—low viewership, negative or no feedback, or just not feeling happy with the finished product. I sometimes look at my art and wonder if I can do better or it's good enough. I'm turned between both sides on that case, mainly because I don't have anyone else to share with me their well-thought-out opinions, instead of one-word comments or notifications where someone simply favorites something. Mostly due to my depression, almost everything I do in life seems meaningless. Because that's how depression works! No matter how good I (supposedly) am, I don't remember the good things about myself, I just over exaggerate the terrible stuff about me and it becomes who I am in my mind. No matter what I do, I'm not good enough for myself... But no, my fear of death and it being a one-way ticket are what stop me... I try to figure out what I have to live for and what ideas I have to share. It's really hard, given how I compare myself to others and how much success they've achieved besides me, and the negative thoughts are what cloud my mind no matter how hard I try to clear them. Then there's the days where I feel unimportant or under appreciated, as if I make no difference by staying alive. Some days I feel like I'm on top of the world and that noone can stop me, and other and most days I feel nothing but pain. During those good days, I find myself surrounded by people who seem to care and be interested in me, but soon after the feeling wears off, and I just don't know why! In the time, I've written this, I've been feeling really low, as if noone would even care or bother to read this or be concerned with how I'm feeling. But as I finish and sign off... I kinda feel like a huge weight was lifted off of me. It felt good for me to let it all out, even if it is just typing it out. (Sigh)... If you've made it this far in reading the journal, thank you for reading and hopefully understanding. Once again, I'm sorry if this seemed overly dramatic, self-indulgent or just really heavy. But like I said, this was for me to get some of that heavy weight off me. Throughout half of this year, everything that has happened was really just too much to explain, too much to handle, too traumatically stressing, and generally just heavy... which is why I needed time off... Again, thank you for reading...

#depression #bullying #neglect #deviantart #ibatronic #art #hate #sad #loveislove #life #high school #suicide #recover

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