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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

teeth

(Read Anne as Courtney!Anne)

Aragon and Anne make the best mother duo and you Cannot Change My Mind

(you can read this as Aralyn if you want, but it’s not written in that way and the line is pretty vague tbh)

Word count: 4769

———————

There was a crash.

And then a crack.

And then a crunch.

The girl at the bottom of the stairs had her bottom jaw bent in a horrible position, her tongue lolling out of one side and bloody drool spilled all down her chin. Her eyes are upturned in her skull; she didn’t seem to be all there, though no one was surprised. Those broken bones must be excruciating.

———

Eight weeks of silence. A jaw wired shut. Almost three months of only eating liquidated foods. Black and blue floral bruising bloomed across the sides of her face. An eternity of humiliation.

———

In theory, it was difficult to miss Joan. Nineteen years of age and the workaholic music director stood at roughly 5’4, and it didn’t look like she was going to be growing again anytime soon. However, in practice, the girl was so quiet and self-enclosed that a lot of the time, she practically melted into the theater walls. That made it a slightly unpleasant surprise when Aragon was disturbed from her reading by a quiet tapping at her doorframe—it was most undignified for a queen as regal as herself to startle like that.

An irritable comment jumped to her lips, but it died as she looked up. Joan looked...worried. That wouldn’t normally strike her in any meaningful way, not if it was anyone else at her door—everyone got worried sometimes, although a fair number of people found it more difficult to talk to her than to others. But for all that had happened in her past, Joan had maintained a rarely-changing expression of passivity throughout the time she’d been reincarnated. Perhaps as a defense mechanism, perhaps simply because that was her resting face; the girl just kept her emotions to herself. However, now, it was incredibly visible that she was experiencing the worst kind of gnawing fear if you knew how to look for it. Nails digging into her arms as she crossed them over her chest, eyes darting all over, and her heel pressing against her other shin like she was trying to keep from anxious tapping. The only reason her lip wasn’t chewed raw was because of the wires and rubber bands anchoring her mouth firmly shut.

Immediately, the irritation turned to alarm bells.

The two just looked at each other for a few minutes, neither seemingly willing to break the silence first. Then, slowly, Joan took one step into the dressing room. Now her fingers were digging into her arm more. Aragon felt the strongest urge to get up from her chair and check to make sure she hadn’t broken skin, but at the same time, she feared that if she tried to move too quickly she would spook this very obviously troubled girl back into her usual repression. It would be wiser to wait for her to say whatever it was she was struggling to get out, but that didn’t make the decision any easier as a thousand and one possibilities as to what could have gone wrong raced through her head.

“May I talk to you, Aragon?”

The hesitation in the girl’s sign language only made those alarm bells ringing in her head louder. It was only her many, many years as a queen that allowed Aragon to keep her voice calm.

“Of course, Joan. Come, sit.”

Slowly, painfully so, Joan made her way to the chair opposite her, after closing the door to the dressing room behind her. But she didn’t sit down. Rather, she stood next to it. Ordinarily Aragon might have taken that as one of those little acts of rebellion Kitty liked to partake in from time to time, but not in this case. It felt more like the unwillingness of a confronted animal to lay down, for fear that they might need to flee at a moment's notice. That bad, then. Carefully, the queen put her bookmark in between the pages she was on and then set the book to the side. Whatever this was about, she doubted it would be over quickly.

“Now then, what is it you want to discuss?”

“Well… The director talked to me. He said I should take some time off to heal.” Joan signed.

“That’s good,” Aragon said. However, she noticed the frown set on Joan’s lips and realized that it was most definitely not a good thing.

“Maybe.” Joan let her hands go limp for a movement, then raised them again to continue. “But that got me thinking. Maybe, even after I heal, I should just leave the wires in. Seems like everyone would be happier without me talking.”

“Joan, you can’t seriously be thinking of doing that?”

Through great force of will Aragon managed to keep her tone mostly level, but even the very slight undertone of ice and steel buried under a dozen layers of constraint made Joan flinch.

“I-I just....”

“I don’t see why you think that’s a good idea. Do you know how damaging that could be for your mouth? It can’t remain shut forever.”

“Aragon-”

“Not to mention that you could put so many other factors at risk-”

“Aragon, please!”

Well that cut her off sharply.

For a moment Aragon just blinked at the girl, startled. This was perhaps the first time she had heard Joan raise her voice at anybody, let alone a queen. It was especially shocking because it had come out more as a strangled hiss between firmly clamped teeth, like the freezing whisper of a fanged glacier. But as she got over that element of surprise, she noticed two things about the girl standing before her. Firstly, it was that she was shaking, quite badly, actually. And secondly, that the bruises along her cheeks were ignited in shades of ivory and indigo and violet from the way she had been clenching her jaws through their bindings.

Moving oh-so-carefully, Aragon up her purse and began to rifle through it. Joan stepped back, but what she brought out wasn’t some form of weapon, but rather a small tin box. A box which Aragon opened and turned towards her.

“Have a mint, Joan.”

Joan just looked at her, baffled.

Aragon quickly realized her mistake and grimaced. It gets the smallest, weakest smile from Joan. She takes one, despite knowing she couldn’t eat it, signed a rapid apology, then left.

———

Trudging into the coffee shop during a fire-breathing rainstorm made Joan miserable enough, but it only got worse when the shrewd older woman working the counter wouldn’t take her order when she attempted to sign it to her and then write it out.

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to need to use your words.” She oozed.

Joan gestured for her bruised mouth and then bared her teeth so she could show the woman that they were firmly clamped shut with rubber bands. The worker leaned back slightly in distaste.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” She said. “Mutes aren’t our top priority here. You can just wait your turn while I handle the other customers.”

Joan waved her head around to find the shop completely empty thanks to the storm outside. She turned back to the worker with an “are you kidding me?” look.

“She’s in the bathroom.” The worker said cooly.

Joan glowered, but her anger quickly dissolved and she made the closest thing to a sigh that she could manage. She stepped away from the counter and waited.

Several long moments passed. The rain outside continuously eased up and then fell harder as if Mother Nature couldn’t decide if she wanted to flood the city today or not. The worker behind the counter kept glancing at Joan, hoping that she would just give up and leave. She was now regretting telling her to wait because it meant she had some disabled kid just loitering in her store when the front door suddenly swung open.

Two haughty American tourists came in with a spray of raindrops, closing their umbrellas, but keeping up their giddy chatter as they approached the counter. One of them glanced at Joan with a questioning look. The worker waved a dismissive hand.

“Ignore her,” She said. “She’s waiting her turn until she learns how to speak up.”

Joan glared and, once again, gestured for her mouth.

“What is wrong with you?” One of the two customers said, pacing around Joan while the other placed an order. “Why don’t you speak?” He eyed Joan’s bruised jaw. “Ohhh. I see.”

“My little brother broke his jaw once,” His friend piped up. “He couldn’t talk for two months!”

“What does it feel like?” The one in front of Joan asked. “Does it hurt?”

Then, without warning, he poked her roughly in the jaw, as if he were trying to pry it open himself. Joan swatted his hands away frantically and reared back, rubbing the area that had been touched. Pain spiraled from her mouth all over again.

“Don’t be a brute.” Said a sharp, barbed voice from behind Joan.

“Oh, hey!” The customer at the counter said. “You’re Anne Boleyn, aren’t you?”

Joan turned and was shocked to see that it was, in fact, Anne Boleyn herself standing there. Her arms were crossed firmly over her chest and her eyes narrowed in a venomous glare. She looked like a coiled up snake ready to lunge.

“Yes,” Anne said, casting a dark glare down on the customers, who step away, sensing her anger. She comes up beside Joan and sets a comforting, protective hand on her shoulder. “You will not touch her again.”

The two tourists nodded and awkwardly sidled away to take their drinks and scamper out with their proverbial tails tucked between their legs.

“Now,” Anne turned her glower on the worker. “I understand that Joan had wanted something?”

“She can wait. You were here first.” The worker said.

Anne ruffled. “Serve her right now.” She snarled lowly, and even Joan was startled by her sudden tone. It was as deep and rumbling as a big cat’s growl, yet cold and scaly like a King Cobra.

The worker didn’t dare quarrel with the woman, so she plucked up the piece of paper left on the counter with Joan’s order and began to make the drink. The whole time, Joan stood still at Anne’s side, eyes wide.

After the drink was finished, Anne ordered one of her own, paid, and then guided Joan over to the front of the shop. She’s not at all bristled anymore and wore a warm smile on her lips.

“That was fun,” She chuckled lightly. “Say, kiddo, wanna come over for dinner? Sudden, I know-“ She laughed this time, a hearty, real one. “But I want to keep an eye on you. Plus, I know we’re having soup tonight. You can eat soup, can’t you?”

Joan nodded, flustered. Anne’s grin grew wider.

“Wonderful.”

—

“We have company!” Anne chimed loudly as she walked through the front door with a fidgeting Joan in tow.

Several heads popped up from an area in the downstairs area, each wearing a different expression- Cathy at the dining table with a curious look, Kitty and Jane on the couch with matching bitter frowns, Cleves from the downstairs hallway with friendly eyes, and Aragon in the kitchen with a warm grin. All Joan can do is give a tiny wave and a nervous smile.

“Hello, dear,” Aragon greeted as Anne and Joan walked over to the kitchen counter. The smell of basil and tomatoes drifted from the pot she was stirring. Anne’s memory hadn’t failed her- they were eating soup that night.

“Hello, beautiful.” Anne replied and Aragon shot her a look, although Joan could tell it was mock-annoyance. “I found this little rascal,” She set a hand on Joan’s head. “at that coffee shop with really good hot chocolate but really shitty workers.”

Aragon knew exactly what she meant, as she gave a knowing nod.

“Ah. That one.” She shook her head, looking back down at the pot. “I’m not sure what they did, but I’ll make sure to leave a one-star review on Yelp.”

Anne laughed, and even Joan gave a tiny giggle.

“Oh! I should show you my falcon before dinner!”

“It’s raining,” Jane said helpfully from the couch. Anne gave her a snake-like glower.

“Don’t be a buzzkill,” She said. “Come on, my darling!”

She grabbed Joan by the hand and led her out to the backyard, missing the blush that dusted her cheeks from the use of the pet name.

The two of them walk out to the backyard, Joan holding an umbrella over their heads, and towards a large wooden structure. It sort of looked like a house with a metal net grating over the sides. Joan could see several perches from inside it.

Anne gave her a wild smile before she slipped on a glove and opened the small door on the front. She held her arm into the pen and then pulled back after a moment, a beautiful brown and grey falcon perched on her wrist. Joan goggles at it with wide eyes.

“This is Baguette.” Anne said. “Just kidding! Her name is Freya. Isn’t she pretty?”

Joan nodded excitedly.

“Watch this.” Anne grinned. “Freya! Hup!”

Anne threw a leather lure as high as she could in the air and Freya shot off of her arm like a rocket. Her wings were primed and they slammed down with more than enough force to send her spiraling into the sky. He darted after the lure, and Anne snapped the cord attached to it, sending the mouse-sized lump off to the side, spinning like a satellite on a line around her. Freya banked, flying up and away a short way before looping around and diving at the lure. It’s clear that she is very good at this game, but Anne had learned just the right moment to change the angle of her swing, switching the direction the lure is sailing and throwing her off just enough that she has to make another pass.

Anne twirled the lure like a lasso, changing the pitch and yaw of the loops, sending it higher, lower, and in sweeping waves. Freya moves like a lightning strike in a hurricane, dive bombing one moment just as she yanks it away, rising back to circle, prepare, and dive again.

They fall into a rhythm, just different enough to keep them on their toes, but solid enough that the rest of the world faded away, until Freya broke off suddenly, catching a glimpse of something else.

“Freya!” Anne shouted as Joan giggled softly beside her. She snapped the lure in an attempt to catch her bird’s attention. “Come on! You’re making a bad first impression!”

Freya wheeled around after a moment and soared back down to the two. She lands dutifully on Anne’s outstretched arm, but is clearly a little crabby about not being able to catch her prey. She eases up when Anne gives her a treat.

“Wanna hold her?” Anne asked Joan, who nodded eagerly. She passed the girl a glove, which she quickly pulled on. “Okay. Be very careful, okay? And don’t freak out.”

Anne took the umbrella and passed Freya over to Joan. The bird stepped onto the younger girl’s arms and flexed her razor sharp talons around the glove, squeezing Joan’s wrist. Joan eyed the claws wryly.

Anne could tell Joan had a million questions, but her wired jaw kept her from verbalizing them. All she could do was stare at the falcon and the falconer with saucer-wide eyes.

“Dinner’s ready!” Aragon suddenly called from the back door.

Joan jolted a little and instinctively leaned away, but Freya remained poised on her arm. Anne laughed and put her bird back into her pen.

“Impressed?” She grinned.

Joan nodded.

“Good!” Anne said. “Now, let’s get inside before Catalina starts yelling at us about catching our death out here or something.”

The two of them walked back inside the house, being hit by the wonderful smell of the soup, which Aragon was pouring into seven different colored bowls. She smiled at them.

“Have fun?”

“Yup!” Anne said. “Joan was very impressed.”

Joan gave two thumbs up in agreement. Aragon’s heart melted.

“Why are there seven bowls?” Kitty asked obnoxiously.

“Uhh. Joan.” Aragon answered, blinking. “You should know that, Kat. She’s standing right there.”

“Yeah, but... Can she even eat?”

“Kit, don’t be stupid,” Anne said, slightly defensive. “Come on, stop acting like this. You know damn well that the doctors wouldn’t wire her jaw shut for a long period of time if she wouldn’t be able to eat or drink for that long.”

Kitty is clearly miffed by her cousin not being on her side and shoots a glare at Joan for it. Then, she raised her nose, looked away, and huffed out an annoyed breath.

“How long will the wires be there?” Cathy asked curiously.

Joan held up eight fingers.

“Weeks?”

She nodded.

There was a swell of murmurs- intrigued, pitiful, amused. Aragon was the one who grimaced.

“I couldn’t imagine that,” She said, rubbing her own jaw as if she thought it might spontaneously break. “Not being able to open my mouth for that long.”

“It’s like reverse lockjaw,” Cleves observed. “Just with less seizures.”

“Does it hurt?” Cathy asked.

Joan made a so-so gesture and then set a tentative hand on one of her heavily bruised cheeks, remembering the touch from that rude tourist. Ever since she had been prodded, her jaw had started hurting again. It felt like someone was trying to forcefully pry her mouth open with a crowbar.

She tried to just ignore it and sat down at the dinner table after getting her bowl. The soup was a lot chunkier than she had been expecting; she looked at the slices of potato in dismay, unsure how she would get them past her firm wall of teeth.

“Need a straw?” Kitty teased. She yelped loudly when Anne kicked her underneath the table.

Joan scowled at the pink queen, then brought a spoonful of soup to her lips. She had to awkwardly tip her head back slightly to make sure she didn’t spill anything on her. Sadly, her teeth were too bound together by rubber-bands to keep her jaws from moving from opening just a sliver to allow the bits of meat and potato to pass through, so only the liquids that flow through the random holes between her teeth reach her throat and stomach.

It had been much easier to drink her coffee.

“Sweetheart,” Aragon said, unable to watch the poor girl struggle any longer. “I’ll get the blender.”

Joan hunched her shoulders, embarrassed. Kitty tittered. Anne kicked her again.

“Ow!” Kitty whined. “Stop doing that!”

“Then stop being a brat.” Anne said cooly.

“I’m not a brat!”

“Well, you’re acting like one right now.”

“This is very entertaining.” Cleves commented. Anne flashed her an agreeing grin. Kitty sulked.

The loud sound of the blender stopped the argument from continuing. A few moments later, Aragon set a cup of blended soup with a straw in front of Joan. Joan gawked at it and then looked up at Aragon, one eyebrow raised. Aragon quickly swiped the straw.

“First the mint and now this?” Anne laughed.

“What mint?” Cathy asked.

“Catalina apparently offered Joan a mint earlier.” Anne told her.

Laughter erupted around the table. Aragon rolled her eyes as she sat back down.

“It was a mistake!” She tried to defend herself. “And an accident!”

Joan gave her a small smile before going back to eating. Well- drinking. Although, it wasn’t much easier. She wished she had the syringe she had been using for the past two days or the tube the doctors had used with her.

She quickly licked off the thick caking of soup on her lips, hoping that nobody had noticed it was there, then saw Kitty leering at her. She bristled and raised her eyebrows as if to say, “What?”

“What’s the name of that Warriors cat with the weird jaw?” Kitty asked the rest of the group, pleasantly pretending like Joan wasn’t sitting just a few feet away from her.

“Crookedjaw?” Cathy answered.

“Yeah!” Kitty turned to Joan with a smile as crooked as the girl’s mouth. “We can call you Crookedjaw! Seems like a fitting nickname.”

Anne gaped in horror at her younger cousin. She was so startled that she couldn’t even kick the queen. Aragon, on the other hand, wasn’t as stricken as she was.

“Katherine, what the fuck?” Aragon seethed.

“What?” Kitty said innocently. “It fits her!”

“Are you fucking nuts?” Aragon said, eyes wide and burning like hot embers. “No, actually- are you stupid?”

“She was just messing around, Catherine.” Jane tried to smooth things over.

“Don’t defend her!” Aragon snapped. “You should tighten the leash on her.”

“She’s not a dog.” Jane hissed.

“And yet she’s as annoying as a chihuahua that never shuts up,” Aragon said. She stood up, grabbed her bowl, and walked over to Joan. “Come on, Joan.”

Joan got up and followed her to the staircase. Anne went with them, but not without rounding on her cousin.

“If you’re going to call her Crookedjaw, then maybe we should start calling you Lostneck or Severedhead.” She said coldly. A mocking smile curled on her lips. “Because it fits.”

Kitty went rigid, but neither Anne or Aragon stuck around for her possible panic attack. They herd Joan upstairs and to Aragon’s room.

“I am so sorry, Joan.” Anne said once they were inside. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“She thinks everything will be handed to her on a silver platter.” Aragon stated as she began to rummage through her pajamas. “Entitled brat. Just like you said.”

Anne nodded in agreement, then looked back at Joan. She carefully cupped one of her cheeks.

“Are you okay, my darling?”

Joan closed her eyes, unconsciously leaned into the touch, and nodded.

“Alright.” Anne said. “So... Movie night?”

“Sounds good to me,” Aragon said. She tossed a pair of pajamas over to Joan. “They might be a little big, but you can wear these.”

Joan nodded and padded off to the bathroom to change. When she returns, she finds Aragon and Anne already situated on the bed in their pajamas. Aragon was clad in a pale yellow nightgown with white rims and a bow near the collar, while Anne was dressed in green cotton sleeping pants and a button-down shirt of the same color. Joan looked a lot less fancy in a grey T-shirt with something about a fishing competition embroidered in white on it, which she had no idea what the origins of it being Catherine of Aragon’s dresser were, and some black gym shorts.

“Come on,” Anne waved her over, rolling out of the bed. “Lay down!”

It takes Joan a moment to realize she was supposed to lay in between them. She swallowed down her flustered feelings and obeyed, clambering up the side of the bed and sitting beside Aragon with her knees huddled close to her chest. She could feel the golden queen’s comforting warmth wavering off of her half-reclined body.

God, she was pathetic. Ever since Anne she touched her shoulder at that coffee shop something had awoken within her and refused to go back to sleep.

That something ranged from a persistently mewing kitten to a starved, roaring lion—she’d tried for a sheep or goat metaphor, because that seemed more fitting for her, but frankly, sheep were a good bit easier to manage than whatever this was.

Joan pointed to the TV as movies were flicked through and then gave each queen a questioning look. She knew she could sign, but she didn’t feel like putting Anne and Aragon through the process of having to translate what she was saying. Plus, just being completely quiet and onto using facial features and occasional gestures like this almost felt...serene.

“We’re watching Hush.” Anne said, smirking slightly. “Which has absolutely nothing to do with you not being able to talk, I promise.”

Joan giggled softly and nodded.

“Only because you lost Rock, Paper, Scissors.” Aragon retorted. She looked at Joan with motherly concern that nearly sent Joan keeling over into her chest crying. “Are you okay to watch it?”

Joan nodded. She could take it, really! She wasn’t a baby!

And yet, when the neighbor character is suddenly slammed against the glass backdoor with a knife in her gut, she still lurched backwards and nearly climbed up the headboard in fear. Anne laughed sympathetically, while Aragon gently touched her hand.

“Are you okay, sweet girl?” She asked softly.

Joan nodded, but still ducked her head away from the screen, wincing.

Aragon watched the poor girl cringe for two more minutes before she wrapped her up in her arms and pulled her securely against her chest. Joan was clearly surprised by this, but didn’t make any move to pull away. In fact, she burrowed deep into her embrace.

“Awww,” Anne cooed, glancing at the two of them. “So cute.”

“Jealous?” Aragon smirked.

Anne stuck her tongue out at her, then resumed watching.

Joan peeked out from where she had her face smothered in Aragon’s soft chest and begrudgingly continued to watch the movie because she was interested in it, she was just a tad bit frightened by it. But, again, it was okay! SHE was okay!

And then they got to the closeup of Maddie’s hand being broken and the memory of falling down the stairs flashed through Joan’s brain- slipping and falling, tumbling down each step, smashing her jaw into the tile at the bottom, the bones in her mouth crunching and cracking and grinding, her teeth cutting into her tongue and feeling like it had been severed completely, blood gargling in her throat, everyone staring at her. It was horrific, it STILL WAS horrific.

“Anne!” Aragon barked when Joan whimpered and hid her face back into her chest.

“I didn’t know that was in it!” Anne said, raising her hands. “This is the first time I’m seeing this!”

Anne paused the movie and turned to Joan, who was shaking in Aragon’s arm. She gently began to rub her back comfortingly, seeing as Aragon was already stroking her hair.

“Joan? My darling?” Anne called. “Are you okay?”

Joan nodded weakly, sniffling. She raised her head and Aragon immediately wiped away the tears in her eyes.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Aragon murmured.

“Does anything hurt?” Anne asked. “Or did you just get scared?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Aragon nodded. “What she said! Are you hurting?”

Joan shrugged, looking away. Aragon slapped Anne’s arm frantically.

“Go get painkillers.”

“Catalina, how is she supposed to swallow a PILL?” Anne cried.

“Oh no, you’re right!” Aragon pulled Joan close to her bosom and bright red mixed awkwardly with purple and blue on the girl’s face. “My baby’s going to die!” She said woefully.

“She’s not going to—” Anne had to stop to give Aragon a confused looked. “She’s not going to die, Catalina.” She glanced momentarily at Joan smooshed against her chest. “I mean, not from not taking a pill, but your tits might suffocate her to death.”

Aragon looked down at Joan and quickly pushed her back. She cleared her throat and smoothed out her nightgown.

“Yes. Of course.” She said and Anne and Joan both laughed. She gave them a look. “I was just acting! I am an actor. And you fell for it!”

Anne rolled her eyes in a good natured way. “Yeah, okay.”

After making sure Joan was completely okay, they ended up switching the movie to The Incredibles 2. Joan was still very giddy from the way both queens fussed over her, and yet she still found her eyelids drooping shut...

—

“Catalina, look,” Anne whispered.

Aragon turned her attention away from the movie to look at Joan curled against Anne, soundly asleep. Then, she noticed one of the girl’s hands grasping three of her fingers- apparently she couldn’t find the other two in her tired daze. Her heart absolutely melted.

“Oh my,” She murmured. “What a sweet girl.”

“I know,” Anne grinned. “She’s so cute.” She leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of Joan’s head, causing her to stir with a sleepy noise before settling down. Anne gently began to stroke her hair.

Aragon moved closer until she and Anne were practically sandwiching the girl with their bodies. Joan seemed content, though, as she would constantly nuzzle closer to the warmth and touch.

Perhaps the eight weeks wouldn’t be so bad after all...

#six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfic #six fanfiction #sixfic #catherine of aragon #mamagon #nana boleyn #anne boleyn #katherine howard #joan on the keys #jane seymour #anna of cleves #catherine parr #aralyn #aragon x boleyn #teeth

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mulanxiaojie · 4 years

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Since the coronavirus arrived this spring in the United States, there has been an uptick in acts of violence and prejudice toward Asian-Americans. For many, these incidents represent a compounded bigotry: they are wrongly blamed for the virus, and they are lumped together as a single group. The term “Asian-American” masks profound national and cultural differences in the name of representation. We asked 11 illustrators of Asian descent to create a self-portrait, reflecting on their heritage, their stories of immigration, and how they identify as an Asian-American. The self-portrait is a complex form of representation. Through facial expression, posture, brushstroke and color, the artist attempts to explore the perception of culture and self. These portraits convey how the artists see themselves and are an interpretation of how they believe they are perceived by others.

🇨🇳 🇺🇸

Shuhua Xiong BORN IN SHANGHAI, CHINA TO CHINESE PARENTS

“My parents are among many other Asian parents who cannot express their feelings/love straight. Before I grew to understand that, I hardly felt loved. Instead of saying “Good job” my parents would say sarcastically I could be better. After I grew up and absorbed more American culture. I learned to be more expressive, and I started to appreciate my parents’ subtlety of expressing love. It’s quiet but it’s stronger.”

🇮🇩 🇨🇳 🇺🇸

Gabrielle Widjaja AMERICAN BORN TO CHINESE-INDONESIAN PARENTS

“My Asian-American experience is defined by memorizing the lyrics to Jay Chou songs without knowing their translations, and learning how to play mahjong, because my Mandarin proficiency starts at Chinese numbers and stops at cardinal directions. The exciting part is that one’s relationship to culture is never clearly defined. It ebbs and flows; it is constantly evolving.”

🇨🇳 🇺🇸

Sally Deng AMERICAN BORN TO CHINESE PARENTS

“Like many children of immigrants, I was taught the value of good work ethics by watching my parents toil and overcome endless hardships. I believe I am celebrating my Asian-American culture and honoring my parents as well.”

🇭🇰 🇺🇸

Joan Wong AMERICAN BORN TO HONG KONG PARENTS

“Public school was my first exposure to Western customs. I learned English in school and spoke Cantonese at home. I ate cafeteria PB&J for lunch and rice for dinner. I don’t remember a time where the duality of my identity was not on my mind. I felt a stronger desire to return to my roots. It’s a shift I’ve witnessed not only in myself, but in Asian-Americans as a whole. In the last couple of years we have become more visible and more heard. It has made me feel less alone and injected me with more pride.”

🇹🇼 🇨🇳 🇺🇸

Josh Cochran CHINESE-AMERICAN BORN IN OREGON; LIVED IN TAIWAN

My mother is Chinese, my father is American. I spent my childhood on the tropical island of Taiwan. Years later, when we moved to the States, I would become obsessed with how others would perceive me. In many ways those memories growing up in Taiwan really formed my identity and left a strong impression on who I am today, even after making my own path all these years later. My identity has become one of the things I’ve thought about my entire life.”

🇹🇼 🇺🇸

Ruru Kuo BORN IN TAIWAN

“I want people to know that I’m just a normal girl, nothing different between other American girls and me. We are all girls, humans! I work hard; it’s not because I’m Asian, just because I work hard to achieve my goal. I do care how people perceive me, and I want people to know me through my work, not just from my appearance.”

🇲🇲 🇯🇵 🇺🇸

Hisham Akira Bharoocha BORN IN NIIGATA, JAPAN TO JAPANESE-BURMESE PARENTS WHO WERE IMMIGRANTS.

“I relate well to my Japanese friends who live in the U.S.A. because most of us have spent more time here than in Japan, and we have conversations about the cultural adjustments we had to go through. I do use my speaking skills and Japanese manners to make people feel comfortable, but when I do any work-related projects there, I feel comfortable bringing in my Western side by firmly expressing my opinions. The Japanese people who moved here are able to connect to the whole world instead of staying inside a small island culture.”

🇵🇭 🇺🇸

Illi Ferandez AMERICAN BORN TO FILIPINO PARENTS

“The roots of my experiences have taught me that I wouldn’t be where I am had my parents not left the comforts of home to come here and plant a flag on a small piece of America, just like every other American before them.”

🇰🇷 🇺🇸

Dan-ah Kim BORN IN SEOUL, KOREA TO KOREAN PARENTS

“Being an immigrant kid came with certain challenges, but I think about how easy I have it compared to my parents. I was grateful to have access to two languages, to know different cultures. Even if it made the journey tougher, my world was bigger for it.”

🇻🇳 🇦🇺 🇺🇸

Matt Huynh BORN IN AUSTRALIA TO VIETNAMESE PARENTS AND MIGRATED TO THE U.S.

“When I encounter specific and authentic examples of my family’s culture as Vietnamese and migrants in my life today, it feels both like a homecoming and a vulnerable exposure. As a first-generation Vietnamese-Australian in America, I identify and experience the world as a migrant from a family of migrants, living with the far-reaching repercussions of war.”

🇰🇷 🇺🇸

Dadu Shin 2ND GENERATION AMERICAN BORN TO KOREAN PARENTS

“As an Asian-American, I was constantly attempting to assimilate into communities that would inevitably exclude me. Amongst my white American peers, I would always be a representation of a different culture. To my peers in Korea, I was a foreigner who just happened to look like them. I was a foreigner to them, and they were foreigners to me.”

#far east #new york times #article #asian pasian #chinese #third culture kid #third culture chinese #immigrant #nytimes #asian american

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borisbubbles · 5 years

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Eurovision 2010s: 105 - 101

105. Mariya Yaremchuk - “Tick tock” Ukraine 2014

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Conform with the “GODDESSES ONLY” clause of their Eurovision contract, Ukraine once again have blessed us with an amazing opener (Seriously. First Melovin, then Eduard, now this? WE WERE ROBBED OF MARUV OPENING THE FINALE).

"Tick tock” is a bit too elementary to put into my top 100, HOWEVER that is also why it’s such an easy song to get into. High (production-)quality Ukranian trashpop 😍 Which won Vidbir as an unintentional incest anthem 😍 (if you don’t know, the original version opened with “We belonged to each other, like a sister to a brother” Cersei Lannister is quaking.)

Naturally, the main reason why Mariya ranks this high is, of course, the staging. THE HAMSTER WHEEL IS LEGENDARY:

Mariya casually flinging herself on top of that giant spinning contraption and torturing her poor hot dancer. 😍 I’d say the staging makes no sense, but then I realized Ukraine probably went with this act because it’s DIRT CHEAP <3 (which is funny as long as you don’t think about why they went with a lowbudget act 😭). It’s just so... honorarily Moldovan? 😍 Ukraine and Moldova using each other as horcruxes <3 Name a more epic ESC alliance, I will wait. Until then,

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104. Sanja Vucic - “Goodbye (Shelter)” Serbia 2016

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... let us celebrate this glorious cross-over between “Molitva”, “Running” and “l’Amore è femmina”. 😍 “Shelter” takes the best aspects from these three entries and combines them into a increasedly shouty mess. As you can imagine, I LOVE this witches’ cabal of hackneyed hand choreos, shredded leather and facial gymnastics. Most ESC performers would keep their miming to the precise amount of what they need, but Sanja is (and has always been) so UNPLUGGED with her irate facial expressions. A reel:

Which, in a song with such a HEAVY topic as spousal abuse is actually quite appropriate. You show those awful shit husbands, girl!!!

And you’d think that would be *IT*, but nope you’re wrong because :TEEHEE: I also think “Shelter” is a great song even without the messy misandry. The song is catchy, moody and highly relistenable. It’s one of the better mid-tier bops of this ranking. No wonder it got televotes from all over Euro-

oh. (🤣)

CONGRATZ BOJANA ON BEING THE HIGHEST RANKED SERBIAN ENTRY.

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103. Alyona Lanskaya - “Solayoh” Belarus 2013

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HI 🙂 MY NAME IS ALYONA LANSKAYA 🙂 I AM FROM BELARUS 🙂 MY SONG SOLAYOH. 🙂

2013 is mostly remembered as the year of ‘splicing unnecessary dubstep into your song’, but there is another recurring trend which was even better. The ‘female performer enters the stage with STYLE’ and as far as stylistic entrances go, Alyona’s is one of the best. This emissary from the planet Solayoh emerged immediately from her discoball-shaped Escape pod upon landing to tell us all the love and joys of her homeworld 😍

What follows is a lametastic banality anthem, riddled with ESL sentences (”We can make it into hot night” 😍.) and of course, a few iconic hand choreographies:

Topping off the hilarity is the idea of a well-off socialite such as Alyona Lanskaya singing about how “she had work hard all day :lip pout:” while wiggling her dress’s cerulean bossom fringes. 😍😂 Bribing juror being such hard work. <3 We stan lazy queens. 😍

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102. Sofi Marinova - “Love unlimited” Bulgaria 2012

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DO REN DEM DEM DEI

Speaking of lazy queens, remember when Bulgaria send an act that consisted entirely of a haggard ponytailed garuda wiggling her diddeys around like-a-so:

I’m only a recent convert to the Church of Marinova, only seeing the light during my last rewatch and I mean, how could I not fall in love eventually? “Love unlimited” is such a lowbudget afair, a basic dance track whose sole gimmick is saying “I love you” in like 46 different languages. 😍

As such, "Love unlimited” totally shouldn’t work... and yet it absolutely does? It’s a similar deal to Jurij, except the person taking the stage here is a lovably dimwitted middle-aged hagress who is completely oblivious to the fact that she has no chance to qualify and is giving still giving it her damn’ all, in doing so ALMOST reaching the final from a lost position. WHAT A TROOPER. I LOVE *YOU* SO MUCH, Sofi-Trophy. 😍

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101. Conan Osiris - “Telemóveis” Portugal 2019

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A lot of people blame several artistic decisions behinds Conan’s NQ, but I’ve had my doubts even before the rehearsals began: this is what I wrote a full month before the semi:

Conan’s main problems rise from the fact that he tries to be artistic and humorous at the same time, and the two cancel each other out somewhat.

(...) There’s a very high chance “Telemóveis” highbrow message will fly over the heads of the audience and there’s an equally high chance it will backfire on Conan when it does.

Portugal faces severe competition from the other acts. They compete with Slovenia for the “This Is High Quality” value-seeking vote, with Iceland and Australia for the novely vote and with Czech Republic and Greece for the “yeah this is actually really fucking clever” highbrow vote. He even competes with Serhat somehwat, both being OTT acts that are on later in the semi.

It could very well mean death by a thousand cuts for Portugal.

SURPRISE, I actually got it right for once!!

Of course, “Telemóveis” was less good in Tel Aviv than it was during FdC (people incorrecly blame the dress. I personally thought it was a combination of nerves, João spraining his knee and technical difficulties, much more than the dress).

Anyway, even if he wasn’t as good in Tel Aviv, a lesser “Telemóveis” is still pretty damn great so idk why everyone was is tripping? The song was still a disarmingly weird acid trip of fado funk, snappy vocals and a bonkers choreography that left the average viewer utterly GOBSMACKED. 😍 It’s one of those entries where, when looking back in a few years, everyone will say was way AHEAD of the curve and that’s never a bad demograph to be a part of.

CONGRATZ SUZY ON WINNING PORTUGAL!!! But moreover,

CONGRATULATIONS TOP 100!!!! K time for a little recap of who is still in this ranking:

Albania: 2 (Juliana, Eugent) Armenia: 2 (Aram, Iveta) Australia: 1 (KMH) Austria: 2 (Conchita, Zoë) Azerbaijan: 2 (Farid, DiHaj) Belarus: 3 (Litesound, IVAN, NAVIBAND) Belgium: 4 (Tom Dice, Loic, Laura Tesoro, Blanche) Bosnia & Herzegovina: 1 (Dino Merlin) Bulgaria: 3 (Elitsa & Stoyan, both Poli’s) Croatia: 0 Cyprus: 2 (Minus One, Eleni) Czech Republic: 1 (Lake Malawi) Denmark: 1 (Rasmussen) Estonia: 5 (Malcolm Lincoln, Ott, Birgit, Stigelina, Elina Netchayeva) Finland: 4 (Kuukuiskaajat, Krista, Softengine, Norma John) France: 3 (Jessy, Madame Monsieur, Amir) Georgia: 4 (Sopho N., Shin&Mariko, Nina S., Nika) Germany: 2 (Lena 2.0, Michael) Greece: 2 (Giorgos, Koza Mostra) Hungary: 4 (Kati, Andras, Joci 1.0, AWS) Iceland: 3 (Hera, Greta 2.0, Hatari) Ireland: 1 (Molly) Israel: 3 (Nadav, Hovi, Imri) Italy: 4 (Emma, Francesca, Francesco, Mahmood) Latvia: 3 (Aarzemnieki, Aminata, Justs) Lithuania: 2 (Fusedmarc, Ieva) Macedonia: 1 (Jana) Malta 2: (Gianluca, Michela) Moldova: 4 (Pasha, Aliona, Sunstroke 2.0, DoReDoS) Montenegro: 1 (Who See & Nina Z.) the Netherlands: 4 (Joan, Anouk, Common Linnets, Duncan) Norway: 2 (JOWST, KEiiNO) Poland: 1 (Cleo) Portugal: 1 (Suzy) Romania: 1 (Paula & Ovi 1.0) Russia: 1 (Polina) San Marino: 1 (Crisalide) Serbia: 1 (Bojana) Slovakia: 0 Slovenia: 5 (Maja, Tinkara, Maraaya, Lea, ZalaGasper) Spain: 2 (Ruth, Miki) Sweden: 2 (Loreen, Måns) Switzerland: 3 (Sebalter, ZiBBZ, Luca) Turkey: 1 (maNga) Ukraine: 2 (Zlata, Jamala) United Kingdom: 1 (Lucie)

LINK TO THE FULL LIST SO FAR (IMGUR)

#Eurovision #Eurovision Song Contest #Top 100 #Portugal #Conan Osiris #Telemoveis #Bulgaria #Belarus #Ukraine #Serbia #Sanja Vucic #Goodbye (Shelter)#Mariya Yaremchuk #Tick Tock #Alyona Lanskaya #Solayoh #Sofi Marinova #Love unlimited

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thewidowstanton · 5 years

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The Widow’s Best of 2019

Welcome readers to our Best of 2019 round-up. Some of you might remember that when one half of The Widow, Liz Arratoon, started writing about the circus 25 years ago – with Widow other half Adrian Arratoon by her side – she was almost a lone advocate for the art form. Don’t you get jaded, people ask us. Absolutely not! But we do long for something a bit different, and this year we have been disappointed that so many circus shows and acts have started to look a bit similar and yawny.

One notable exception gets our Best Show, and we did love Company Soralino’s clowning with cardboard boxes, and Mizuki Shinagawa on silks at the 40th Cirque de Demain festival, but we have cast our gaze beyond circus to take in whatever else has taken our fancy. Just to remind people, and before any more sensitive hearts are broken, anything we have seen this year, no matter when it was created, is eligible for selection, but if we haven’t seen it, it isn’t. Our list, our rules, and, in no particular order, here it is. All shows are in London unless otherwise stated.

BEST SHOW: We really enjoyed Aurelia Thierrée’s Bells and Spells at the Norfolk & Norwich Festival, but our Best Show is La Nuit du Cerf (A Deer in the Headlights) by Cirque Le Roux, seen on French TV. This is the company’s follow-up to The Elephant in the Room, and new cast members Valerie Benoit and Mason Ames join the original troupe of Lolita Costet, Yannick Thomas, Philip Rosenberg and Gregory Arsenal. Together they showcase a sophisticated and exquisitely choreographed blend of top-flight acrobatics, handstands, hand-to-hand, roller-skating, tight wire, you name it, in a totally fresh and exciting presentation, all backed by a wonderfully eclectic soundtrack. If only more companies could come up with something so innovative.

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FEMALE ARTIST OF THE YEAR: Extraordinary acrobat Esmeralda Nikolajeff, part of the line-up for Barely Methodical Troupe’s third show, SHIFT, which opened the London International Mime Festival at the Platform Theatre.

MALE ARTIST OF THE YEAR: Wes Peden, juggler, who had a scintillating guest spot in Gandini Juggling and Alexander Whitley’s show Spring at Sadler’s Wells. Don’t miss his solo show Zebra at the Southbank Centre’s Purcell Room during the London International Mime Festival in January 2020.

BEST GIG: Le SuperHomard in the library at the Institut Français as part of the Music Rendezvous season, and Durand Jones and the Indications, seen at the Southbank Centre’s Queen Elizabeth Hall during Meltdown.

MOST ENTERTAINING: Lucy Worsley’s talk about Queen Victoria at Southwark Cathedral.

BEST VENUE: The Poodle Club in Sydenham.

BEST ACT: Foot-jugglers Marina and Svetlana Tsodikova, who are the Crystal Ladies in Cirque du Soleil’s Totem. They also get MOST GLAMOROUS.

BEST COSTUMES: Alejandro Gómez Palomo for The Male Dancer, choreographed by Iván Pérez, seen on the Arte app; Jean Paul Gaultier’s Fashion Freak Show (pictured below) seen at the Folies Bergère in Paris, and Queen Victoria’s crown, designed by Sheila Hay for A Night with Thick and Tight at the Lilian Baylis Studio, during the London International Mime Festival.

BEST INTERVIEW: Alec Baldwin’s chat with Elaine Stritch on his podcast Here’s the Thing.

BEST MAGIC TRICK: Shin Lim, winner of America’s Got Talent: The Champions 2019, doing card tricks.

LOUDEST GASP!: This photo of Joan Crawford, seen on @cjubarrington’s glorious Twitter account, where he posts vintage photos of Hollywood stars.

BEST MOVE: Anything by world champion football freestyler Liv Cooke.

BEST CASTAWAY: Living legend John Cooper Clarke on Desert Island Discs on BBC Radio 4.

BEST GOWN: Kathleen Nellis’ fabulous recreation of Marlene Dietrich’s ‘naked’ dress for Peter Groom’s show Natural Duty, originally designed by Jean Louis. Peter also wore it in Dietrich: Live in London, seen at the Crazy Coqs, Live at Zédel, for which he gets BEST CABARET.

MOMENT OF WONDER: Andy Goldsworthy throwing handfuls of snow into the wind in the documentary Rivers and Tides.

BEST LOOK AT THE MET GALA: Harry Styles wearing a sheer Gucci blouse!

HOTTEST TICKET: Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s solo triumph, Fleabag, at Wyndham’s Theatre, and, yes, we did speak to Andrew Scott this year!

FUNNIEST PERSON: David Mills, who stormed New York with Bitter Endings, but we saw him at the Poodle Club. Someone! Book this show for London!

BEST DANCE: The Seasons’ Canon choreographed by Crystal Pite at the Opera Garnier, seen on the Arte app.

BEST SET: Anna Reid’s simple, stylish and effective design for The Sweet Science of Bruising at Wilton’s Music Hall.

BEST SHOWBIZ STORY: The Man Behind the Microphone, first heard on Outlook on BBC World Service. The story of how filmmaker Claire Belhassine discovered that her unassuming Tunisian grandfather, Hedi Jouini, had been a singing megastar. Then we found the film of the same name.

BEST DOCUMENTARY: Liz Garbus’ 2016 Leave Nothing Unsaid, in which Anderson Cooper interviews his remarkable mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, about her life. Devastating and moving.

MOST FLAMBOYANT: Zack MacLeod Pinsent, who dresses like this all the time!

BEST SHOWBIZ BOOK – MALE ARTIST: Me by Elton John with Alexis Petrides.

BEST SHOWBIZ BOOK – FEMALE ARTIST: Dreamgirl: My Life As a Supreme by Mary Wilson… of the Supremes, with Patricia Romanowski and Ahrgus Juilliard.

BEST AUDIENCE: Ah, woof!

MOST NOTABLE ANNIVERSARIES: Ten years of The Double R Club, which was founded by Benjamin Louche and Rose Thorne, and runs at Bethnal Green’s Working Men’s Club, and three years of Cabaret vs Cancer, the registered charity started by Rose.

BEST VINTAGE CIRCUS PICTURE: Coo!

BEST FILM: Spike Lee’s BlacKkKlansman – which should have won the Oscar – and Olivia Wilde’s delightful teen comedy Booksmart.

BEST FILM SCORE: Out of Blue by Clint Mansell.

MOST IMPRESSIVE MEMORY FEAT: An hour and 40 minutes’ worth of words spoken by the one and only Maggie Smith, who returned to the stage in A German Life at the Bridge Theatre.

MOST ALLURING: Dina Martina, seen at Soho Theate Downstairs in Forgotten but Not Gone.

MOST MISSED: Agnès Varda, Clive James (born Vivian Leopold James!), and the French TV variety show Le Plus Grand Cabaret du Monde, hosted by Patrick Sébastien, which started in 1998 and ended this year.

GONE FAR TOO SOON: The creative genius Nell Gifford, co-founder of Giffords Circus, who died at 46.

MOST ANTICIPATED: Obviously Wes Peden’s previously mentioned Zebra, and Daniele Finzi Pasca’s latest creation, NUDA, premiering on 11 September 2020 at LAC, Lake Lugano in Switzerland.

Look out for our first interview of 2020, with Scottish aerialist and acobat Lauren Jamieson, who has a PhD in chemistry but gave up her science career to focus on circus full time. She will appear in The Feathers of Daedalus show Tarot during the Vault Festival 2020.

Picture credits: Company Soralino, Valérie Thénard Béal; Wes Peden, Pierre Feniello; Peter Groom, V’s Anchor Studio. Any we’ve missed, please let us know.

Follow @TheWidowStanton on Twitter

#best of 2019 #cirque le roux #Wes Peden #barely methodical troupe #john cooper clarke #shin lim #lucy worsley #nell gifford #david mills #harry styles #liv cooke #compagnia finzi pasca #Esmeralda Nikolajeff #anderson cooper #maggie smith #Dina Martina

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sonicrainicorn · 5 years

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Made of Love, Chapter 17

<< Previous|Next >>

Table of Contents

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: The gang deals with the aftermath of Anxiety. Thomas has a hard time with some things

TW: Cursing, child abuse (mentioned), blood

Prefer to read it on Ao3? Click here!

The blade, and subsequently the hole in Anxiety’s stomach, turned a dark red. A deep red that could have passed for a human’s blood if something about it wasn’t off. Something made it unnatural to look at.

Anxiety didn’t react beyond a shocked expression. His body began to fizzle out. Like an old TV losing a station. Once he vanished, the shadows in the room curled back to their natural locations. The lighting (or lack thereof) returned to normal.

Virgil skipped out on the celebration to check on everyone. They were still stuck in their trance. He had an odd feeling that he needed to snap them out of it.

Since Thomas was the last one affected, Virgil figured he would be the easiest to fix. And there was absolutely no other reasoning to that. Nope. If anyone said otherwise he’d stab them in the eye with a sewing needle. Whatever the real reason, he ran over and kneeled down.

Tears streamed down Thomas’s face, and his eyes were a deep black. He kept begging for someone to not be dead. He sounded like a scared little boy.

Virgil ignored the pain that sent him and placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder to shake him. “Kid. C’mon, you have to snap out of it.” He swallowed his rising panic when that didn’t make an improvement. “Thomas!”

Thomas gasped and fell back, his arms coming out to catch himself. He blinked a few times and his eyes returned to normal, then they looked up at Virgil in surprise. “Virgil.” He reached out to touch him. “You’re real.”

“Welcome back.” He smiled a bit.

“It’s dark.”

He fished his phone out of his pocket and shoved it into Thomas’s hands. “Go get Patton and Logan. I’ll handle Roman.” He patted his shoulder then left to go to Roman.

Once Virgil could see him, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He looked lost. No tears streamed down his face. No pain etched onto his features. He was just… broken. That needed to stop. Virgil tried to put a hand on his shoulder as he did with Thomas, but a voice prevented him.

“Don’t touch him.” It was his dagger (which he decided to name Left. Because, well, y’know). Surprisingly, it took Picani’s voice. That was a new one.

Virgil retracted his hand. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Virgil did so. He paid careful attention to see what Left did. Then it happened. Roman flinched. Like someone who expected a hand to fly their way. Alright, so no touching then. Wouldn’t want to open those cans of worms right now. But what the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t just leave Roman like this.

“You have a voice.”

Virgil frowned. He didn’t know what to do with that information. How was he supposed to only use his voice? It took him a minute to realize something.

Roman was adopted. It was something he revealed after one of his rare drunken splurges. Now, that exact fact wasn’t important, but what was important, was the distinguishing factors Roman made. When referring to the woman that birthed him, he always used “mother”. When referring to the woman that raised him, he used “mom” or “mamá”. And his mom would always sing to him to get him to calm down.

So, with minor embarrassment, Virgil realized he would have to sing if he wanted Roman’s attention. It was for a good cause, at least. He racked his brain for a gentle song and found that “Feed The Birds” was the single song that kept coming to mind. Hopefully, that would get the job done. He took a shaky breath and started in a soft voice,

Early each day to the steps of Saint Paul's The little old bird woman comes In her own special way to the people, she calls Come, buy my bags full of crumbs

He continued to keep his voice steady and low. The words dripped out in a sweet lull.

Soon, Roman came out of it. He became less stiff and the black in his eyes faded away and focused on Virgil. For a moment, they just stared at each other. “I knew you liked Mary Poppins,” Roman joked. Or rather, tried to. His voice sounded tired and his grin lacked his usual snark.

“Whatever,” Virgil grumbled as he stood up. “Want some help?”

Roman blinked at him. Then held out his hand to allow Virgil to pull him up without a word. They made their way over to the other three, who were trying to break Logan out of it. Patton had his hands around Logan’s wrists, easing them away from his hair.

“I don’t, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Logan cried. “I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not,” Patton assured. His voice was surprisingly calm. “You haven’t hurt anyone. We’re all here. We’re all fine.”

“But Arlene --”

“No. She’s not here. You’re with me, remember? She’s gone.”

Logan’s eyes shot open and shadows retracted from them. Once he processed where he was he darted up from the ground to turn away from them while wiping at his tears.

“The gang’s all here,” Virgil muttered. He tapped Left so he could put it back in his pocket. This wasn’t the best reunion in the world.

“I think we should go home,” Thomas said quietly. He stared at the floor with an intense frown.

“You’re absolutely right, Thomas.” Patton picked himself up. “We all just need to go home and relax and try to get our minds off what happened.” He seemed more cheery than he should have been.

“I don’t think anyone’s against it,” Roman mumbled.

Virgil grimaced a bit as he surveyed everyone. They were all jittery. Whatever Anxiety showed them -- the regrets, the fears -- wasn’t something they could walk off. Everyone still seemed to have their head in those moments.

“Then let’s leave.” Logan turned back around. His face was unusually stoic -- which was saying something.

No one had anything to comment.

The car ride back was eerily quiet. No one wanted to speak up. The tension might have also been increased by Patton a little bit, but that couldn’t be certain. They were all a little out of it. Virgil felt like he was the most put together at the moment, which didn’t sit right with him. That wasn’t the case under normal circumstances.

“Do you think,” Thomas broke the silence with stiff, uncertain words, “we could have a sleepover in the living room again?”

There was a beat of silence before Patton answered in a voice far too sweet, “Sure thing! That sounds like a good idea. What do you think, Logan?”

“Sure,” Logan murmured. He didn’t speak any further.

Upon arriving at the house, they all decided to get ready for bed. There weren’t any arguments or questions; they all wanted to end this night. When Virgil stepped out of his room, he saw Logan, Patton, and Thomas all sitting in the living room. But no Roman. Odd. Virgil tended to be the last one to these kinds of things. He decided to walk back into the hall.

Across from Virgil’s room was Roman’s. Without so much as knocking, Virgil pushed the door open. “Roman? Are you --” The rest of his words got caught in his throat.

Roman sat on the bed with one of his pajama pant legs rolled up. A long, faded scar ran across his leg, diagonal to his shin. It must have been from a cut many years ago. Once the shock of someone barging into his room passed, Roman pulled down his pant leg. “Jesus, Virgil, don’t you knock?”

“You never knock when you come into my room,” Virgil shot back defensively on complete impulse.

He sighed in annoyance. “Whatever. Just come in and close the door.”

Virgil did so. He didn’t know if he should sit down or not so he opted to stay where he was.

Roman moved his leg off the bed then gave Virgil a weird look. “You just gonna stand there or?”

“Uh,” Virgil shifted his footing, “you didn’t imply you wanted me to do anything.”

Roman rolled his eyes and scooted over. “Come over here, you awkward nightmare.”

Virgil sat on the bed and brought his legs up to sit criss-cross. He didn’t want to say anything first. He didn’t even know what to say. He was afraid he’d ask the wrong question or offend Roman somehow -- which is something he didn’t want to do right now. Not after tonight.

“Sorry for getting mad,” Roman muttered. “You have full permission to come into my room as long as I do it to you.”

“Glad to know we’re even, then.”

A swift silence washed over them.

“So are you gonna ask?”

Virgil forgot how to breathe for a second. “What?”

Roman didn’t look at him. “I know you want to know, but I won’t tell you unless you ask about it.”

“Uh.” Virgil hesitated. He did want to know, but he wasn’t sure if he was deserving of that information. The last time someone told him a secret he kind of forced it out of them. “Um, why -- how, uh, how did you get that?”

“It was a gift from my mother,” Roman seemed to choose his words with care. They fell out in a choppy rhythm rather than the usual steady stream he talked with. “I don’t remember much of it. Just that I was young and I learned not to make her mad.”

Mother. The woman that birthed him. He never said much about her other than he hated her and wished he had been separated from her sooner. Now Virgil could see why. That wasn’t something you did to a child.

“I’m sorry.”

Roman waved his hand. “It’s whatever. It happened a long time ago.”

But Anxiety made you see it.

He hopped off the bed. “Let’s go start our sleepover, shall we?” He grinned and held out an arm for Virgil.

Virgil decided not to fight it. Roman pushing away less than awesome feelings was a task to take up for another time. Right now, they all needed a breather. He took Roman’s arm and they set out to the living room.

Patton and Logan sat together on the couch. Much closer than they would have normally, Virgil noticed. Thomas had his legs pulled up onto the armchair with him, eyes studying the coffee table and his mouth in a tight frown. As they left the hall, Virgil flicked the light off and the living room flooded into darkness.

Thomas yelped. “Turn the light back on!”

The urgency in his voice caused Virgil to flip the switch without a second thought. He wasn’t sure how he managed to move so fast.

Thomas let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

The little boy who’s still afraid of the dark.

Virgil didn’t think that Anxiety meant that literally, but then again, he didn’t know how much of Anxiety’s words he could even trust. Despite that, he wondered what could make Thomas still afraid. Sure, everyone was afraid of the dark a little bit, but most people could stand a light switching off for the night. That was a serious phobia issue.

“I know a fun little thing we can do,” Roman’s voice stopped Virgil from delving any deeper into that topic. He crossed his legs onto the sofa cushion. Virgil decided to ignore the intrusion of personal space for now. “Just to calm us down before we sleep.”

“What is it?” Patton asked with a little too much enthusiasm.

“We could do ice breaker questions. Like favorite colors or whatever. It should be a decent distraction.”

“The minute I hear the words ‘ice breaker’ my anxiety goes through the roof and my soul leaves my body,” Virgil replied.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re not being forced to meet anyone new.” Roman paused, eyes glancing toward Virgil for a moment. “You don’t have to participate if you don’t want to.”

Virgil’s brain needed a second to process Roman showing him kindness. It wasn’t often that he showed consideration like this. “I mean -- I don’t -- it’s whatever. You’re right. I’m not in a room with strangers or anything.”

“Why don’t you start, Roman?” Thomas asked.

“Okay, uh,” he thought about it. “If you had to describe yourself using a Disney princess, which one would you be?”

“Merida,” Virgil answered without hesitation.

Roman snorted. “Why Merida?” He sent him a grin.

Virgil pretended that he didn’t feel a swell of pride at getting a genuine smile out of Roman. “It’s obvious. I don’t need a man.”

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes.

“I think I’d be Vanellope,” Thomas answered.

“Why’s that?” Logan looked at Thomas curiously.

“Uh,” he struggled to form a proper sentence.

“Because she’s awesome,” Virgil swooped in. He had a feeling the real reason was because Vanellope was ‘the glitch’. A misunderstood character that everyone considered wrong before her reveal as the princess. “She has a lot of potential and determination. Also, she's a pretty big trouble maker. I think that describes Thomas pretty well."

Thomas sent him a small, grateful smile.

Logan still looked a bit suspicious but didn't ask any further questions.

"I'd be Ariel," Patton said, a wistful smile gracing his face for a brief moment. "And then Logan would be Elsa."

"What?" Logan looked at him incredulously. "What makes you think I'd be Elsa?"

Patton returned the look as if it was obvious. "Do I really need to explain that? Magic that’s kinda hard to control? Being forced to hide it away to save face?"

Logan considered it. "Alright, fine."

"What about you, Roman?" Virgil turned to him.

Roman blinked. "What? Me?" He glanced at everyone in uncertainty. "Uh…"

"Tiana," Thomas answered with no room for debate. "She's a hard worker and a dreamer like you are."

"Plus, she kisses a frog to break a curse because that's how it works in fairytales," Virgil added. "I get the feeling you'd do the same."

"Hey, if I got to marry a handsome prince because of it, I wouldn't complain." Roman smirked.

They continued to ask each other silly, easy questions like that. It turned out to be a pretty good distraction after all. They all asked at least one question -- some of which led to a few long discussions. Roman and Logan even had an argument at one point. Not an intense one, just one of those “why would you answer it that way, this way is obviously the best way to do it” arguments. It brought a sense of normalcy back into their night.

Soon, time started to catch up with them. Their conversations reached a gentle decline until they stopped altogether. It was already approaching one in the morning.

Virgil glanced around the room. Thomas, curled up on the armchair, was fast asleep. So was Roman with his legs in Virgil's lap. Logan appeared to be sleeping against Patton, who was still awake. He looked exhausted though. Unfortunately, Virgil wouldn't be able to let him sleep without one major question answered.

“Patton,” he whispered. He didn't want to wake anyone up. “I know this isn’t the best time, but I have a question.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated. “When that, uh, thing was messing with us, he kind of told me some… information. About an old friend of yours. Uh, Remy?” He took note of the way Patton tensed. “And I just, I kind of -- how did he die?”

Patton floundered for a minute. He seemed unsure of how to answer. Or perhaps he didn't want to.

“Killed in action,” came Logan's low voice.

“Hey, I thought you were sleeping.” He looked down at the sleepy nerd on his shoulder.

“I was getting there,” he sat up slowly, rubbing his eye, “but I heard a topic you might need help on.”

Patton gave him a sad smile.

“So were you even there when he died?”

“No,” he muttered.

Virgil frowned in thought.

“When we got the news, it was devastating.”

“We felt responsible somehow,” Logan continued. “If we could have done something more -- something different -- then maybe he could have made it. But, of course, there was nothing we could have done. It was out of our control.” He pushed his bangs out of his face. Without his glasses, he looked more open -- vulnerable.

“Sometimes, when you lose someone close to you, you feel like it's all your fault.” He coaxed Logan into laying back down. “And it isn't. But it's hard to accept it. Because you want to blame someone. Because they should still be there, but they're not, so what are you supposed to do without them?”

Virgil didn't respond for a moment. So Anxiety was lying. He knew Picani wasn't capable of that. Still, a little part of him continued to be wary. “Why doesn't Thomas know?”

They looked to the sleeping form on the armchair. Patton sighed. “Thomas was so afraid of everything. The dark, strangers, being alone. He never wanted anything to do with Remy because too many strangers in the past tried to take him away from us. By the time he came over these fears, Remy was… no longer available for meetups.”

“Why not tell him?”

“Why let him mourn for someone he never got the chance to meet?” He tried to give a smile, but it quickly fell into a frown. His eyes lingered on Thomas before turning them to Virgil. “Maybe one day, but certainly not right now.”

Virgil nodded.

Patton sighed again, this one more gentle than the heavy bearing ones before it. “You two should be getting some rest. It’s late.” He pulled Logan, who was already drifting back to sleep, closer to him.

“Yeah. Goodnight, guys.”

“G'night, Virgil.”

Virgil found himself in an awkward position because of Roman. He could have pushed his legs off to get into a better position, but that seemed a little cruel. So instead he opted to inconvenience himself. He shifted to be in the crook of the couch. It wasn't the most comfortable place but he'd live. He leaned his head back and put an arm over his eyes. Already, he began to feel sleep weigh on him.

After a few minutes of silence, Virgil heard Logan's groggy voice mumble, “You need sleep too.”

“Of course,” Patton answered, voice gentle, “I'll just be up for a bit.”

“M'not goin’ anywhere.”

“I-I know. I just, I just want to be sure.”

“If that'll make you feel better.”

“Yes. Now go to sleep, Lo.”

~~~

Thomas woke up at five in the morning. He only knew because the clock mocked him; it faced him with its dumb glowing numbers. How dare it. He could have been sleeping more. Instead, he uncurled himself from the armchair. His joints popped and a tingly feeling shot up from his toes. Maybe staying in one position the whole night wasn't the best way to sleep.

He took note of the rest of the people in the room with him. Lucky for them, they got to stay sleeping. Patton stretched against the length of the sofa with Logan on his chest and his arms wrapped around him protectively. Patton's glasses were pushed against the top of his head. How they managed to get themselves into that position was beyond him. Roman and Virgil's legs were tangled together. Somehow, Roman had Virgil's hoodie draped over him like a blanket even though Thomas was pretty sure Virgil didn't take it off. It was cute, though.

Sending a final glare at the clock, Thomas picked himself up and headed toward the bathroom. He didn't bother shutting the door. Everyone else was still asleep so it wasn't as if they would intrude.

He placed his hands on the counter and stared at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him with tired eyes. For the first time ever, he became all too aware of the long life he's lived. Ninety-four years didn't feel like anything. In the blink of an eye, he was ninety-four. It didn't feel any different than eighty or thirty. He hardly aged during those times. Maybe faster than he should have been, but still not much at all. So the eyes that stared back at him looked as old as they were rather than as young as they looked.

There was so much that they’d seen. Too much, some might say.

He frowned.

Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he stayed with his family. If he and Picani hadn’t been forced to leave, how could have things played out? Would his parents be proud of him? What about his brothers? Would they grow up to be amazing in every way -- would they be masters in their magic types? What would they think of Thomas? Would they look down on him for still not having magic? Would they even care?

He liked to think they were out there somewhere looking for him. He wanted to think it -- needed to. If they were gone… he didn’t even want to consider it. It was his fault. There wasn’t any other way of saying it. It was all his fault. Everything.

Way back when he was five years old, he made the first of many grave mistakes. He told Terrance that magic was real -- showed him proof. And Terrance went off to tell everyone he knew in his excitement. They were just kids. They didn’t know that anything bad would happen. In a perfect world, nothing would have happened. People would have brushed off Terrance’s words as the imagination of a child. Except that wasn't how it went down.

Someone heard about it who shouldn't have. Then they told Altair.

From what Thomas remembers, people broke into the house. There was a lot of commotion. His mother took him away from his brothers and handed him over to Picani. She told them to run. He didn’t know what was happening. There was so much noise. He never got to give a proper goodbye, but they were far away by the time that he realized it. It wasn't until Picani explained things later that Thomas found out it was his fault. No one was supposed to know where his family was. No one should have known they had magic.

Thomas didn't know how Picani couldn't hate him after that. He could have left him somewhere at any point and been done with it. He could have handed him over to one of his parents' friends. But he didn't. He decided to stay. No matter how many times Thomas messed up or hurt him, he always stayed. He always came back. And Thomas couldn't understand that.

He was such a problem -- he caused so many problems. Last night showed him how much trouble he really was. He was faced with every horrible decision he ever made. There were quite a few. He had to watch himself tell Terrance about magic all over again. He felt Picani’s blood on his hands. He caused so much pain. He’s said so many things he didn’t mean, and did so much he couldn’t take back.

“Oh gosh,” Thomas muttered. He wiped his face as tears started to fall. Another thing that was common in the incidents he saw was how much he cried. "I'm such a baby." He needed to stop crying so much.

"Thomas?"

Thomas froze. He saw Logan squinting at him from the mirror. Whether it was from sleepiness or lack of glasses was debatable.

"What are you doing up?"

"I-I, uh," he hurried to wipe his eyes, "what are you doing up?"

"I wanted to get water, but then I saw you in here." He stepped into the room. "Are you okay?"

He sighed. "I don't know."

"Ugh, feelings." Logan leaned against the wall. He could still be seen in the reflection of the mirror.

Thomas couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, I know. They're pretty bad sometimes."

"Tell me about it." He paused. "If Patton heard us talking like that we'd probably get a whole lecture saying the opposite."

There was no argument there. "Speaking of Patton, how'd you get out of the death grip he had on you?"

"Very carefully."

Thomas snorted. "That was such a teacher answer."

"I wouldn't know."

"You went to college."

"That's hardly the same thing."

Perhaps not. Thomas wouldn't know. He's never been -- not yet at least. Still, he couldn't let go of a thought he had. In truth, it had been plaguing him since last night. "Logan, have you ever…" He didn't know how to word it without raising any alarms.

"Ever what?" Logan's brows knitted together.

There wasn’t an easy way to say it. “Why have you and Patton stayed with me so long?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he sighed, “why didn’t you ever give me up? You had plenty of opportunities to.”

“Why would we ever want to give you up?” Logan seemed genuinely confused by the question. “What reasoning would we have for that?”

Thomas found himself getting frustrated. Not at Logan or at himself or even at anything, really. It built up inside of him because it needed to. Because he spent so long being told that he was a mistake except by the one person who had every right to. “I’m the reason we’re even here right now. I’m the reason we had to run away -- I’m the reason you lost your magic.” He buried his face in his hands. “I cause a lot of bad things to happen.”

“Well, let’s get at least one of those things straight.” He pushed himself off the wall to join Thomas at the sink. “You didn’t make me lose my magic. I made a brash decision that came with undesirable consequences, that wasn’t any of your doing. We were supposed to get you and then leave, but what happened wasn’t because of you. It was something that happened all on its own -- spurred by a decision that I made. It had nothing to do with you.

“I can’t say that you’re not partially responsible for us having to run, but it isn’t your fault. You were only a child, Thomas, you had no idea that anything would have happened. As far as you knew, you were just telling your friend about your family. Neither of you explicitly told anyone to come after us. It was a rather unfortunate series of events. The wrong thing said at the wrong time. There was no way to predict anything would happen.”

Thomas frowned. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” He gave him a tiny smile. “Stopping at every crack in the road isn't going to get you where you need to be. Things happen whether we want them to or not, but no matter what you think you’ve done, you’ll always be our favorite person in the whole wide world.”

Oh gosh. Now Thomas was going to cry for a different reason. That’s something Picani would always say to him when he was younger. “Thanks.”

Logan’s smile widened for a fraction of a second before returning to a more subtle one. “We should get back. All hell might break loose if Patton wakes up and sees that we’re gone.”

Thomas didn’t doubt that.

(Next)

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #blood tw #child abuse tw #logicality #platonic prinxiety #coinverse

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anxious-vigil · 7 years

Text

No-one deserves to Fade away (Pt 5/9)

Summary: What if Virgil decided to duck out early, before the others knew him as anything other than the antagonist? How would it affect their relationships and what consequences would it have? An exploration of guilt and grief. It's mainly angst (do I write anything else? :) ) so don't read it expecting a lot of smiles. It starts after Losing my Motivation, after that, what is a canon timeline? Who's she? On Ao3 here

Triggers: Descriptions of violence, bullying, mentions of panic attacks, description of character death

Chapter 5

The next time Patton, Logan and Roman see Claude, it's when they're unceremoniously yanked out of the mindscape by Thomas. “Guys? What the hell! There's a strange man in my apartment with my face!” “Are you not used to that by now?” Logan inquires, throwing a glare at Claude. “Well... yes. But it's a new strange man with my face!” Thomas complains. “Rude.” comments Roman. “We're not that strange.” “Chill dude.” Claude says, flipping up his sunglasses. “I'm your Anxiety. You just freaked about making a phone call and pulled me here. Would you like some strategies to help with that?” He points to Thomas' phone. “My Anxiety... but where's?” Thomas looks upset at the idea of a new persona. “Thomas. We, uh, have some bad news.” Logan sighs. “It appears your old Anxiety has... passed away and to, ah, fill in his role, so to speak, your mind created him.” “Yo.” Claude waves.

“My Anxiety DIED!” Thomas exclaims. Patton lets out a quiet wail and sinks out. “That would make great clickbait.” muses Roman and gets kicked in the shins by Logan. “He Faded.” Claude says shortly. “He was too damaged to fulfil his role anymore so your mind got rid of him and found someone better suited for the job.” He finger-guns at Thomas. “Hi.” “Sounds like a lot of retail stores.” mutters Logan mutinously. “Not ethically sound at all.” “I liked the old one though.” Thomas says, dismay clear in his voice. “Did you?” frowns Roman. “I know you don't like change and it's a very upsetting situation but what's done is done. Shouldn't we look at this as an opportunity?” “You would say that!” hisses Logan. “You killed him! Murderer.” He follows Patton swiftly. “So it was you.” Claude hums under his breath, scrutinising Roman. “Roman...” Thomas reaches a hand out and the prince flinches. “I... I need some time to... I'll see you later.” He sinks out. Thomas turns to Claude, looking lost. “What do you do when part of your personality dies? Should I hold a funeral?” Claude shrugs. “If you want to. Would it help?” he asks curiously. “I don't... I don't know. This is all so...” Thomas' phone dings in his hand. “It's Joan. They want to know if we can get Anxiety for the next video. Apparently, uh, the fanders missed him last episode...” He looks up at the ceiling and blinks fiercely. “What am I gonna do? I can't exactly tell them that...” “Well...” Claude suggests slowly, as if he's hoping Thomas will say no. “I still haven't gotten around to chucking Virgil's old make-up... and we share the same face. I'm sure I could find some dark clothes.” He wrinkles his nose. “It would be too much to suggest adding a pop of colour to his costume, wouldn't it?” He tugs at his orange sleeves. “Yeah...” Thomas says, staring at Claude. “That sounds like a... plan, I'll, um, let Joan know.” He fiddles with his phone distractedly. “Great.” Claude sighs. “I guess, I'd better go find an emo attitude, ugh...” He leaves quickly and Thomas drops his phone, pressing a hand to his heart. “Virgil... your name... I didn't know. I didn't even feel you go.” Tears run down his face. “You were part of me, I thought if the wound did turn out to...” Thomas sobs. “I thought I'd know.” He sinks to the floor, face in his hands.

Claude complained before, during and after work on the videos he was in, about the layers of imperfect make-up Virgil wore, about how hot he was in all black, about the lines that didn't fit his own personality, about the fact that people would think he liked Fall Out Boy. However, as soon as the cameras were rolling he was uncannily in character for someone who only knew Virgil through watching the nine videos he was in before... before Claude came along. Given that Virgil also used to complain constantly about being forced to take part in Thomas' delusions, no-one felt they could say anything, but the difference was obvious and jarring.

He turns up to do his job with Thomas regularly as well, and that's where the difference in their personalities really shine through. Claude will have risk assessments for potential anxiety-inducing situations, and will go over strategies beforehand. If Thomas panics, he'll show up with a breathing exercise to help him through it. It's not all sunshine though. Thomas misses Virgil's insistent, overzealous, but useful reminders throughout the day. He's having to rely on Logan and his access to the memory archives. He's already missed two meet-ups with friends just from forgetting the time and he never knows whether anything's locked properly anymore without Virgil breathing down his neck and making him double-check everything. For once, he'd like to have an Anxiety that didn't go straight to one side of the sliding scales. Claude is nice but he still misses Virgil deeply, feeling his loss like an ache.

The other sides invite Claude to a movie night, trying to make up for the lack of a relationship they had with Virgil. It's massively awkward with someone new interrupting the routine anyway, but little things keep going wrong. Patton sets out the red Gatorade and a wine glass, remembering how they always went missing when Anxiety was around. Claude drinks Lucozade. Out of the bottle. Logan makes a comment about not wanting to watch horror movies so as not to heighten Thomas' anxiety. Apparently Virgil had said something about not liking them once. Claude then enthuses about how much he loves the Saw franchise. Roman makes a bid for Big Hero 6, knowing Logan will have his back. According to Claude though, the musical theme where they 'shoe-horned in some popular band' is 'tacky' and 'doesn't fit the narrative'. Roman shows great restraint and doesn't retort that no part of Thomas should dislike any Disney movie, instead asking Claude what he wants to watch. They end up putting on Spirited Away, with subtitles because Logan likes to hear the Japanese, in near silence as nobody knows what to say to each other. Claude leaves after the first film, talking about how it's important to get a good night's sleep. Patton opens his mouth to say that Anxiety tends to stay up to the early hours, might as well spend some of that time with us kiddo, before realising it was the former Anxiety he was thinking of and just watching him leave. He leans into Logan and tries not to cry.

“Lo, do you wanna-” “No.” Logan says firmly, gently reaching for his hand. “It's not healthy to keep going back to the memories of Virgil like this.” At this, Patton does start sobbing and Roman watches Logan comfort him, feeling useless. He moves closer to Patton and takes his other hand, ending up with a lapful of teary Morality fairly quickly as Patton clutches onto him like an anchor. “I just miss him so much!” he wails. “Nothing's the same without him here and having Claude is just weird.” Roman hums in sympathy and pulls the other side closer. “It must be weird for Claude too.” Patton makes an inquiring noise. “Well, he's just formed into a personality that's grieving deeply and everyone's expecting him to act a certain way. I bet we've not been the best of company for him.” He uses his thumbs to start wiping clean Patton's face. “I know he's not Virgil, and I'm not saying you should move on from Virgil's death. But I think you could both use a friend.” he sighs. “Things aren't going to go back to how they were. We have to accept that much.”

Patton nods quietly and pulls away. “I understand. It just... hurts.” He smiles mournfully at Roman. “I'm... I think I'm gonna head back to my room now. We've got brainstorming in the morning.” Ever the prince, he bows deeply as he proffers a plate to Patton. “Cookie for the road, milord?” “No... they don't really cut it anymore.” Roman watches the moral side leave, crushed to see his friend so devastated. “You did well.” Logan smiles approvingly. “I think he needed to hear that but I didn't know how to tell him.” The smile turns wry. “Feelings. The bane of my existence.” Logan removes his glasses and scrubs at wet eyes. Roman sighs and decides to try his luck. “Logan... about what happened-” “Don't.” The logical side says sharply. “I'm still furious at you. I don't even want an apology yet, let alone an excuse.” Roman nods and awkwardly goes to ascend the stairs, leaving Logan to bury his head in his hands. “I have to work with you for Thomas' sake.” he murmurs into his palms. “But I know what you're capable of now. Would you slaughter Patton or I in a temper tantrum? I can't believe it but then again, I truly never thought you would kill anyone."

Tag list: @ailithnight @llamaly @mistressofmayhem62 @astraastro @mantha-has-fallen @nightmarejasmine

#my writing #no one deserves to fade away p5 #sanders sides #sanders sides fics #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #thomas sanders #angst #requiem au

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queensofmystery · 8 years

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“I think I’ve has enough cookies for two years… Wait is that pie?” (said by Kitty. Because you said you needed practice with her)

Re: this post

Thank you! I really do need to practice.

This takes place between 3x04 and 3x11…well, perhaps at whatever point it’s coldest between those episodes lol. I’m also writing this as an extension of a Joan Watson headcanonI wrote here. (I’m so happy you chose a prompt having to do with pies!)

Joan had left her apartment as early as she could, hoping tocatch Kitty and Sherlock at the brownstone perusing cold cases in such ahorrible blizzard, rather than trying to pursue any killers still at large. She’dtexted Sherlock and Kitty to let them know she was coming with a surprise.Neither of them answered, which was no surprise at all.

She let herself into the brownstone, carefully holding onefoil-wrapped dessert in the crook of her left arm, grasping the second in herleft hand, and fiddling her keys out of the lock with her right.

The front hallway was dim, as it usually was during the day,but Joan caught a glimpse of firelight from the library.

“Hello!” she called out, not expecting an immediate answer.The brownstone was huge, and if no one had heard her enter, she would have tosearch them out.

Tucking her keys into her coat pocket, she took the onedessert out of the crook of her arm to hold with her right hand, and made herway through the library and lock room. No one. Sherlock was either in the mediaroom or the basement—the main floor was most often used for current casework.

But she found Kitty in the kitchen, making a cold cutsandwich for herself. Having made sure to step on the stairs heavily to furtherannounce her presence, Joan didn’t catch Kitty by surprise, but she did lookperplexed. Then she spied Joan’s foil-wrapped gifts and groaned.

“I think I’ve had enough cookies for two years…”

Joan raised a single eyebrow and set the desserts on thekitchen table.

“Wait is that pie?” Kitty stepped closer, her eyes glued tothe dessert closest to her, seemingly forgetting the ham sandwich she’d justmade right behind her.

Joan laughed. “Sherlock told you, didn’t he? I love makingpies.”

“No, he… I’m so sorry, you look frozen. Do you want somecoffee?” Kitty said, finally looking to Joan’s face and seeing her bright rednose and the snow still melting on her hair and shoulders.

Joan sniffed once and laughed again. “Please. Does Sherlockstill keep my cream here?”

Kitty hummed her assent, grabbing a mug from the cupboardand going to the coffee machine to make a fresh pot. “I got your text. What didyou make?”

As Kitty turned to look at her, Joan smirked, answering herwith another question. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“In the—”

Kitty was interrupted by Sherlock’s loud footsteps bangingup the basement stairs, just before he burst into the kitchen, his chest heavingexcitedly against the buttons of his shirt.

“Watson,” he said, both hands in fists at his sides, aneagerness in his eyes she was surprised to realize she missed. “I smell apple.”

“You do,” she said, her smile widening at him.

A soft gasp sounded behind her. Joan turned to see Kitty peekinginto one of the dishes, her eyes wide. “Who told you banana cream was myfavorite?” Kitty said, taking the rest of the foil off to reveal the creamy concoctionbeneath. Sherlock breezed past Joan to pour coffee, for himself and for her,she noticed peripherally.

Joan blushed slightly, but trusted the lingering cold in herskin concealed it. “No one actually. I just know you love banana smoothies. And,well, I’ve made them for you so many times, I thought you’d like the pieversion too.”

Kitty turned to look at her, and Joan was dismayed to seetears in the young woman’s eyes. Before she knew it Kitty was hugging her. Joantentatively returned the hug, catching the scent of Kitty’s shampoo and thesubtle perfume she used that always reminded Joan of cherry blossoms.

“No one’s made me a dessert for…for so long,” Kittywhispered to her, slowly backing out of the hug, sniffling self-consciously,turning half away from Joan.

Sherlock had set their two mugs of coffee on the table, andnow handed small plates to Kitty to give her something to do. Wise. Joan gavehim a small smile of gratitude.

“What was that about having had enough of cookies for twoyears then?” Joan asked, making her tone light as she shrugged off her coat anddraped it over a chair. Sherlock had already laid out silverware, and was nowpeeling back the foil on the apple pie as if it was a Christmas present and hewas eight years old.

“Oh,” Kitty gave a soft laugh, sitting down and staringintently at the empty plate in front of her. “That’s Sherlock’s fault.”

“What?” Sherlock spoke with his mouth already full of pie.He was eating standing up, as he often did.

“He’s got a new coping mechanism. Instead of Yorkshire puddinghe’s baking cookies now. I won’t let him throw them away,” Kitty explained, noteven looking at Sherlock. She gifted Joan with one of her conspiratorialsmiles, even though tears were still shinning in her eyes.

“We give some to Marcus and the Captain,” Sherlock said,after swallowing this time. But he immediately put another spoonful of applepie in his mouth, chewing happily.

“And not me because…?” Joan raised her brows at Sherlock whoraised his brows back, refusing to speak with his mouth full now.

“They’re not…always very good,” Kitty said, holding up herplate when she saw Joan was cutting the first piece of banana cream pie forher. Joan held back a laugh, and glanced at Sherlock. He didn’t look at alloffended. He was going to eat himself into a food coma if he wasn’t careful.

Joan finally sat and began enjoying her coffee. Sherlock hadput just the right amount of cream in it. The brownstone kitchen settled intoan easy silence, while the warmth steadily crept back into Joan’s limbs.

#elementasquee #elementary #joan watson #kitty winter #elementary fic #winter prompts #ask meme #lesbxdyke #message #my writing

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newstfionline · 8 years

Text

85-Year-Old Marathoner Is So Fast That Even Scientists Marvel

By Jeré Longman, NY Times, Dec. 28, 2016

MILTON, Ontario--It was a day for talking, not running. Snow was piled along the streets. The driveway was icy. Ed Whitlock’s shoulder hurt. His face had been puffy. He did not feel well enough for the cemetery.

At a visitor’s urging, Whitlock showed his display of novelty trophies. A beer can for winning a series of races as a 60-year-old. (“There’s still beer inside!”) A coffee mug for becoming the first (and still only) person older than 70 to run a marathon in under three hours. A baseball for throwing out the first pitch at a minor league game.

“It bounced three times to the catcher,” Whitlock said a few days before Christmas. “My arm is terrible.”

It is not his arm, but his legs and lungs that have made him a scientific marvel and octogenarian phenom. In October, at 85, he set his latest distance-running record, completing the Toronto Waterfront Marathon in 3 hours 56 minutes 34 seconds and becoming the oldest person to run 26.2 miles in under four hours.

Having set dozens of age-group records from the metric mile to the marathon, Whitlock remains at the forefront among older athletes who have led scientists to reassess the possibilities of aging and performance.

“He’s about as close as you can get to minimal aging in a human individual,” said Dr. Michael Joyner, a researcher at the Mayo Clinic who has studied performance and aging.

Whitlock’s career has been as unorthodox as it is remarkable. For starters, he trains alone in the Milton Evergreen Cemetery near his home outside Toronto. He runs laps for three or three and a half hours at a time, unbothered by traffic or the eternal inhabitants or the modern theories and gadgets of training.

At the Toronto Marathon, he raced in 15-year-old shoes and a singlet that was 20 or 30 years old. He has no coach. He follows no special diet. He does not chart his mileage. He wears no heart-rate monitor. He takes no ice baths, gets no massages. He shovels snow in the winter and gardens in the summer but lifts no weights, does no situps or push-ups. He avoids stretching, except the day of a race. He takes no medication, only a supplement that may or may not help his knees.

What he does possess is a slight build: He is 5 feet 7 inches and weighs 110 to 112 pounds. He also has an enormous oxygen-carrying capacity; an uncommon retention of muscle mass for someone his age; a floating gait; and an unwavering dedication to pit himself against the clock, both the internal one and the one at the finish line.

“I believe people can do far more than they think they can,” said Whitlock, a retired mining engineer who was born in greater London and speaks with British self-deprecation. “You have to be idiot enough to try it.”

Four years ago, at 81, Whitlock underwent a battery of physiological and cognitive tests at McGill University in Montreal. One of the tests measured his VO2 max, the maximum amount of oxygen that can be consumed and used by the muscles during exercise. It is measured in milliliters of oxygen per kilogram of body weight per minute. The higher the number, the greater a person’s aerobic fitness.

A top Olympic-level cross-country skier might have a VO2 max of 90, compared to 20 for those living independently in their 80s. Mr. Whitlock’s score was an exceptional 54. That is roughly equivalent to someone of college age who is a recreational athlete, said Russell Hepple, an exercise physiologist who performed the tests on Whitlock at McGill with his colleague and wife, Tanja Taivassalo.

A VO2 max reading of 54 appears to be unsurpassed for people tested in their 80s, said Scott Trappe, the director of the human-performance laboratory at Ball State University in Muncie, Ind., who has studied Swedish cross-country skiers who continued to perform at high levels into their 80s and early 90s, including the 1948 Olympic champion Martin Lundstrom.

“There’s nothing higher than that in the literature,” Trappe said of Whitlock. “It’s phenomenal physiology.”

At McGill, Whitlock also underwent imaging and biopsy testing of his muscles. The smallest functional entity of muscle is called a motor unit, which consists of a neuron and the muscle fibers it activates. The number of functioning motor units declines with age.

For example, a healthy young adult has about 160 motor units in the shin muscle, called the tibialis anterior, which helps lift the toes. In an octogenarian, that number could have declined to about 60 motor units, Hepple said, but Whitlock retained “closer to 100.”

This preservation might largely be explained, he said, by a chronically elevated level of circulating chemicals, called neurotrophins, which protect and nurture neurons, helping them survive.

“That’s a big advantage,” said Hepple, who has recently moved to the University of Florida and is continuing to analyze his study of Whitlock and other aging athletes. “If you have more motor units, in the context of age, that would be reflected in better maintenance of muscle mass, which in turn would translate into better strength.”

Beyond genetics, there are other factors that surely have contributed to Whitlock’s stunning endurance, said Joyner of the Mayo Clinic.

He compared Whitlock to Joan Benoit Samuelson, the 1984 Olympic marathon champion who has continued to run sub-three hour marathons into her late 50s and has said she will attempt the extraordinary feat into her 60s.

Neither Whitlock nor Benoit Samuelson could be considered extroverts. Yet athletes like them who remain highly active as they age “haven’t killed off their inner 13-year-old,” Joyner said. He described them, in general, as curious, relatively unconstrained and full of “physical and emotional vigor,” not so different from the older aunt or uncle who insists on shooting squirt guns at family reunions.

“There are biological factors; I’m not naïve about that,” Joyner said. “But the message with these people is not that they’re freaks. It is that a whole lot of aging, with a bit of luck, is under some volitional control.”

Inevitably, though, even Whitlock has made some concessions to growing older. His marathon time at age 85, 3:56:34, is more than an hour slower than the 2:54:48 he ran in Toronto at age 73 in what is widely considered his greatest masters race.

Adjusted for age, that race was the equivalent of a runner in his prime completing a marathon in 2:04:48, which is less than two minutes off the current world record of 2:02:57. Writing in The New York Times, the running journalist Marc Bloom said that Whitlock’s performance in 2004 may have made him “the world’s best athlete for his age.”

The next looming marathon record is for age 90 and beyond. Fauja Singh of England ran 5:40:04 at the purported age of 92 in 2003, but his mark has not been ratified because he has been unable to produce a birth certificate. Otherwise, statisticians list the age-group record variously as 6:35:47 or 6:46:34.

“We’ll see if I’m running when I’m 90,” Whitlock said. “You never really know if you’ve run your last race or not. I think I do have longevity in my genes”--an uncle lived to 107, he said--”but you never know, you might get hit by a bus.”

#Ed Whitlock #85-year-old marathoner

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

We’re Five (and a half)

“Catherine, this isn’t going to work!”

“Will you stop complaining? You’ve been on my ass about this since we got back from the hospital! Understand that Anna’s only understudy that’s free today won’t get here until her plane lands. Which will take four more hours!! We don’t have a choice!”

“Isn’t there anyone else that can go on as Anna of Cleves?”

“Unless you can magically pull another girl who has all the lines and blocking memorized out of your ass, then I don’t think so!”

“Well, at least you don’t have to stand next to her!”

“Will you just be quiet?! You are driving me insane! And don’t forget it’s Kitty’s fault that more blood had to be taken!”

“It is not!”

“She played with the pouch and dropped it!!”

“...So?”

“Oh my god—”

Aragon rolled her eyes at the silver queen and stomped onto the stage. She diminished her rage when she got near their Anna of Cleves understudy- Joan, who had three pints of blood sucked out of her just an hour ago after the first two pouches were ruined by slippery hands and a certain hot pink queen with a mother who refuses to own up to what her daughter did. The blood was for the actual Cleves since the woman was going through surgery to get a hernia removed and Joan was the only person who shared her rare blood type: O-. And because she couldn’t be there, her donor had to go on for that evening show for her. And it wouldn’t have been a problem if, again, it hadn’t been three whole pints.

“How are you feeling, sweet girl?” Aragon asked, gently touching the understudy’s shoulder.

Joan looked up from her hands, which she had been gazing at as if they were made out of the most valuable jewels in human history. She blinked several times, but her eyes still remained very cloudy. Her pupils were way too big.

“‘M fine,” She said, reaching out to also touch Aragon’s shoulder, but missing completely. Her hand awkwardly flaps in the air, not understanding why there wasn’t a queen under its palm, then pulled back after a moment of hovering. “I’m feeling...great!”

Aragon smiled wryly. “That’s good. The costume feels okay?”

Joan looked down at the light blue alt costume she had been put into, since Cleves’ actual one didn’t fit her. She looked back up at Aragon with an awed expression.

“I forgot I was even wearing clothes!” She exclaimed. “Wow. This is very.....” She trailed off.

“Joan.” Aragon shook her slightly.

“Hi.” Joan snapped awake. She reached out and felt Aragon’s face. “Hello.”

“Hello, sweetheart.” Aragon replied. “We’re going to get started really soon. Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Joan nodded lazily. “I got all the lines! And dances!”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Aragon gave her another quick smile before patting her shoulder and getting into line with the others. Several of them were glancing nervously at Joan, who kept swaying treacherously on the heels she was wearing.

“Ooh can’t see—” Joan said after the blackout.

“Hsst.” Jane hissed.

It wasn’t long before Ex-Wives began and it went surprisingly well. Not great, not even good, but it was enough. Perhaps new viewers would think that Anna of Cleves bumping into literally everyone was how the song was always scripted. But at least the little blood Joan still had pumping through her body fueled her enough to stay in tune and remember all the wounds, even if the introduction solo was mumbled more than spoken. But still!! They made it— SHE made it.

Somehow.

The show ran through the first speaking portion until they eventually got to the first lady in waiting shout-out. The sudden rise in Aragon’s tone seemed to snap Joan out of whatever reverie that had been hypnotizing her and she spun around to face the band so fast she nearly spiraled right down to the floor in a tornado of baby blue and black rhinestones.

“We got Maggie on the guitar!” Anne shouted, and her dear friend played her solo.

“Bessie...yeah!” Joan said helpfully, flapping a hand in the bassist’s direction, who was so daunted by the awkward introduction that she hesitated a second before rushing into her solo.

“And killing it on the keys, we got Joan,” Jane said, slightly startled by the actual Joan’s mess up.

“That’s me,” Joan whispered to herself as she alt played her bit.

“And with beats so sick they’ll give you gout is Maria on the drums!” Aragon said hurriedly, casting Joan an uneasy glance.

“So, you’ve come to party with us old school.” Joan said right after, and although her timing was on point, she somehow managed to slur every single word in the line.

“Really, really old school,” Jane recited, then began to laugh. Joan laughed, too, until Kitty not-so-subtly kicked her in the shin, which was nearly enough to bring her to the floor if Jane hadn’t shot out an arm and grabbed the girl by the shoulder. Her laughter died off as she craned her neck around and shot Kitty a “don’t you dare do that again or so help me—” look.

Jane didn’t release Joan’s shoulder until they got to the “we’ve heard it all” bit. She actually found herself wincing when she pulled her hand back and saw the five angry red marks left in the girl’s skin from her pointy, perfectly manicured fingernails.

“Who lasted the longest was the strongest.”

“The biggest sinner is always the winner.”

“Who had the son takes number one.”

“Who was most chased shall be first...”

“Placed,” Jane whispered.

“Cased!” Joan shouted with too much volume and enthusiasm.

“No, placed!” Jane whisper-yelled again.

“Huh?”

“Who was most chased shall be first placed!” Jane finally just said for Joan.

“...The most inglorious shall be victorious!”

“The winning contestant was the most Protestant!”

And so, the show went on, punctuated by perfectly recited lines by five queens and horribly slurred ones by a lady in waiting missing three pints of her blood.

No Way soon began. All the singing and lines were done as usual, no problem, everything on point. The dancing, on the other hand... Well, the Anna of Cleves was a bit off, reviewers would definitely say after that performance. Like, really off. Like, “she’s two feet away from the other dancers and is continuously being chased down, grappled, and pulled back over by the Catherine Parr” kind of off. But nobody fell over, so it was okay!

However, those reviewers would definitely also mention how the Anna of Cleves weirdly said, “Why is she on her phone?” and then got mouthed to “shut the fuck up” by the Jane Seymour and Katherine Howard during the bit right before Don’t Lose Ur Head. But again! Nobody fell during that song, either! But then again, there were several close calls... That Anna of Cleves was wobbling A LOT. And then there was the blocking for Wearing Yellow To A Funeral where she would reach out and grab Anne Boleyn to stop her from cussing, but she apparently reached way too far, tipped forward, and definitely would have careened right off the stage if the Anne hadn’t spun around and caught her a second before she keeled over the edge.

“Over my dead body,” Aragon said immediately after that predicament, although her voice was lacking its usual bite to the words. It was covered up completely by worry for the girl Anne was trying to stand up straight.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jane said, moving on. “I’m pretty sure it’s my turn now.”

“You?” Joan said, voice dripping with exhaustion and fatigue. Her energy was running out fast.

“Oh, weren’t you the one he truly loved?” Kitty teased.

“Yeah, didn’t you give him the son he so desperately wanted?” Aragon added.

“Yeah, I actually had a daughter and he copped my head off.” Anne quipped.

“I had a son named Hercules,” Joan mused, and Cathy quickly covered her mouth before Kitty could kick her again.

Jane began her monologue and then soon started Heart of Stone. Aragon guided Joan over to the steps so she and the other queens could sit down during that song.

“How are you feeling?” Aragon whispered to Joan, rubbing her shoulder tenderly.

“Huh?” Joan said loudly, which caused a cacophony of “Shh!”’s and a confused glance over the shoulder by Jane.

“I asked how you’re feeling,” Aragon said again. She took one of Joan’s hands and stroked the knuckles with her thumb. She couldn’t tell if the girl was trembling out of fear or exhaustion—maybe both? Or maybe she was just vibrating as a symptom of blood loss.

“Oh.” Joan said. Then, she threw her head back, laughed, and didn’t say anything.

Kitty groaned and rolled her eyes. “We can’t keep her on anymore. She’s ruining the show!”

“Will you shut your fucking mouth?” Aragon hissed. “You kicked her! Oh yeah, don’t think I didn’t see that one, princess.”

Kitty huffed and looked away angrily.

“Yeah, but she has a point,” Anne said gently. “Look at her. Joan is suffering.”

“No I’m not,” Joan mumbled. “‘M just tired...” Her head lolled to the side and rested against Aragon’s shoulder.

“See!”

“No, no, no, no—” Joan spoke again. “I’m just- I’m okay— I just— Do you think I can sit down during Haus of Holbein?”

———

“Not only did the show as a whole feel like a humorous fever dream,” A Gen Z reviewer would later report on their blog, “but the most relatable thing that happened in the entire performance was when the Anna of Cleves sang Haus on Holbein while waving glow sticks and wearing giant light up sunglasses on the floor!”

———

mess

/mes/

a situation or state of affairs that is confused or full of difficulties.

"the economy is still in a terrible mess"

Calling Get Down such a word would be an understatement.

If it wasn’t the slurred singing, then it was the way Joan would seemingly black out in the middle of the song, and if it wasn’t either of those, then it was definitely how she felt the need to say, “I don’t know how to snap” into the microphone at the very beginning when everyone was supposed to snap along to the beat.

But that wasn’t all. Unfortunately.

The lack of blood in her body already made her very dizzy and out of it, but all the dancing and moving around definitely wasn’t helping. Her ankles would frequently buckle under her own weight and she would stumble awkwardly to the side, causing one of the other queens to frantically scramble after her and steady her.

And then there was the part where she was supposed to squat and sing to the front row near the very end. But that didn’t go as planned, because she was unable to hold herself up while kneeling and would have fallen right off the stage if Aragon hadn’t lunged forward and caught her. She then had to hold Joan up for the rest of that bit and then held her back to her feet afterwards. As she was slur-singing, Joan patted Aragon’s shoulder in thanks—except she missed Aragon’s shoulder and instead patted her face. Several times.

“Cause I’m the queen of the castle!” Joan finally concluded, then nearly fell over again, but the queens managed to anchor her upright. She winced at the applause she got. “Absolutely..heartbreaking....”

“That doesn’t sound horrible at all,” Aragon said.

“You- you are horrible..at all,” Joan garbled, stumbling forward slightly and Anne has to jump forward quickly and assist her down the staircase before she could fall and hurt herself. “I probably...won’t win the..uhh. Oh well, back to the— the— uh...”

“Palace,” The queens whispered in unison.

“Back to the palace!”

And so, the show went on. At that point, Joan’s brain had practically melted- the poor girl couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t anymore, and was solely running on muscle memory. Which wasn’t much because she wasn’t a regular performer.

“Guys, I have...the plague!” Joan shouted after the “boohoo baby Mary” speech by Jane. The queens turned to her and, as scripted, began to fuss and worry loudly. “Lol! Just kidding! I just got three pints of blood taken out of me and now I can’t feel a—”

A series of loud hushes and stern looks came from the queens until she shut her mouth. She gave them all a tired, pitiful look, now regretting her decision to do this—although she didn’t really remember WHAT she was doing at this point. She’s pretty sure she was performing...but she wasn’t completely sure.

All You Wanna Do soon began and that seemed to be an eternity of wrong dance moves, slurred harmonies, awkwardly placed hands on Kitty’s body, and several kicks from Kitty herself. In Joan’s shins.

During the big fight after that song, Joan just stood there looking dazed. The queens waited for her to say her line about Cathy’s consciousness, but she didn’t, so Anne had to jump in and say it for her while Kitty glared at the delirious understudy.

After that, I Don’t Need Your Love started up and Joan was content to just sit down and let her heart rest and resupply her body with blood, but she soon had to get back on her feet during the segment in the middle of the song.

“Who was Henry the VII’s wife?” Cathy asked.

Over the mix “I don’t know”’s, Joan mumbled, “I don’t even know where I am...”

Which was true. The blood loss was REALLY getting to her head.

“Yeah, because if we had realized,” Aragon said further in, “we could have thought of some really cool ways to, like, reclaim our stories for ourselves. You know, remove Henry’s love from our lives once and for all.”

“Aww,” Joan whined. “We could have done it as a thong.”

“SONG—” The queens yelped in a harmony of panic.

“Song!” Joan quickly corrected herself, but the damage was already done. The audience was going nuts at her mistake. Now the remainders of I Don’t Need Your Love would never recover. And it didn’t. But it was over.

Joan couldn’t stand still as she stood in the lineup for the last few lines. Her eyes kept closing and then snapping open—she didn’t know how much longer she could stay awake.

“We may just be remembered for being...” She trailed off tiredly.

“Married to Henry,” Kitty hissed, fed up with the understudy.

“Carried to Penry.” Joan said.

After a few confused glances to her, the show went on...somehow.

“Yes, we can redefine how we tell our stories,” Aragon said as the show was wrapping up, “but we can’t rewrite them.”

“And we wished we could tell you our lives had happy endings.” Jane added.

“But in...brutality...corn mint...” Joan slurred, then nearly collapsed but Jane was able to get her by the arm and hold her upright. Jane also had to keep her from beelining off the stage after the mock-ending.

“This is our show and we can literally do whatever we want!” Anne said, waltzing back up to the front of the stage. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jane tugging Joan along with her.

“So, London, because we have five minutes left of the show!” Kitty went on, then looked at Joan expectantly.

Except Joan didn’t say her next line.

“We’ve decided to do our own,” Jane mouthed to Joan.

“Cheese hymen to do our clone,” Joan attempted to recite.

Jane stared at her in baffled horror before sputtering out, “Edited version.”

“Of what...really went down...all those years...bow tie....” Joan gurgled, her eyes fluttering shut. Kitty elbowed her in the rib cage to wake her up, which was rude, but at least worked. For now.

“Because we’re one of a kind,” Cathy began, glancing nervously at the understudy’s swaying form.

“No category,” Kitty went on.

“Chew many tears,” Joan mumbled weakly, and nobody cared enough to correct her at that point.

“Lost in history,”

“We’re free,”

“To take our crown in glory,”

“For five minutes,” They all, minus Joan, who was just awkwardly babbling along, harmonized. “We’re Six!”

And so, Six began. And it went really well if you didn’t look at the understudy for Anna of Cleves standing very still, clapping out of tune with everyone else. Or listen to the way she sang her bit as, “What a shame...la la la la la la la la la......” and then just hummed the rest weakly.

The show soon concluded. The final applause was given. There was an uproar of cheers, despite the awkwardness that happened during the entire performance. But it was over!

“Do you want one more song?” Kitty said, smirking teasingly at the audience.

The people cheered, ready for the MegaSix, and it was at that moment when Joan finally collapsed.

Kitty looked at her, then looked back at the audience, and said, “Nevermind.”

#please read I tried very hard to make this funny and not angsty #six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfic #six fanfiction #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jane seymour #katherine howard #catherine parr #joan on the keys #we're five (and a half)

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years

Note

could we get some uhhh angsty maggie w the queens and none of the liw around to help her? and by that i mean more maggie suffering pleas

THIS IS THE GOOD SHIT YALL THIS IS THE STUFF I LOVE GETTING

TW: Meltdowns, destructive stimming

———————

It started with a pinch in Maggie’s chest. A twinge, a jab, a small pang that prodded her lungs, but didn’t make her think much of it. She should have known, though. She should have known her body was out to get her when she was at her most vulnerable state.

Maria, Joan, and Bessie were all away on some kind of business trip. Maggie was too young to go, so she stayed home. At first, it was fine, but the loneliness started to get to her after the fifth day, and they were still gonna be gone for another week.

She managed to hold herself together until the eighth day.

The backup band that went on to play didn’t exactly click with Maggie. They wouldn’t dance with her during some of the songs and they just overall lacked the energy the other ladies in waiting had. What made it worse, Maggie was sure they hated her for some reason. She always saw them giving her looks out of the corner of her eye. She was way too shy to address them on this, so she just tried to ignore it.

What she couldn’t ignore, however, was the pain in her chest.

Maggie wobbled into her dressing room to get changed out of her sweat-soaked costume. Her lungs were starting to burn, and the roiling of her stomach meant this wasn’t an anxiety attack. She was about to have a full blown meltdown, and she didn’t even know why.

She barely found the strength to get changed into more comfortable clothes before she retreated to a corner to try and ride out the breakdown. Curling up into a ball, Maggie hugged her knees tightly and tried to follow the breathing techniques Maria had been practicing with her. They work for a moment, but then the pinch in her lungs grew sharper and she whipped her head back against the wall, starting a whole chain of reactions.

Her legs uncurled and she slammed them into the floor. Once, twice, three times- she kicked and flailed and pounded her heels into the ground but it wouldn’t anchor her. She continued to slip and frenzy, and it wouldn’t be long until she lost herself completely.

Breathe! Breathe, you idiot!

But she couldn’t, she couldn’t, she couldn’t-

Maggie squirmed hard. She wanted to wriggle right out of her skin, which felt like it had been dunked in acid. The flesh on her frail, quaking body tightens around her, restricting breathing even more.

She felt so helpless. She didn’t know what to do.

Well-

No.

No, she couldn’t. She hadn’t done it in two months. That’s the best she’s ever gotten. She promised Bessie she would stop, but-

She had to.

Maggie bites down hard on her wrist and the pain sends a morbid, euphoric rush through her. She shudders a little and sunk her teeth in more and more and more until the skin broke open and blood filled her mouth.

Even then, she didn’t stop.

It felt...good. Better than good.

It felt amazing.

A part of her messed up brain was screaming, though. She shouldn’t be doing this. She promised Bessie she would stop stimming like this.

Could it even be considered stimming at this point, though? She didn’t like to think of it as self harm, but...

The door to the dressing room suddenly opened and Jane walked in. The queen froze in her tracks, eyes going wide at the sight that was set before her. Then, motherly instincts took over and she lunges forward, causing Maggie to huddle further into the corner.

“Oh, Maggie,” Jane murmured, eyeing the girl’s bleeding hand pitifully. “Love, you have to let go.”

Surprisingly, Maggie listens, but only because she couldn’t talk while biting.

“Wh-where’s Bessie?” The young musician croaked.

Jane frowned at that.

“She’s still out of London, love. On the trip.”

“Maria?”

Jane shook her head.

“J-Joan?”

“None of them are back yet, love.”

All the color leaches from Maggie’s face. She had been praying they would have somehow shown up, but that was just wishful thinking.

She truly was alone.

Maggie sobbed audibly and curled in on herself, rocking slightly as her meltdown worsens. Through her blurring vision, she notices the other queens peek in and a few actually step inside.

“I-I can’t- They’ve never been-” Maggie tried to speak but it was so hard through her heaving breaths, “Th-they’ve always b-been here. I-I can’t- not..alone-”

“You’re not alone, love.” Jane said, “We’re all here for you.”

Maggie glanced at her and her warm smile and then turned away. She bit back down on her hand, despite Jane trying to get her to stop.

She didn’t want Jane. She didn’t want any of them. She wanted Bessie and Maria and Joan.

She wanted her real family.

“I’m going to call Maria!” She heard a voice announce and realized it was Aragon. Maggie wanted to protest, but she didn’t want to stop biting again. Without her family, the pain was the only thing she could really trust.

Jane can only watch in horror as Maggie rocks back and forth in the corner as blood spills down her hand. Parr and Anne come down to try and help, but the guitarist won’t respond to them, not even Anne.

“She needs her bandmates and they won’t pick up,” Parr said. “Jane, be the role of Bessie.”

“What?” Jane snapped her head around to look at the sixth queen.

“You’re the most motherly out of all of us,” Parr continued, “Bessie would be the one coaxing her out of this. You have to take on that role before she ends up hurting herself further.”

Jane nodded, understanding what she had to do.

She turned back to Maggie, who, over the span of only a few seconds, looked even worse. She keeps grinding her skull into the wall, which probably wasn’t helping her at all, so Jane acts quickly.

“Maggie? Margaret. Margaret, love, it’s okay.”

Nothing. Maggie doesn’t even look in her direction.

“Margaret? Really?” Anne commented, “Try using something she’s actually called.”

Jane wanted to snap at the green queen, but she was probably right.

“Maggie...love...darling?”

Maggie’s eyes flick over for a split second.

“Darling,” Jane said again, “Darling, it’s okay. Can you hear me? Nod to me if you can hear me.”

A few seconds passed, but then Maggie’s head bobbed a little. Jane smiled slightly, inching closer.

“Good, good. That’s very good, darling.”

Maggie shut her eyes. Through the roaring in her ears, it sounded like Bessie talking to her. The presence she felt around her wasn’t as strong or protective as Bessie’s, but the voice was good enough.

“Darling, can you let go of your hand for me?”

Maggie ignores her and Jane sees Parr shaking her head.

“She’s not ready yet,” Parr whispered, “Work on breathing. She isn’t getting enough air.”

Jane nodded and turned her attention back to the guitarist.

“Alright, darling, can you try breathing with me instead? You need to breathe.”

Maggie opened her eyes slightly and took in a shuddering breath, but it wasn’t enough. She curled up further, coughing as her chest constricted in resistance.

“B-Bessie...!” She sobbed, desperate for her maternal figure’s comfort.

Jane moved a little closer and set a tentative hand on Maggie’s head. Then, she started to glide her fingers through her hair, hoping it would soothe her the same way it soothed Katherine.

But Maggie wasn’t Katherine. Katherine was never like this. Katherine never bit herself like a wild animal. This was a whole new experience Jane didn’t train herself for.

However, she felt Maggie tilt her head a little to press into her touch. Jane smiled slightly and continued to stroke the girl’s hair.

“Do you like this, darling?” She whispered, knowing to keep her voice low when she was this close. She smiled a little more when Maggie nodded. “Then I’ll keep doing it if you breathe with me. Sound fair?” Another nod. “Alright, here we go.”

Aragon steps back into the room, a worried look on her face. Cleves sidles over to her, looking equally as concerned.

“Well?”

“None of them would pick up.” The Spanish queen said, “How is she?”

“A little better.” Cleves looked back at Maggie, who was attempting to follow along with Jane’s breathe. “She’s...struggling. This is bad.”

Aragon silently nodded in agreement.

“Jane’s doing good, though. Pretending to be Bessie.”

It was true. Maggie was starting to look slightly less dead as she got more air into her lungs.

However, it seemed as if the whole world was out to get her, as Aragon’s phone suddenly went off. Loudly.

That was the final straw.

Maggie screamed. She kicked her legs out in some sort of self defense mechanism, nailing Anne in the stomach and causing the green queen to reel away on her hands and knees, before biting down even harder and using her other hand to pull her hair. Her breathing was audible, coming out in heavy, raspy gasps that sounded painful just to hear. Parr and Jane could only watch in horror as she frenzied out of control.

Just behind them, Aragon is scrambling to pull her phone out of her pocket while Cleves barked at her to hurry up.

“Maria!” Aragon shouted, making Maggie wail again. Cleves couldn’t stop herself from kicking the first queen in the shin and then pushing her out the door.

“Maria,” She said, softer this time, wincing.

“Catherine? Who-”

“It’s Maggie. Maggie’s having a meltdown.”

Maria is silent for a moment.

“Catherine, that doesn’t sound good at all. I can hear her crying. What did you people do to her?!”

“Nothing! We’re trying to help her, she just won’t let us!”

“You’re probably coming off too forceful,” Maria snapped, “Who’s helping her right now?”

“Jane.”

“Okay, there’s one good thing,” Maria sighed, “Alright, listen. Maggie responds really well to music. Try singing to her.”

“Singing to her?”

“No, building her a barn and hoping the isolation will fix her mental state- Yes singing to her! That’s what I just fucking said, Catalina!”

Aragon winced and pulled her phone away from her ear slightly.

“Alright,” She said.

Meanwhile, Maggie has went completely unresponsive. It was almost like the first panic attack Katherine ever had, but with more hair pulling and biting. The amount of blood flowing out of her hand was as worrying as the fact that her lips were starting to go blue.

“Maggie, darling, I know you’re scared right now, but you need to breathe.” Jane said, keeping her voice level. “Try it with me. Ready? In and out.”

Maggie’s eyes opened a little and she watched Jane, but she wasn’t following along. She couldn’t. Her anxiety has taken over her brain and she couldn’t do anything except hurt herself.

“Maggie, please, darling.” Jane said. “You need to breathe.”

“C-can’t...” Maggie somehow manages to force out. “H-hurts... B-Bess...”

She suddenly teetered forward and collapsed into Jane’s lap. Her hand was no longer in her mouth, but it was still bleeding and she still wasn’t breathing properly.

“Maggie,” Jane said, slightly more panicked. She flips Maggie over and cradles her carefully, “Darling, please. You have to breathe.”

Maggie mumbled something incomprehensible. Then, she whimpered out Bessie’s name again, praying to any god out there that she would appear and save her from this pain.

Bessie, Jane said in her head. She racked her brain over things she’s seen Bessie do with Maggie, eventually coming to something she hoped might work.

Gently, Jane pressed Maggie’s head to her chest so she could listen to her heartbeat. She held her there for a moment, still whispering breathing techniques that she was sure weren’t working. Then, she saw Aragon come in and mouth something to her.

“Sing.”

Jane wanted to slap herself. How could she have not thought of that?

“You've got a good heart,

But I know it changes.

A restless tide, untamable.”

Maggie’s eyes flicked up instantly, which made relief flow through Jane’s veins. That was a good sign, so she continued.

“You came my way, and I knew a storm could come too.

You'd lift me high, or let me fall.”

Maggie nestled her head closer to Jane’s chest and, slowly but surely, began to match her breathing. She closed her eyes, letting the soft words being sung lull her into calmness.

“But I took your hand, promised I'd withstand

Any blaze you blew my way.

'Cause something inside, it solidified,

And I knew I'd always stay.”

Jane wrapped both of her arms around Maggie and rocked her gently. She rubbed her back as she sang, then noticed Parr get up and run to dim the lights. Maggie let out a soft sigh of contentment and Jane wanted to slap herself once again. She should have taken sensory overloads into account for the poor girl’s panic.

“You can build me up, you can tear me down,

You can try but I'm unbreakable.

You can do your best, but I'll stand the test.

You'll find that I'm unshakeable.”

Slowly, the burning in Maggie’s lungs ebbed away. She was still shaking very badly, but at least her eyes looked a little better.

“When the fire's burnt,

When the wind has blown,

When the water's dried, you'll still find stone.

My heart of stone.”

Jane quieted and looked down at Maggie, who was curled snugly up in her arms. She kissed the top of her head and smiled warmly.

“You did it, darling,” She murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”

From the doorway, Aragon let out a sigh of relief.

“Jane calmed her down.” She said into her phone, as Maria was still on the line.

“Oh thank god,” Maria said, “Can I talk to her?”

“Of course.”

Aragon slowly walked over and handed her phone to Maggie, who eyed her wryly before taking it.

“Hey, kid.”

Maggie visibly brightened upon hearing Maria’s voice. It made everyone smile.

“Maria,” She said. Her voice was very weak and hoarse from crying, but she couldn’t care right now. “I miss you.”

Maria chuckled lightly.

“I miss you, too. How are you doing?”

Maggie shrugged, but realized she couldn’t use that as an answer since Maria couldn’t see her.

“About to start dissociating. So. Numb? I feel numb...but Lady Jane helped me. She’s really bad at impersonating Bessie, though.”

Jane snorted and that made Maggie giggle a little. She snuggled closer.

“I could have guessed.” Maria laughed. Then, her voice hardened. “Maggie, you know I have to ask you this, right?”

Maggie goes rigid.

“Did you bite yourself?”

Silence.

Maggie hangs up the phone.

Deep shame and guilt filled her stomach. She knew this was going to happen, and yet...

God, how could she be so stupid? How could she betray Bessie’s trust like this?

“Shh, shh,” Jane cooed when she noticed the girl in her arms was starting to cry again, “It’s okay, darling, it’s okay.”

“N-no.” Maggie whimpered, “No, it’s not okay. M-my hand- I promised Bessie I wouldn’t-”

She buried her face back into Jane’s chest, weak sobs shaking her body. Pain was thrumming in her hand, but it’s just what she deserved for being such an idiot.

Over her hiccups, she hears a click and lifts her head slightly. Parr has a first aid kit, which she had apparently retrieved at one point. The sixth queen picked up a gauze and soaked it in antiseptic before looking at Maggie for permission. The girl nodded.

“This might hurt,” Parr warns.

As soon as it makes contact with Maggie’s broken skin, Maggie lets out a high pitched squeak, her unoccupied hand curling into and grasping at Jane’s shirt as she digs her head into the queen’s chest. If this hurts Jane, she doesn’t show it, just holds Maggie closer and places another kiss on the top of her head.

“Almost done, kiddo,” Parr reassures in a voice Jane silently knows is usually reserved for comforting Katherine. Parr wraps a stark white bandage around the wound and quickly tapes it off.

Maggie takes her arms back, holding it close to her chest. She stared at the wall for a long time.

“Sorry.” She whispered hoarsely.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Anne jumped back in. She seemed to have recovered from being kicked in the stomach. “You can’t help getting overwhelmed. You dealt with it until you couldn’t anymore. We understand.”

Maggie stared at her for a moment before nodding.

“I just...wish I hadn’t...” She can’t form the words together. She might start crying all over again if she kept thinking about her broken promise to Bessie. “Thank you. Everyone. Really...”

Jane squeezes her reassuringly.

“We’re always here for you, Maggie. No matter what. Never be afraid to ask for help.”

Even though it wouldn’t be that easy, Maggie appreciated it. Although she much preferred her family, she would definitely keep that in mind.

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