#why did he go from depressed basement dwelling boy

[fabled-lady-twilla]

Okay but Horikoshi had NO right making Shiggy THAT ✨T H I C C✨ in his glow up lmao!!! He's got the all the fangirls stumbling like lord have mercy! 🧎🏻‍♀️🙌🏻🙆🏻‍♀️👌🏻

[sockslikeautumn]

Julian Peyton

Yandere golden boy prologue

Male original character x gender-neutral reader

Masterlist Julian Peyton

SFW, 2.0k+ words, angst, addiction, trauma, reader, and OC are 18+!

Summary: Did you not wish for his suicide to happen due to wanting to offer proper help or because you didn't want to die selfishly?

Trigger warnings: Dead dove, do not eat for all warnings!

Suicide, suicidal thoughts, mentions of self-harm, depression, mentions of bullying, loneliness, academic pressure, guilt, implied addiction, implied turning yandere/obsessed, manipulation, victim blaming, trauma, abuse, implied childhood abuse, childhood trauma, child abandonment, child negligence, drug addiction, drug dealing, alcohol addiction, cigarettes addiction.

The reader has suicidal thoughts and trauma regarding some of these tags. If any of them trigger you, don't read!

As much as it seems, this isn't a self insert from me, Y/N is their own original character

For any confusion, this is before he went yandere, became a golden boy, and why.

I'm open to constructive criticism, not bullying.

You are entirely responsible for what you consume.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

If you're conscious enough to live, at least at some point in your life you have thought of how quick and easy it would be to bring about your demise.

Grab a knife, cut the neck in half, or take a step off at the edge of a building. Simple and efficient. It's not as painless as some would wish, but it's the most reliable for someone in dire need.

When you have problems you aren't aware of how to solve, suicide just seems like the solution at the moment. Why keep going through the pain when you can just make everything stop and end in black there?

Julian was never one to think of committing suicide. It had crossed his mind before whenever hearing about a self-death headline but never to be the one at the edge of death.

His life was a simple chess game with the Devil to put it generously. He couldn't remember the names of his birth parents, only of the new son they had, he couldn't remember the last time his grandad taught him something but could decipher what drug he was using by the way he acted. It was never too obscure behavior and just made his grandad, Mason, spill honest secrets and opinions. Regardless, it hurt his heart to hear what a failure he was to him.

There never was a time of growing up to him. He was born, abandoned, and then perfected to act depressed for the rest of his life as it should be.

To cope with the loneliness, Julian found comfort in cigarettes. The smell of nicotine brought him back to a time when his grandad was still functioning and meaning someone to him. Someone special, someone valuable, and someone irreplaceable. Despite that, he should've learned from his mistakes that once you aren't meaningful to someone anymore, you become dispensable.

At the age of twelve, he couldn't remember what grades he had in school but could instead remember the various names of alcohol brands his granddad had. They were stored on the top shelf of the pantry and some were in the fridge, all decorated in rainbow colors. Back then, they looked magnificent since Mason always forbade him from touching them. Nowadays they stay piled on the floor of his grandad's bedroom, some empty and some bottles broken never to be cleaned.

Drugs were never an unfamiliar aspect of his life. The minute his grandad was gone, off to drink at a bar, he'd sneak into the basement where they were and gather whatever he could to sell. Julian never found out how his grandad had those, just that they appeared on Monday and were all used by Thursday. Mason was reckless if what he was doing was illegal, as long as the cops or Julian didn't rat him out, he'd be content letting his mind dwell on drugs.

It was no wonder why someone like Julian, who was socially awkward and unpleasant to look at, was bullied all his life in school. People either forgot he existed or made sure Julian knew others would forget if he stopped existing. Any time he made an effort to find new friends, they'd look at him in disgust upon smelling his dark cigarette clothes. There was no direct proof but everyone knew of Julian's addiction to cigars and that he probably used drugs on himself too. His blonde hair was always greasy paired with nerdy glasses that only highlighted his purple eye bags to others. Everyone knew he was a failure and that his life would end in failure no matter what.

You saw yourself as no different than Julian. He was a classmate of yours in school, sharing only a couple of classes. You never spoke with each other and never looked at one another. You doubted he cared anything about you but oddly enough... you seemed to care about him. There was just something pulling you to him, some undeniable force that made you feel emotionally connected to him. Maybe it was the pity, the empathy you felt for him, or... the way you thought he was similar to you.

You were someone who grew up in a rather loving family, unlike Julian. You had three young caring step-sisters, a father you never met, and a mother and stepfather. Although your parents' love was sometimes not present, your childhood wasn't the worst or the best. Your earliest memory was when your first adoring sister was born, when you had to take care of her and the same goes for the rest.

Your parents never were really involved in your life. They had to work plenty of hours to take care of your family tree and you had to take care of your sisters in exchange, watch them evolve, and be their guiding light. You never felt like an older sister, more like a parent who guarded them 24/7.

To make your parents notice you for once, your academics stood second in your biggest priorities. Night and day, day and night spent at your desk, unexpectedly was your friend group of friends small and so was your social life. Painful eye bags staining your face and skin pale as a zombie, people worried if you were dead or alive. The only reassurance you had for continuing was a promise for a better present time than your past in a completely new setting.

Despite always teaching your younger siblings to never bottle their emotions, it was only advice you hoped you could follow yourself. They were too young to understand your problems, the pressure, the loneliness, everything. Your parents weren't the ones you could freely open up to without feeling like a burden to their already busy lives. Your couple of friends looked up to you for advice and without anyone to usher you, who was there to tell you suicide wasn't the choice?

You never earlier put your head on suicide and always reassured your peers never to do it. It wasn't the right decision, there were plenty of other ways to go about it, you'd always say. But with always being the one to comfort, to collect their tears that soon poured into yours, you never thought you needed to feel comforted.

Many indifferent moons passed by your window at your desk, contemplating and crying in fear of losing your place in academics. Once you mustered up the courage to find the time and speak to your parents about your fate, they barely took a glance at your words. You put your heart into explaining what you wanted for your future, why you fought so hard, and that you wanted to make this family proud. Nor did they consider it, your mother took her time to carefully choose where to stab you next, calling you an ungrateful brat for not even thinking about your younger sisters.

That night, the cap broke off the bottle and your tears stained your face for hours. Their words clouded you, their words were becoming a reality to you. It felt childish to cry over nothing, it was childish no matter how you put it. How dare you even cry after acting so selfishly?

When the sun came, it settled in you how much you wanted to break your own rules and punish yourself. If you weren't to have a good destiny, what difference would ending it now have? All you've ever wanted was to be certain you'd have brightness along your path of life, to not end up marrying off to a rich man like your mother had to. All you've ever wanted was gratitude for your achievements from people who should've been giving it to you for free.

Those thoughts stayed long in your mind and long enough to realize how your mother was right. How selfish would you be to dedicate yourself to ending it now of all times? Who would take care of your family? Who else would provide for your own blood?

You were no one to decide on what and when your death would be. To be one would mean your soul would succumb to sinfulness and stay like that by all who knew of your existence.

Being a mother figure all of your life, you immediately knew what was happening with Julian. Over the years, he grew pathetic in trying to go against his bullies' self-harming suggestions. There were no tears smudging his dorky glasses anymore, no guilt on his face, anger, he just looked emotionless and numb. He, to put it simply, took the pain and walked away without trying to heal.

The day you finally decided to befriend him, the day his tormentors came to convince him, was the same day he wanted to make ends meet.

During lunch, you searched for him at his usual spot in school, on the rooftop. The whisper-like wind hugged your body carefully and to no avail, he wasn't staring at absolutely nothing on the bench, his bench you came to view it as. So many times he was caught bawling there he practically claimed it as his own.

Upon spotting his thin form at the edge of the rooftop in front of the railing, looking down at the ground and contemplating his life's choices, your heart felt devastated. To anyone it would be obvious what was going to happen, to you, it was clear who had to prevent it.

You couldn't let this happen to him, he never deserved anything in his life and if there was no one else to help him, it would be you. Either you put an end to his problems or put an end to the selfish life you wouldn't live for too long after.

His name echoed in his ears when you yelled out to him, was it his imagination? He turned his body around, his watery eyes landing on your blurry figure, and for the first time, he felt something other than nothing in his life.

“Listen, I've come here to help you, okay?” Your voice was soft as sunlight behind stormy clouds. Nevertheless, even with the reassurance, looking over your nervous body, he still felt out of place. Like an animal caged behind a railing as you cautiously stepped near him.

It took you slow breaths to at last muster up your words. “I know life may seem tough for you now but..” There was a smile on your face, it was forced and comforting at the same time. “We can both get through this, alright? We can both help one another in passing through this pain.” You were closer to him now, he could tell by seeing the sun reflect your skin golden. You were glowing and through his tears, he couldn't tell if you were an angel or not. “But I can't help you if you end it all now, I can't help you if you can't help yourself in what you truly want.” Julian eyed the ground under him again, a teardrop falling from his eye and landing beneath him.

It took several moments for his quiet sobs and sniffling to be heard by you. “W-why are you doing this?” Scratchy as it was, it felt good to finally hear his voice.

“Because I know what you're going through, I know how hard life has been for you and I want to make it better for you.” Julian's brown eyes couldn't help but wonder where you were standing, your delicate hand put out for him to grab. He felt every worry in his life disappear and could only focus on nothing but you. “Please, Julian, let me help you.”

Medusa's beauty referred to snakes acting as something they were not, would her touch also feel like scales belonging to filthy deceivers? Your hand looked preciously dainty and skinned with thin glass, a couple of visible cuts on the wrists. Your eyes captivated him, desperation or precise manipulation in them. Your aura, your soul, your everything had him infatuated in a matter of seconds.

As much of an alluring snake you seemed, he's learned his way around them and he was going to make sure you would be the last he's ever met. It would be the last time he'd ever wailed for someone and missed them to death.

Julian would certify he has collected every last remaining lie in your shedding skin, morphing it into whatever he wanted to believe, before ensuring you never leave him. Never leave, never abandon, never disappear from his life, and never not be fully dependent on anything except him.

For any confusion, this is before he went yandere, became a golden boy, and why.

I'm open to all constructive criticism, not bullying!

[galoots]

Surprise, surprise. A wrote a little piece about Scrooge taking care of his nephew during a depressive episode. As always, leave me a comment and enjoy!

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Donald flicked the switch of his SAD therapy lamp on, filling the air with a quiet electric buzz. For a half an hour every day, he was to sit in front of this lamp, blasting 10,000 lux directly into his face. This came at the recommendation of his therapist—a new addition to his life since he’d quit college to work on his mental health. The lamp was one of the many therapeutic aids he’d been advised to add to his life. Antidepressants, melatonin, weekly therapy sessions, daily meditation, light exercise, journaling, quality family time; it felt like the laundry list of remedies was endless. He has set up a spot in the living room for all this garbage: a desk with his journal, his medications, and his stupid, stupid lamp. He affectionately called it his depression corner—a name his uncle objected to for it’s dispiriting connotations, but it was his corner and he’d call it what he’d like.

           Donald sighed as he settled into his chair, cracking open the novel he was currently halfway through. It was a remnant from one of the classes he’d been previously attending. There was no real reason to continue it, he had failed that class and slumped home in utter defeat, but pressed on with it any way. Not only was the novel unbelievably boring and tedious, but it reminded Donald of his own failure: his inability to take care of himself once he left home and the pathetic spiral of depression he’d soon found himself in. Reading this book made him miserable, but he slogged through it anyway as if finishing it would prove that he was at least capable of something. Besides, he had nothing but free time, so why not spend a portion of that time reading?

           He threw himself back into the grueling task of reading the same page over and over again—the words barely registering in his head, floating through the thick fog of his mind, before they were ejected back out on to the page. Slightly damp yet unprocessed. Ready to go throw the charade one more. He was on his fourth read-through of this particularly dense passage when he heard a familiar voice sound from over his shoulder.

           “You’re sitting awfully close to that lamp, nephew. Has your eyesight degraded to the point you need that much light to illuminate your reading?”

           Donald glanced over his shoulder at his uncle and shook his head. “Not that kind of lamp, Uncle Scrooge.”

           Scrooge slid his arms over Donald’s shoulders, resting his chin in the crook of Donald’s neck. “What kind is it then?”

           “The doctor recommended, alleviate your depression kind of lamp.” Donald sneered. “The sad kind all the cool depressed college drop-out’s use. The kind that comes highly recommended from all the other basement-dwelling losers online.”

           His uncle frowned, furrowing his brow with concern as he stared into the bright white light. “You sure seem to have quite the… antipathy for what sounds like such a helpful little lamp. Is it not working?”

           “It’s… not not working… I just…” Donald let out a little huff of aggravation as he fiddled with the switch on the base of the device. Aggravation with himself, aggravation with his sorry circumstance, aggravation with the chemical failings of his own brain. “I just don’t like that I need it.”

           Scrooge made a thoughtful noise, noncommittal but inquisitive, urging him to explain further.

           “It’s just, like, another stupid thing in a long regimen of things I have to do now. I hate that I need all this stuff simply to function. I’m sick of it. Why can’t my brain work like it’s supposed to?”

           Scrooge lifted himself off of Donald’s shoulders and gave his nephew a reassuring pat. “Functioning is good. We like functioning. Nothing wrong with that.”              “I guess…”

           “I need glasses to see properly, hearing aids to hear properly, and a cane to walk properly, don’t I?”

           “Yeah…” Donald said.

           “Are those bad?”

           “No…” Donald sighed in response. His uncle was right of course, but it didn’t make it less annoying.

           Scrooge planted a kiss on top of his head. “Keep at it, boyo. I know its not fun, but doctor’s orders.”

           Donald shrugged in response, reopening his book to reread the text there for the fifth time.

           His uncle rubbed his shoulders in support. “I’m going to make some tea. Want a cup? I can sit with you for a while.”

           “No thanks, unkie.” Donald replied with glum monotone. He was feeling mired in his bad mood today, regardless of any avuncular pep talks or brightly simulated sunlight trying to cheer him up.

           The next day he sat down in his chair. Same as always. Flipped on his lamp. Same as always. Opened his book. Same as always. Another series of monotonous tasks in a day full of them. In a life full of them. But today something was different. His plain white lamp had been tampered with. Now a wreath of yellow petals cut from construction paper decorated its frame, meeting with green paper leaves at the bottom. It looked like a rogue pack of first-grader’s had unloaded their arts and crafts skill on his lamp overnight, giving the whole thing the appearance of a sunflower. A crooked, amused smile snuck onto his face as he observed the changes his lamp had undergone. On his desk, next to the lamp, sat a bundle of neatly wrapped presents. Clearly the careful administrations of his Puppa. Uncle Scrooge couldn’t wrap a present for the life of him and always had his husband take care of any wrapping jobs for him. He unwrapped them, tearing away the paper to reveal a stack of books—one of sudoku, the other of crosswords, and the third of logic problems. A new pencil, sharpened to a point, accompanied the books along with a cozy dark blue knit sweater. Inspecting the stitches, Donald didn’t see the orderly rows his knew Duckworth to be capable of, but the sloppy, inexperienced work of an amateur. There was no note to identify his mystery gift-giver, but Donald didn’t need one to know who was responsible for all of this. He slipped on his new sweater, one sleeve slightly longer than the other, but still comfy. He picked up one of the books of puzzles and the pencil, ready to pass the time.

           As if on cue, like he’d been waiting for just this moment to occur, Scrooge rounded the corner, making headway towards the nook Donald occupied.

           “Well, well, well!” Scrooge exclaimed. His poorly feigned surprise doing little to dissuade Donald of the obvious fact of his involvement. “Aren’t you the lucky one! It seems you’ve been visited by a helpful little elf overnight.”

           “Seems so.” Donald covered his beak to stifle a chuckle. “Although this elf didn’t realize that it doesn’t make much sense to turn a lamp into a sunflower.”

           “Uh, er…” Scrooge stammered, his eyes opening as he started from Donald’s playful dig. “Well now the lamp needs you to be its light source, you see!” His uncle clapped his hands down on Donald’s shoulder, pleased with the answer he’d supplied on the spot. “You’ll have to sit here for the allotted time each day so it can get the proper amount of sunshine and grow up healthy and strong.”

           Donald smiled, leaning his head back on his uncle. “How sweet. Did the elf tell you that?”

           “Yes.” Scrooge smiled benignly. “Yes, he did.”

           Donald chuckled again, not bothering to mask it this time. He wasn’t fooled by his uncle’s utterly lacking acting skills, but he was happy to play along. “Well tell your elf friend thank you. I appreciate it very much.”

           Scrooge rubbed his nephew shoulder’s warmly, gazing fondly down at him and soaking in the first genuine smile Donald had worn since he first came home. Although the circumstance by which Donald had returned home could have certainly been happier ones, Scrooge was relieved to see his little boy back in the nest again. The old duck felt like he’d been withering away ever since Donald left, but now he was here, back in his arms, back in their home, and finally smiling once again.

           “I’ll go make us a pot of tea.” Scrooge whispered. He padded softly out of the room, doing his best not to disturb Donald, who had absorbed himself in solving the puzzle in front of him. His novel lay off to the side—forgotten. There was simply no need to finish it anymore.

           Eventually it would be shelved along with his other books where it would sit and grow dusty without use. Donald would never finish, but that was for the best. Not all books need to be read to the end. Some are better left unfinished, waiting silently upon the shelf like a lonely sentinel, ready to be rediscovered during happier days

[cescalr]

ME would like to suggest some fluffy willoughby/don

Don had invited Will over for Christmas.

Their year at Whitewater College, a boarding school purely for sixth-form students, had been fine. so much as any year after what happened at Slaughter could be fine. And it was fine because Clemise was in some other country, and Don had taken a few months, but he did get over their break-up. And it was fine because Don felt somewhat - he wouldn’t say traumatised by the events of that night, but… he wouldn’t say he didn’t feel in some way terrible about them, even now, if he reminisced too long on what happened.

But. That’s that, really. Don doesn’t dwell too much. You just got’t’deal with this sort’ve thing, y’know? Deal, and move forward.

Anyway. It’s Christmas. There’s no point bringing down the holiday cheer by thinking on that.

[Fic continued under break, or you can read it on Ao3; my profile is linked on my blog!! I’d put it here but tumblr is stupid and external links break tags.]

Don looked over from his place lying down to where Will was, still fast asleep on the mattress they’d set out for him. It was early morning, still – the light coming through the blinds in lines, brightening up parts of the room and, unfortunately, shining straight into Don’s eyes.

“Fuck,” Don muttered to himself, as he sat up in order to get away from the too-bright sunlight. “Too early. Shit.”

Well. Not that early; the sun didn’t rise until it was actually morning in winter, unlike the bullshit you got during summer – but still. Regardless, Don hadn’t been quiet enough, it seemed, because Will stirred.

After he blinked away sleep, Will seemed to register what day it was.

“Merry Christmas, Ducky,” He said, as he sat up. Don had tried to get him to use the proper bed and let Don sleep on the mattress instead, but Will had refused.

Truthfully, he wasn’t so bothered about that. It meant no springs digging into his back while he tried to sleep, after all.

“Merry Chris’mas,” Don replied, “Or, It would be, if y’d stop callin’ me Ducky.”

“We’ve had this argument for over a year, Ducky.” Will smiled. “You’re too late, it’s stuck.”

Don grumbled lightly and without heat as he scooted to the end of the bed then stood (so he didn’t end up standing on Will – Don’s bedroom isn’t very big), stretched and moved out of the room.

Once he was back from the bathroom, Will was dressed.

“Y’ever ‘eard of a ‘lazy day’?” Don asked, dryly. “Y’know… what Chris’mas is t’mos’ people?”

“I have,” Will said, plainly.

“Alrigh’ then,” Don rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Breakfast.”

They were home for Christmas, of course, but that didn’t mean the teens at Whitewater didn’t throw a week-long event – mostly drinking and partying in the art department’s basement, thrown by the drama club, because of course – in preparation.

“Donnie!” A girl, rather drunk, called out. “Blakey, Donnie! Over here!”

“Lauren,” Don replied. Will greeted in kind, and the two made their way through the crowd to the girl and the rest of the group.

“Neither of you are drunk yet, and it’s five somewhere!” She exclaimed, shoving two plastic cups of some alcoholic beverage into their hands. “Also, Danny got his sister to cough up the you-know-what, so we’ve got some brownies if you want any!”

“They only just arrived, Lauren, stop trying to get our friends addicted to pot,” Sam said, sighing, as he rolled his eyes. He was sat on a free stool, a book in one hand, and a water bottle gripped tightly and protectively in the other.

“Chill, Sam,” Lauren said, loud enough to be heard over the pounding of whatever EDM mess the ‘DJ’ had decided to play.

“I’ll chill when you stop trying to spike my drink, bestie,” Sam said, dryly.

“You know I love you!” Lauren sing-songed, then grinned. “Oh, my girl’s over there – Sammy, dear, show these lot where the food an’ shit is, yeah?” And with that, she was off – Don lost her in the crowd mere seconds after she’d entered it.

Sam rolled his eyes. “C’mon then,” Sam said, standing. “Food’s on the other side.”

As they walked, Don spotted various different people he’d met over his first year at Whitewater. There was Alex, Lillian, Sabrina, Derek – to name a few.

(Of course, there was Jesse, Zak, Michael – but… well, they didn’t really count as much. Though, Zak was talking with Alex; his cousin. Maybe he’d end up a better person in the new year? Only time would tell, Don supposed.)

“Y’ gotta have fun!” Lillian said, grinning. Sabrina slung her arms around their shoulders. “An’ us homosexuals have to stick together,” She added, swinging them around to face the drinks table instead of the buffet. “meaning - I need some money; buy my wares.”

“I recommend the ecstasy,” Lillian chimed in.

“You would,” Will said, smiling, as he carefully extracted himself from Sabrina’s grip. Don stepped away, and walked over to the table. “Five o’clock somewhere,” He said, shrugging.

“Right on,” Derek grinned, appearing out of nowhere. “I heard drugs.”

“Wanker,” Sabrina rolled her eyes. “I thought you were off with your mates?”

“And miss my main friendos?” He laughed, loudly. “No-way, broseph! I’m tryin’ t’ be a bit more sportsmanly, y’know? More of a team player.”

“They’re not gonna let you on the lacrosse team, Derek,” Lillian said, “Not after last time.”

Derek shrugged. “I can try,” He said, solemnly, and then was gone again.

“Jesus Christ,” Sabrina muttered, rubbing at her forehead. “Anyone else get a headache from his sheer presence?”

“I’m still trying to figure out his species,” Sam said. “I’ve figured Alien, but what kind…” He mused.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lillian dismissed. “Drink! Food! Illicit substances to fuel our various addictions, be they basic-bitch or hardcore asshat! Let’s go!”

Don rolled his eyes, and downed his drink.

And that had been the main theme of it.

So. Don had been home for a fair few days, now; Whitewater let you home for the week before, of, and after Christmas, and Don had made the most of it. It’d been a real long time since he’d seen what few mates he’d had back home – what with Slaughterhouse and then joining Whitewater after being cooped up at home for his mandated week-long ‘recovery’ period, after which he was supposedly supposed to be all better now, off you trot, and then the Christmas he’d spent at home with his mum as the actual ‘recovery’ period, according to her, and then another whole few months before summer, but then his mates had been out of the country, so then it was another couple months until now but - whatever. He’d hung out with what mates he had left, that first week, meaning Josh and Terri and James – Josh’s girlfriend and brother respectively. They played video games and smoked in the empty park and pretty much did exactly the same sort of shit they’d been doing when his mum had been wholly convinced that he was ‘depressed’.

Then Josh and Terri and James went off to Ireland for Christmas, and – Will came to stay. For Christmas week.

And then Will got a phone call, and now he was just going to stay until college started up again, and go back to Whitewater with Don. Logically. Practically.

Don – didn’t really need to ask.

Anyway.

“Ah hope you boys are ‘ungry,” His mum said, plating them and herself a full English. “Chris’mas is the only time ah bother, so you both better enjoy it!”

“Thanks, mum,” Don said, and she smiled and squeezed his shoulder lightly as she walked past. “Thank you,” Will said.

(“Thank you for having me over, M-“ Will started.

Babs’ smile dimmed. “Babs is fine, don’t you worry yourself with formality,” She said, warmly. “Come on in, it’s freezing!”)

“Eat up,” Babs encouraged. “You’re both growing boys, and we’ve presents to open!” She smiled, conspiratorially; they’d gone out Christmas shopping with her individually, and so she knew what they’d gotten each other, and appeared to be having the time of her life with this knowledge.

Don ate his breakfast.

“So. This one of the posh twats you replaced your old mates with, then, eh Don?”

“Josh,” Don greeted. “Bit of a dickhead but the right sort.” He told Will. “Will, Josh.” Don gestured.

“Willoughby Blake,” Will said, “And not too much of a twat, I wouldn’t say. You?”

“Josh Blythe, and I ain’t no dickhead to good people, y’ prat,” Josh said, scowling a little at Don. He fished a pack of smokes out of his pocket. “Fag?”

Will smirked. “Yes;” He said, “I also, do indeed, smoke.”

“Cool,” Josh said, tossing him one. “Terri’s my girl, now, by the way.” He told Don.

“Terri… Blythe?” Don cracked a smile. “That’s a bit awkward, innit?”

“Oi, sod off,” Josh flipped him the bird, then set about lighting his own cig. “Blythe’s a plenty common name.”

“I wonder why…” Will trailed off, leaning against the low stone wall.  

“Yeah yeah,” Josh rolled his eyes. “Nothin’ James hasn’t said yet.” He scowled slightly. “Fucken’ incest jokes… made by my own goddamn brother…”

“How’s everythin’ at St. Dunstan’s anyway?” Don asked, changing the topic.

“David’s still a right prat,” Josh said, thankful for the change in track. “Ah heard George is expectin’, but she could just have the flu. Maybe she’s dyin, ah don’ fucken’ kno’. We never talk, do we? Fucken – anyway, Muhammad got into that right fancy college, so he fucked off, along with his family, and jus’ about ev’ryone else ‘as gone t’ some other sixth-form. Yanno, ‘cept me, ma brother and Terri. There are some new arseholes, but they stick to each other.”

“Dunstan’s was always a shithole anyway,” Don said.

“Damn right,” Josh stood, dropped his cigarette to the floor and put it out with the heel of his trainer. “You gotten rusty at Halo since ya fucked off t’ the posh south or what?”

“I did better than you las’ week, y’ dick’ead,” Don said, dropping off of the wall. “C’mon. Y’ever played Halo, Will?”

“It’s fucking freezing.” Will said. “Why are we walking around the town centre?”

“’Cause we got nothin’ else t’do, obviously,” Don said, stomping through the snow. “An ah wan’t’ get an idea of wha’ ah wan’t’ get for my friends, you twat.”

“Should have done this earlier on, then,” Will said, glancing around. “Most places are closed.”

“’Course they’re fuckin’ closed, it’s a Sunday,” Don said, rolling his eyes. “Doesn’ mean there ain’t shit in the windows, y’ twat.”

“Of course,” Will said, glancing around again. “What’s that?” He pointed.

“Fuckin expensive piece of shit, that’s what tha’ is,” Don said, but he walked over to the shop Will was pointing at anway. “Never been inside – ah think they’d chase me off.” He said, dryly. “Smell the fuckin working class on me or some shit, like fuckin’ bloodhounds.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ducky,” Will said.

“There’s fuckin’ diamonds on those ten-thousand pound and up watches, Willoughby, I ain’t going anywhere near that shit.”

“Come on.” Will said, “It’s the only place that’s open.”

“The fuckin’ Macdonalds is open, Willoughby – oh, for fuck’s sake, fine.”

Don walked after Will, who’d already entered the store.

Don looked around, as he caught up with his friend.

“There’s perfectly fuckin’ good watches elsewhere, Will,” Don said. “What a fuckin waste of ten grand, Christ on a bike…”

“I’ve seen better watches,” Will agreed. “But we’re looking at the ones with price tags, which is stupid. Come on. They usually put the better things near the back.”

“The ones with – Willoughby,” Don said, “What –“

“Here we are.” Will said, satisfied.

The watches did not have diamonds on them, which was preferable – but they didn’t have price tags, which was worrying.

“Why the fuck would you look at the ones without price tags?” Don asked.

“Because you can look at them.” Will said, pointing to the fact that they weren’t hidden behind what seemed like five hundred layers of glass and security measures. “And they’re not particularly garish, are they Ducky?”

“No,” Don said, warily, squinting at the watches. “Ah guess not. But this is pointless, I’m – prob’ly jus’ goin’t’ get a watch where ah got my last one, I mean, it lasted a good while.”

“It lasted a year Ducky, that’s terrible,” Will said. “Mine broke the year before last, but I’d had it for nearly nine by that point, and it broke because I broke it.”

“Fuckin’ dumbass,” Don said. “Perfectly good fuckin’ watch.”

“I am aware of that, yes.” Will frowned at the watches. “Do you like any of them?” He asked.

“Can’t fuckin’ afford any of this shit, can I?” Don asked. “Humour me,” Will said.

Don rolled his eyes and huffed, but did take a proper look at each of the watches in turn.

“That one,” Don said, pointing at a simple black-leather and silver with a white clockface and normal, black numerals and clock hands. “Most normal fuckin’ watch here.”

“Man of simple tastes,” Will smiled. Don elbowed him. “Fuck off. Not all of us are fancy posh twats – hell, I think y’d like a pocket-watch, fuckin – I know you would, you’re like that.”

“Like what?” Will asked.

“A posh, sentimental git, obviously.” Don said. “C’mon, let’s go.” He said.

“My cover’s been blown,” Will said, smiling, and Don rolled his eyes. “Fuck off,” He said, good-naturedly, grinning as they left the store.

Previous Summer:

“How are ya this fine mornin’?”

Don glanced over at Terri. “Not bad,” He said. “You’ll be off t’ Ireland tomorrow, righ’?”

“Nail on the head,” Terri said, dropping down onto the floor beside him. “Josh’s scramblin’, try’na pack all his crap. James is off, prob’ly somewhere with George.”

“Thought she had the flu,” Don said.

(George nearly always ‘had the flu’.)

“Those bitches are getting fucking married, y’know tha’,” Terri snorted. “Or haven’t ya seen the loving couple? No fuckin’ flu or baby rumours are gonna keep ‘em off each other’s backs.”

“Guess not,” Don said. “Smoke?”

“Nah.” Terri waved a hand. “Try’na quit.”

Don snorted. “Bet Josh loved that.”

“He’s a dick’ead, but you knew tha’,” She laughed. “God. Love ‘im tho’.”

“Yeah.” Don said.

“You ‘ave a girl?” Terri glanced at him.

“Did,” Don said. “Clemsie.”

“Clemsie?” Terri shook her head. “Posh fuckin’ princess?”

“Don’t,” Don said, shortly. “She had to move country, with ‘er fam’ly. We broke up ‘cause o’ tha’.”

“Shit, Don, sorry.” Terri sighed. She clapped him on the shoulder, then leaned over to look him in the eye. “Still. Better to be friends than to lose everythin’ over a long-distance piece of shit relationship, righ’?”

Don thought of Meredith and Audrey, and winced.

“Definitely,” He said. “We video call. It’s – not that… we didn’ get t’be together very long. Tha’elps, ah guess.”

“Helps a lot.” Terri shook her head, then flopped back against the wall. “’Elps a fucking lot.”

“Yeah,” Don said.

“Y’make any friends at those posh schools o’ yours?” Terri asked. “Other than that Clemsie chick?”

“Kay, Will.” Don said. “Lauren, Sam, Sabrina, Lillian, Derek, Daniel-“

“See, fuckin’ knew you’d thrive there,” She said, shoving him in the shoulder and grinning. “Always though’ y’ deserved better than fuckin St Dunstan’s.”

“So do you lot,” Don protested. “It’s a shithole, nobody deserves that.”

“Victims of fuckin’ circumstance, the lot of us,” She said, slumping back. “But I mean it.” She turned her head and looked at him. “Y’ the best o’ all o’ us, y’ prat. Accept it. Well. I mean, Muhammad’s a medical fuckin’ genius, but that’s a whole different ballpark and he’s a hopeless twat mostly, so I don’t count him If I did, he’d be the best no question – but yanno. I’m comfortin’ you, ‘ere.”

“Thanks,” Don said, dryly.

“No problem.” She grinned, and shoved him lightly in the shoulder again. “C’mon. Dad recently fixed up an old foosball table o’ his fam’ly’s, an’ I wan’na see if you’re any better than Josh or his bro,” She clapped him on the shoulder. “An’ maybe you can tell me all ‘bout your new friends, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Don said. “Sure.”

“Terri?” Don asked.

“Yeah? Oh, Don,” She unlatched the door and opened it. “Come inside, it’s fucking cold. God, I hate winter,” She slammed the door shut behind him.

“Do you know anywhere I could get a pocket watch?” Don asked.

“At an affordable price? Yes, of course, never doubt me,” She spun on her heel. “Or, rather, never doubt my dad. Dad!” She yelled.

“Wha’?” A voice boomed back.

“Y’know where we could find a custom watchmaker’s that ain’t damn expensive?”

“Yeah. I’ll drive yeh. Say ‘hello’ t’ Don for meh!”

“How the fuck does he know?” Don shook his head.

“The man has magic, I swear to god. It fuckin’ annoys me I got mum’s genes in that matter.” Terri grumbled, and walked into the living room. She dropped onto the couch, and Don followed suit.

“Is this for that boy o’ yours?” Terri asked, grinning lazily as she leaned back on the couch.

“He’s – why d’y’ have t’put it like tha’?” Don leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“’Cause I like to make people question things,” She said, “Obviously.” Terri stood and moved into the kitchen, then returned with two cokes. “Here,” She tossed him a can. “It’s shit but mum’s addicted me to it, damn the woman.”

Terri dropped onto the beanbag. “Here’s to a very fuckin’ Merry Christmas, y’ prat,” She grinned as she lifted the can in imitation of a toast.

“Hear hear,” Don opened the drink and returned the toast.

“Dad’ll be done in a few minutes,” Terri said, “But – in all seriousness, is this your prezzie for Willoughby or what?”

“Yeah,” Don said. “Fuckin’ git’s as fancy and sentimental as it gets, so…”

“Y’ sentimental y’self, ya prat,” She said, fondly. “Which is why we’re goin’ the whole nine fuckin’ yards, ‘cause a custom one’s a better fuckin’ gift than any stock shit. Better quality, usually, too, ‘cause the maker actually cares about the fuckin' end product.”

“I’m not fuckin’ sentimental, much,” Don said.

“No, y’ just sappy, y’ fuckin prat,” Terri sunk down into the beanbag chair. “Don’ lie to me, Don, I’ve known ya for nearly our whole lives, mate. And I’m older, so I win.”

“If I’m sappy y’re twelve,” Don put the coke can down on the floor, unfinished.

“And proud of it,” She grinned at him. “Only way I can win arguments, I ain’t no good with words.”

“How’d you do in English?” Don asked.

Terri pursed her lips and sighed. “Fuckin failed it, didn’t ah?” She glowered at nothing. “Good fuckin’ thing I can drop out ah sixth form and jus’ go for a level four apprenticeship, huh? Or was it three…” She trailed off, frowning as she thought.

“Eh, whatever.” She chucked her empty coke can into the bin. “Score,” She grinned. “Anway,” Terri turned her attention back to Don. “You’re a total sap, I’ve got evidence. Point is, I’m strong-arming you to go the whole nine-fuckin’ yards, because even tho’ I can trust you to do it on yer own, without me you’ll totally get scammed out o’ your money.”

“Terri,” Don said, flatly.

“What? Who out’a the two of us knows trade, huh? Not you, y’git.” She grinned. “Also I wanna know exactly what inscription y’ put on the fuckin’ thing.”

“Fuck off,” Don said, leaning back onto the couch. “Thanks.”

“Mixed messages, there, oh Donald,” Terri grinned, and dodged the cushion he threw at her. She picked it up and put it under her head, her grin turning self-satisfied. “I always win,” She reminded him.

“No you don’t,” Don said. “Remember the trip to Wales, in year eight?”

“We never talk about the trip to Wales in year eight,” Terri said, automatically. “That’s the first rule of our friendship. Right above ‘we don’t talk about Alex Connors.’”

“Noted,” Don said, sitting up. “Which is above ‘there was never a Chase Johnson’.”

“See, he gets it,” Terri grinned at Don. “We keep each others' dirty little secrets, we get along.”

“Blackmail is the only reason we’re friends,” Don said, dryly.

“And don’t you forget it!” She grinned, laughing, and fell backwards onto the beanbag.

“You two. Got t’ get goin’ now.” Her dad said, suddenly appearing at the doorway. How the six-foot-five craftsman managed this had always been and always would remain a mystery.

Don’s started to believe the story that he killed a strange looking wasp that had holed up alone in it’s hive in the attic of a customer’s house and that’s what gave him his strange abilities a lot more since the events at Slaughterhouse.

After all – Meredith’s not dead, and neither is the dog. The dog which looks exactly like the one in the paintings… of a dog that had lived hundreds of years prior.

“We’re ready, come on,” Terri said, standing, and Don followed the two Blythes out of the house.

“Ah, Terri Blythe, it’s been a long time.”

“Heyo, Uncle Terrance,” Terri said, stepping up to the counter. “Ma friend ‘ere – Don, y’ remember? – needs to get a prezzie for his boy.”

“Terri,” Don said, sighing.

“What?” She looked at him. “Fuck off, you idiot. Ah’ve squinted at your act for a week, bitch, I know exactly how you feel about him. Or do we need to talk about Alex?”

“Fuck off,” Don said. “Hullo, Mr. Connolly.”

“Donald Wallace,” The man said, surprised, as he removed his glasses to quickly clean them, then replaced them on his face, mostly all the way down his nose, in order to squint at Don as if he wasn’t sure Don was actually what he was seeing. “My my, it’s been – how long?”

“’Bout a decade, Uncle Terry,” Terri said.

“Indeed.” The man replaced his lens cleaning cloth back into his pocket, like some old-timey handkerchief. “So what brings you both here?”

“Like ah said,” Terri stated, slowly, “He needs to get a present for his friend for Christmas.”

“My dear boy, it’s only four days away!” The elderly man said, agitated, as he went about retrieving various designs and sheets for pricings. “I can make it in that time, of course, and as always you will get the family discount – but you’ve left yourself very little time to plan!”

“Ah only came up with the idea yesterday.” Don winced.

“That’s even worse!” The man came to a stop, the desk that served as the counter piled high with various pieces of paper. “You’ll need to make the decision today, but you can ask for the inscription upon completion, thank the lord above,” The man narrowed his eyes at Don. “And next time, son, figure things out before the deadline!”

“Righ’,” Don said. “Will do.”

“Good.” The man sighed, relieved. “Now. Take a look,” He gestured to the pile, “And tell me which parts of which designs suit best. And remember – family and Christmas discount, so don’t say no for no good reason.”

Don nodded, somewhat awkwardly, as he started rifling through the papers. Terri wandered off, to browse through the clocks, which included watches - pocket and otherwise – lining the walls and displayed, lovingly, across tables.

“Eight years old,” The elderly man shook his head as he muttered. “And now – you’ll be graduating soon, I imagine?”

“There was an incident,” Don said, “At the firs’ sixth-form ah went t’. After tha’, we ‘ad t’ repeat lower sixth at a new place. So, uh. One more year.”

“I see,” The elderly man inspected a watch hung on the wall and frowned, then set about buffing out an invisible scuff mark. “Where did you go?”

“Slaughterhouse School,” Don said, and the man froze.

“In Slaughter,” The man – stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Don said. “The School –“

“Blew up, yes, I heard.” The elderly man pursed his lips. “A right shamble. Still, at least you got out safely.” The man turned away from the watch on the wall, then cleaned his glasses – avoided eye contact. “… What really happened?”

Don looked blankly at him.

“I may be old, Donald, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know things.” Terrance squinted at him, then put his glasses back on. “Fracking doesn’t usually cause that sort of damage.”

“Well,” Don said. “They weren’ very –“

“Responsible Frackers, I know,” The man’s nostrils flared. “They give it a bad name, that company. No, what I mean is – stories spread. Legends… an old clockmaker hears things.” The man sighed, and looked at the pictures of his customers on the wall behind the counter.

In a few of them, there was a familiar dog.

“Big fuck off mole rats,” Don said. “We had to blow it up.”

“We?” The man’s head snapped over to Don. “How many people killed them?”

“… Dunno,” Don said. “Mr. ‘Ouseman killed one, mostly, then we beat it the rest o’ the way dead. Then – I used Will’s snuffbox to get another, an’ the lighter Will’d been bequeathed to blow up the school – usin’ the gas,” Don explained. “Clemsie killed a li’le one.”

“I see.” The man paused. “Well. I suppose we’ll see how that turns out eventually.”

“Wha’ d’y’ mean?” Don asked.

“Here.” The man said, instead, handing Don a stack of designs. “Find your friend a pocket watch. And think up an inscription, while you’re at it! Don’t leave that as last minute as you left this! I need to talk to my niece. If you’ll excuse me…” And with that, the old man had bustled him off and walked away, over to Terri who was poking a stuffed cat.

“Merlin died then?” Don heard.

“Not all pets can live forever,” The man sighed. “It’s a burden some must face alone.”

Don looked back up at the pictures.

1891

1912

1925

1956

1993

2001

2014…

Don frowned, then shrugged, and looked down at the designs.

Design 3048: Forever.

Design 246: Eternal.

Design 13: Infinite…

Don raised his eyebrows, then shrugged, and started picking out parts of the designs he thought Will might like.

Previous Summer:

“The Johnsons moved to America?”

“No Idea where they go’ the money either, mate,” James said, leaning back on the couch. Terri, from her place on a cushion on the floor, chuckled. “Inheritance, got’t’ be,” She said, as she dispatched of a few grunts. James nodded as he circle-strafed around a hunter.

“No wonder I ah’ven’ seen Mikey ‘round.” Don said.

“They didn’ tell nobody,” Terri scowled. “Fucken’ Lillian didn’ even bother tellin’ her bes’ friend, the wanker.”

“Lisa cry on your shoulder ‘bout it?” Don asked.

Terri grimaced as she picked up an energy sword, then started running around hitting elites with it. “Yes.” She said, glowering at the TV. “There was snot and everything. Fucken’ wan’ed t’ punch Lil’ for tha’.”

“Can imagine,” Don said.

“’Course y’ could, y’ sap,” James said, and Don elbowed him, which caused him to fail in circle-strafing and get shot.

“Bastard,” James said, elbowing Don back, and Terri laughed, finding an enemy-less corner so James could respawn.

 “Willoughby Blake,” Terri said. “Don kno’ yer ‘ere?”

“I have it under good authority that you’ve known him for a very long time,” Will said, “And I was wondering if you could distract him for a – short while, while I go get his Christmas present?”

“Fucken’ell, mate, what’s with posh bastards and waitin’ ‘til the las’ minute?” Terri grumbled, but she stepped inside, and left the door open. Will hesitated before following, and stayed at the door while she put on her boots. “Relax, y’ twit,” She waved a hand, before she started doing up the laces. “I don’ bite.”

“Alright,” Will said, and moved to lean against the wall.

“Da’, I’m off! Seeing the Wallaces!” Terri shouted, as she stood. Terri grabbed her coat off of the stairs, at the end of the bannister, and threw it on. “Fucken’ cold out, innit?” She said, as she walked out of the house. Will followed. “Yes,” He said. “Quite.”

“Post twat,” She said. “You be good to Don, y’ ‘ear meh?”

“I-“

“Don’ even,” Terri warned. “I ‘ate liars. Now go ge’im somethin’ fucken’ nice, and don’ le’im say ‘no’ ‘cause ya spent money on it, ya hear me?”

“Roger that.” Will said, “Ma’am.”

Terri snorted. “Ge’ the fuck out’t’ ‘ere, y’ posh bastard. An’ I expec’ somethin’ nice enough, too, for the good fucken’ advice ah give ya both, y’ blind twits.”

-

“Initiation’s simple, bitches.” Terri slammed a crate of beer onto the table. “Drink me under, an’ ah’ll respect ya fer life.”

“Y’ for real about this, Terri?” Don asked.

“Well, no, bu’ it’ll ‘elp,” Terri said. “Wha’, col’ feet already, Wallace?”

“No,” He rolled his eyes and gestured with the beer he’d already picked up. “Jus’ remember when Mikey drank you under the table?”

“Not my best momen’, bu’ I’m tryin’ t’ recover from tha’, ‘ere. Whoever ‘andles their drink bes’ wins.”

“Ah know who’s gonna fucken’ lose ‘ere, then.” Don said.

“Fuck off, Ducky,” Will said. Terri grinned.

“Fuck’s sake, Willoughby,” Don downed some of his drink.

“Don, Donald, Duck, Ducky. Ah ge’ it, tha’s cute,” Terri grinned, leaning back on her beanbag. She downed a beer, then slammed the empty can down on the floor. “Pacing’s for wimps,” She announced to the ceiling.

“If y’ say so,” Don said. “’S no’ fuckin’ cute.”

“I’m older, what I say goes, it’s cute,” Terri said. “Get me drunk enough, Blake, mate, an’ I’ll tell ya stories about ‘ow much of a sap ‘e is.”

“Fuck off,” Don said. “Or I’ll bring up Cha-“

“Two can play at tha’ game, Donald Wallace,” Terri said, interrupting, as she reached over for another can.

“I have to say, I am curious,” Will said, supressing a smile of amusement. He was onto his second can.

“Ah-ah,” Terri waved a hand at him. “Y’ get t’ know Don’s embarrassing shit, but ah jus’ met ya. Which means y’ don’ get t’ kno’ mine… problem ‘ere is if ya ‘ear Don’s from me, ‘e’ll tell ya about mine. So, yanno, that ain’ ‘appenin’.”

“Shame,” Don said, downing his drink. “Really.”

Lunchtime on Christmas Eve saw a small get-together, with the two Blythe families and the Wallaces.

“Lisa’s still fuckin’ angry at Lil’, an’ she’s over at her gran’s for the yearly fam’ly gatherin’, so she ain’ showin’ up this year. Jus’ us lot, Mrs. Wallace,” Terri said. The two families would be leaving later on, to be in Ireland for the next day. Cutting it a bit close – but then, that was the Blythes, for you. Both sets of them.

Babs smiled at the two sets of Blythes as she stood aside and let them in. “It’s Babs, Terri,” She reminded the girl, like she’d been doing for years. “Come on. Group photo – Don, grab the camera, I’ll go get Dad.”

“Mum-“ Don started, but she was already gone. He sighed, shook his head. “He’s fine where he is,” Don mumbled, but he went to go get the camera anyway.

“Ev’ryones ‘ere,” Don said to Will. “Terri, James, Josh, David; ah, Terri’s dad, an’ Mr. and Mrs. Blythe.”

“So all the Blythes, then,” Will said. “Christmas eve dinner?”

“Fucken’ lunch, mate,” Don said. “Dinner’s later.”

“Ah, but it’s breakfast, dinner, and supper or tea.” Will said.

“Fuck off,” Don said. “We’re doin’ a fuckin’ group photo. Mum’s gettin’ dad’s urn. Let’s go.”

Will nodded, and followed Don into the living room. It wasn’t too cramped, but it was a fair bit cramped. Babs placed the urn on the mantlepiece of the electric fire. “Ev’ry one, gather round, I’ll jus’ set up the camera.” She said, taking it from Don. “Found out a remote activation method, bloody handy,” She explained as she went. The Blythes used the urn as a dividing line, and made sure to leave enough space for the three remaining individuals. “C’mon,” Terri said, gesturing. Don walked over and stood next to his dad, and Will, being tall, went on the back row, between and behind Terri and Don. “There we go,” Mrs. Blythe muttered, then smiled at them. There was space on the other side of the urn for Don’s mum, though it was a bit of a squeeze, and as Babs set up the camera, she asked everyone to move a bit closer in, so they were all in frame, and posed properly. Babs then quickly squeezed into place, and they all smiled at the camera as the flash went off a few times.

“Great!” Babs smiled, and Mr. Blythe – Josh’s dad – clapped his hands. “What’s for Lunch, eh Babs?” He asked.

“Sunday roast,” She grinned. “Wen’ all out for it, so be grateful it’s not sandwiches. Le’s go eat!”

"Present time!" Babs said, clapping her hands once after she'd received confirmation that they'd finished eating. "I'm gon' go grab somethin' while you two start - go on, go on!" She gestured, herding them into the living room before absconding up the staircase. 

"Camera," Don said, knowingly, then flopped down onto the couch. 

Presents from their friends had been coming in since the Christmas holidays started - Don's not entirely sure how Lauren knew to send Will's here, or how or why she'd convinced Sam and the others to do the same, but he hadn't paid much attention to that. Will had brought ones that Clemsie and Smudger and Kay and Hargreaves and Wootton had sent - after all, if it does anything, living through what happened at Slaughterhouse at least makes you a permanent entry on the Christmas shopping list - and Don's had arrived last week. The various Blythes' presents were also under the tree, a couple joint presents; Josh's family got Don and Will and Babs one present each, so that made three presents from the four Blythes, and David got Don and Babs - the Wallaces - some chocolate, but Terri gave Don and Will and Babs a present each - so four from the two Blythes. 

Trying to figure out which bag of presents had been from which Blythe family had been somewhat futile. Thankfully, the individual presents were a bit more obvious. 

(Both families were - bad at tagging, still, though.)

"Alright, which first?" Will said. Don sat up, stood up, and walked over. "Let's get the Blythes over and done with," He said, "Can' fuckin' figure out which is which for them, an' it's bugging me."

"Indeed," Will said, picking up one that had 'Will' on it in sharpie. Don picked up his, and dropped back onto the couch. He opened it, and a note fell out - Terri's, then; she always wrote little notes that she stuck inside the packaging, instead of on it. 

Told him you like him yet, dickhead?

- T. 

Don resisted the urge to facepalm and hid the message amongst the wrapping paper. "Who's your from?" He asked. Will was struggling with an overly sellotaped lump of a present. He found a place he could rip it from, though, and quickly did so. "Terri," He said, frowning slightly at a message written on paper with, of course, sharpie. It bled through, but Don didn't try to read it via the back of the paper. Will scoffed, lightly, and dropped the message, which disappeared into the wrapping paper. "Your friend has an interesting sense of humour," Will said. 

"She's like tha'," Don said. "Always 'as been."

Don grinned at the copy of a Halo game he didn't yet have - a present that was as much for him as for her, likely since co-op was the only way she ever accepted anyone play Halo - and placed it down on the couch next to himself. "What'd she get you?" Don asked.

"A - puzzle box." Will frowned at it. He shook it, and there was something inside it, but how to get in there was - well, a puzzle. "... Interesting choice."

"She got me a cardboard box once," Don said. "And a coat hanger."

"Why?" Will blinked at him. "No' sure," Don shrugged. "She got 'er own boyfriend - b'fore they were t'gether, obviously - a keytar once. Tha' was mem'rable." 

"... Alright, then." Will said, for lack of a better response. Don wasn't sure what you could say to that, anyway. 

They made their way through the rest of the presents, and on the fifth Babs entered the room. 

"Candid." She said, grinning, and Don sighed. "Mul'iple, actu'ly."

"Mum," Don sighed, and she laughed. "Come on, Don, grab Dad, would you? ;E's still in the dinin' room." Well. The kitchen/diner, since it was one room with a table crammed in the corner. 

"Alright," Don said, standing. "Yeah, I'll get him."

Don left the room, and Babs sat down on the couch. 

"See, I've known Don for a very long time, bein' 'is mum an' all," Babs said. She turned and smiled at Will, "An' I knew 'e liked tha' Clemsie girl from the momen' 'e saw 'er - an' ah can tel when he's grown t' like someone, too."

Will didn't reply.

"My boy's go' a big 'eart, and 'e cares abou' you," Babs said, plainly. "An' I'm no' gon' warn y' abou' no' 'urtin' 'im, b'cause ah kno' y're no' the type," She said. "So jus' let y'self be 'appy, Will. Y're a good kid; y' deserve it."

Babs stood and set up the camera as Don entered the room. "Will, be a dear and take the photo, wou'd y' please?" Babs asked. "Don, bring y' father over 'ere." A few flashes later, the photos were taken. "Ah've got' go take a few presents round to our Jackie's," She said, "So ah'll be back soon enough. You two carry on with the presents, don' wait for me." And with that, Babs was gone. 

Don shook his head slightly, and moved to the tree. "Which next?" He asked.

"Ah - why not the Lawrences?" Will asked.

"Then the other 'slaugh'erians'" Don grinned. "Sure." Don tossed Will his present from Smudger - customary, generic; they hadn't really gotten to know each other, after all, Smudger and the rest of the group, since after the events of Slaughterhouse and everyone went home from that police station, well, the Lawrences moved country, so. Don put the riculously expensive chocolate - the same as what Will had gotten from the male Lawrence - aside, and then grabbed Clemsie's presents for them both. He handed Will his, then opened his own. 

Don, a letter read, Merry Christmas! It's been such a long time - we should all really meet up in the new year. Kay will be back in England in the summer, and we'll be visiting family then, so I could pull some strings. It'd be nice, to see everyone again. Staying friends after everything that happened - well. It feels like a good idea to me. 

I hope you and Will have had a good time at that new college - I keep getting letters from Wootton, bless him, about the place his mother sent him to this time. At least Hargreaves is keeping an eye on the poor boy; much like you, they were lucky enough to get sent to the same place. I'm pretty sure if they could, the Hargreaves would have adopted Wootton already, but - well. Given how often he's with his actual family, he might as well already be Isaac's little brother. 

We really should all speak more. It's not like we have phones and skype or email or anything... certainly, we have a lot better than letters. I mean. Really.

See you both in the new year!

Signed,

Clemsie. 

"Got a letter," Don said. "You?" "Yes," Will nodded. "Something about getting the gang back together, as it were."

"'S no' a bad idea," Don said. "Ah mean. We 'aven' spoken in around a year. Tha's a while."

"True," Will said. 

"Guess we'll see if Smudger's therapist thinks it's a good idea," Don said, because though they didn't all keep in much contact, they did say the important things occasionally - usually on gift-giving days. Really, they did need to keep in better contact.

Ah well. That'll be a new years resolution, then. 

Don turned to the present, which was a simple photo album. I heard you take photography, now, some paper masking-taped to the inside cover read. Here's a place to store it all. :)

Signed, Clemsie.

Signed, Smudger. 

"Huh." Don shrugged and put down the album. "Alright."

Will put down his present from Clemsie and ostensibly from Smudger - obviously the presents were from Clemsie, but Smudger had signed the notes masking-taped onto both, if not the letters. 

Don took the present from Kay Will handed over to him and opened it. 

Clemency's gotten it into her head we're going to catch up in the summer. I'll see what I can do, since I will be back in dreary old England, but in the meantime - I heard you take maths. 

You might want to train up your logic if that's the case, so I've given you a 'how to' book on chess, free of charge. I usually make people pay for this since I wrote it, but. We're friends, and it's Christmas, so.

Just try and fucking beat me next time we meet, I dare you, Wallace.

Signed,

Kay. 

Don shook his head and held up the book in response to Will's identical copy. They grinned, slightly, at each other, then reached for the next presents. Hargreaves sent them both identical copies of dungeons and dragons, which he'd presumably sent everyone, and Wootton had sent them fudge. After that, it was Babs' presents - a scarf for Will and a camera for Don (who attempted not to think about how much that cost; most of the Christmas shopping budget, probably) - and then it was time for the presents they'd gotten each other. 

"You first," Will said, handing over his present to Don. Don took it - internally thankful his present didn't go first, for a multitude of reasons - and opened it. 

After the cardboard box and the wrapping paper had been put aside, Don looked at the watch - repackaged, likely, so Don couldn't see the price just from looking at its original box. It's the one he'd pointed out as the one he'd liked best, simple and sleek and fucking expensive, probably, and completely out of his range. 

"Will-" Don started but - "Just take the present, Ducky," Will said. 

Don tried to read his expression, for a moment, but gave up and nodded, slowly. "Well? Go on then, Willoughby, open yours," Don said, gesturing, as he finished removing the protective wrap from the watch and put it on. 

Don waited as Will unwrapped the pocket watch, and waited as Will took a moment to look at it. 

"I..." "Just take the present, Duck," Don said. Will smiled at him, and Don smiled back. 

"There's an inscription," Don said, gesturing. "On th'back."

Will closed and turned over the pocket watch. 

Bequeathed. 

Don watched his face, quitely - Will's reaction was immediate. Many feelings were quickly telegraphed across his face, but Don only caught a few - wonder, surprise, but chief among all - 

Panic. 

Ah. Shit. 

Will stood and walked out. Don hesitated, but this was much less life-threatening than the last time he'd hesitated to go after Will - so, he went. It didn't feel much less nerve-wracking, though, but Don didn't focus on that part. 

Don had heard the front door close, and sure enough - when he opened it, Will was there, out on the cold, snow-covered pavement. 

"Y'kno', if y'ate the gift, y' can jus' tell meh - y' don' 'ave to leave the 'ouse y' dramatic git," Don said. It was cold, and he was still in his pyjamas, and the posh twit currently stood outside his house was probably the most interesting thing to have happened to his little council estate street in years, but at that moment Don didn't rightly care much what Mrs. Johnson saw from between her half-closed curtains, or what Clara-Anne Jenkins could spy on from behind her blinds.

"It isn't that I hate it - It's more - I -" Will stopped, mid-sentence, frustrated enough to start pacing, back and forth, crunching a short path into the snow.  "'S'more wha', Willoughby?"

Will didn't reply immediately, just let out a breath that clouded in the cold air. 

"It doesn't matter, Ducky." Will said.

"'Course it fuckin' matters, or y' wouldn' 'ave left th'fuckin' 'ouse." Don pointed out, reasonably. 

"Donald." 

"Willoughby." Don walked over, mindless of the cold and the snow, and frowned at the other eighteen-year-old. "I don' wan't' renact a fuckin' soap-opera, jus' tell me wha' the fuck is wrong."

"Nothing's - wrong," Will said. "I just - I didn't... No-one's ever thought I or... anything about me was worth remembering. Especially not - something like that. Something that..."

"Important?" Don asked, quietly. 

Will nodded. 

"Well. I do." Don said. "Fuckin' 'ell, Duck, o'course I do."

Will stared down at him, for just a moment - and then, carefully, a move you could almost call furtive - leaned forward, and pressed his lips (cold, chapped - but soft, softer than he'd have thought) to Don's. 

Somewhere far away, a door slammed shut, and Will moved back. 

Before he could get the wrong idea, Don caught Will's hand with his own. "Y' kno', Will, I kno' yer cold-blooded an' that, but I'm fuckin' freezin' out 'ere."

Will laughed. He let himself be led back inside the house. Don dropped his hand and closed the door, then turned to look at Will again. Before he could say anything, of course, the door opened. 

"Candid." Babs said, grinning. "Tha' was a beau'iful momen', really; one for the scrapbook."

Don sighed.

"First've all," Don said, "Mum, what the fuck, d'y' think y're doin'?"

Will grinned. "I, for one, think it's sweet. I should like our moments together to be captured."

"Ah, shut up, ya sentimental git." Don rolled his eyes. "Mum, 's weird, y' really don' need to."

"Actu'ly, Don, ah do," She said, frankly. "Mem'ries're precious thin's. Bes'to capture 'em so they're no' forgo'en." 

"Alrigh', alrigh'-" 

"Great!" Babs clapped her hands. "Now. Who wants lunch?"

[depechemodespiritera]

Tell Me About It: Dave Gahan – “‘Why is your music so depressing?’ is a really lame question”

The Depeche Mode singer on crappy gigs, addiction and escaping death... twice

Words by David Zammitt  Photos by Anton Corbijn

Dave Gahan is stationed in the basement of the swanky Bulgari Hotel in Knightsbridge. As I wait outside his room in music journalist purgatory, waiting for an interview with some other mag to round up, I’m told that it shouldn’t be long but, well, unfortunately, Dave is enjoying the conversation so much that he wants to keep chatting. Maybe we’ll get on really well too, I think.

When I am finally beckoned in, Gahan welcomes me to the conference room that’s become his office for the day. He is warm, full of smiles, and even offers me a smoothie. Radioactive green, it’s a sign of the journey from Gahan’s dark days in the late ’80s and, well, most of the ’90s. It’s fair to say that the rider requests for a man who’s come through heroin addiction and bladder cancer is a little different these days. With hair slicked back, pencil moustache neatly groomed and a silver skull ring nestling on his middle knuckle, it’s hard to equate him with the 19-year-old Epping boy in the oversized suit who nervously bopped his way through ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’.

Of course, a lot of well-documented water has passed under the bridge since Gahan and Depeche Mode arrived with the synthpop agenda-setter ‘Speak & Spell’ in 1981. Fourteen studio albums is a pretty solid achievement in itself, but when you hear the context of the hurdles that had to be negotiated in order to do so, it pulls the feat into sharper focus. Through ailing health, substance abuse and a couple of run-ins with the law, Depeche Mode have somehow stayed united. Depsite the chaotic highs and creativity-sapping lows, the release of their latest LP, ‘Spirit,’ continues a run of at least one album every four years for the last 35. Impossibly, Depeche Mode have become one of British music’s most reliable forces.

As Gahan speaks in staccato – all full-stops and short and rapid-fire sentences – he flits from topic to topic and I may as well have left my nice, crisp A4 sheet of questions at home, because I barely say anything. Jumping from the band’s recent gig at Glasgow’s Barrowlands to the merits of theatre and the ethic behind Depeche Mode’s ‘depressing’ sound in the first five breakneck minutes, at 54 Gahan is full of energy. But while it can be hard to keep track, Gahan’s passion is the thread that ties our conversation together.

“The Barrowlands is a smelly, dirty old venue”

There’s not many of them left like that. We just played there for BBC 6 Music festival, but we first played there in the early ’80s – someone told me it was 1984. I remember at the time it was pretty heaving. The stage moves a bit because the floor moves a bit. So once it gets going…

It was fun to do that show last week, which was maybe an hour long – much shorter than the two-hour show that we usually do. I got a couple of texts from Bobby Gillespie that said: “perfect time.” For performing, an hour is the perfect time.

We had a beautiful few days in Glasgow. To be in England or Scotland or Ireland and it to be good weather, you actually get to see how beautiful it is, really. And I love the people up there. People in the hotel and on the street – everywhere. Good people!

“‘Why is your music so depressing?’ is a really lame question”

I recently saw the play Buried Child by Sam Shepard. I love all Sam Shepard’s stuff. They’re usually based in the American heartland and what it’s really like – not the American Dream. Buried Child is about a child who wasn’t wanted and ended up being buried in the garden and haunts the family, spiritually. So everything they do for their drunken lives is haunted by that. Some people would say that it’s a miserable story, but stories like that, to me, are real life.

It’s like, the question I’ve had to answer many, many times, is where people are like, ‘Why is your music so doomy?’ First of all, it’s a really lame question, but the answer is always the same – ‘Well, I don’t find it like that.’ I just never have. I don’t. I get that some of the subject matter is quite dark, and musically it can be quite dark, but I’ve always felt that if the lyric was really black and if we were going into some weird, dark place, there’s a melody or a sound or something there that lifts you out of that. Like in a good book, or a film – there’s a story there.

I tend to dwell there quite a lot. And it’s OK because I find that it’s the only place you can find any real light anyway. You’ve got to dig deep because all the surface bullshit – all this stuff [he lifts up his iPhone and shakes it] – is where we seem to waste our time.

“We still care about reviews”

Of course we care. The thing about reviews is that someone told me a long time ago that if you believe the good ones you’ve got to believe the bad. There’s always a bit in both and it’s all opinions.

What I liked about one review I read of the Barrowlands show was that the person was actually reviewing the sentiment in the feeling in the moment, and how they felt. And that was undeniable! If he had said anything else about that night – that he didn’t like my trousers or something – it would have been ridiculous because it was a special night. But they’re not all like that – trust me!

Sometimes someone will give me a newspaper in the morning and we’re off to the next gig, and I know it’s been a shit show the night before, or that it wasn’t quite right. The moment wasn’t really there, and someone’s seen through it. And you read it and you’re still like, ‘Fuck you!’ But they can’t all be gems. Over the years you learn that [once in a while] you have this special feeling and you look around at each other and you’re all floating on air, but most of the time you’re getting through a song and you’re thinking about something else. Well, not most of the time. But quite often towards the end of the show I’ll be thinking about whether there’s room service.

“I remember launching six or seven bottles of wine at the wall because I couldn’t drink it”

There was one time when we made the decision not to tour and that was with the album ‘Ultra’ [1997] because I definitely was not healthy enough to tour. I was trying to convince everybody that I was, and I had all good intentions but, put it this way, six months into the recording of the album, after a big session we did in New York, I went back to L.A. and then stuff happened and I ended up in jail [Gahan was arrested after overdosing on a speedball at the Sunset Marquis Hotel in 1996]. So it really was a good decision.

After that album I think we put out a greatest hits – 1998, I’m thinking. And we did some shows. For me, that was the best and the worst tour we’ve ever done because I don’t think I was in any of those performances. It was all new for me. I was no longer drinking any alcohol or using any drugs and I was like an open wound; a bag of nerves trying to fake it ‘til I made it. I had no business being on the road and I had a few moments in dressing rooms. I remember launching six or seven bottles of wine at the wall because I couldn’t drink it. That was my share and if I wasn’t going to be able to drink it then it was going to go against the wall. While the band were all in the dressing room as well. It must’ve been quite scary, thinking about it. I was not happy at this idea of being sober and that I would have to do this for the rest of my life if I wanted to keep on living. And that’s nearly 20 years ago, which is incredible in itself, although it’s not been without its bumps and bruises along the way. It’s been a real mind opener – much more than any drugs or alcohol.

“Physically, I couldn’t sing for longer than five minutes”

I remember being back at my home in L.A. after being arrested. I got a phone call – and I never picked up the phone – and it was Martin [Gore], kinda angry and kinda pissed off that we were in the middle of recording an album and I was not going to be able to leave Los Angeles for two years. If I got into trouble, I was going to jail. So they carried on working on stuff and then created sessions for when I was allowed out of this place I was in, which I’d checked myself into. I ended up staying there for six months – I was terrified of going back home because I knew what I was going to do. I made some good friends there and I went to the studio with someone who was watching over my shoulder, but it saved my life.

I couldn’t sing at that point. I mean physically, I couldn’t sing for longer than five minutes. And it was not good. There were times when I thought I was good during the first half of the making of that album, but I was probably high. I thought I was Frank Sinatra when I was up at the mic, but listening back it was like, ‘Jesus!’. So they made me work with this amazing vocal coach, Evelyn. She would only work with me – because I was a real scumbag at the time – if I would go to this church with her in downtown L.A. in a pretty rough neighbourhood in Inglewood, somewhere where she would do this thing every Sunday working with the choir. She said: ‘You come with me and sing with the whole group; you’ve gotta be part of a team!’ She was so nice and gentle with me and gave me a lot of her time. She kinda brought my voice back to me. And that album got finished.

“My wife was like: ‘What are you looking at pictures of your tumour for?’”

During the making of ‘Sounds of the Universe’ [2009] I’d not been feeling good. I had no energy a lot of the time. I would have enough energy to do the sessions in the studio and I’d get home at night and say to the wife that I was so tired. I was kind of crashing out at 9 in the evening, and I wasn’t really telling the guys. But then it all made sense when I was diagnosed.

I used to say to, Jen, my wife, ‘I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do these shows.’ So then we were in Athens and I was having excruciating pain in my gut. Well, it felt like my gut but it wasn’t. So that night the doctor came to the dressing room, five minutes before we were due on stage. I’d been throwing up a bit – I hadn’t been talking about that. Little bit of blood in my urine – I hadn’t been talking about that. I just thought all these things were wear and tear.

But I got rushed to hospital and while the doctor was doing an ultrasound he looked at me and looked at the screen again. I said: ‘I know I’m not pregnant!’ and he said ‘Well, I see something and I have to get someone else in.’ So I said: ‘What do you see?’ and he said: ‘I see a shadow.’ I’ve heard that in movies. It just so happened that there was an oncologist there and I got on the MRI and they said that they could do the surgery there and then. You have a sac in your bladder and you have another sac on the inner sac, and the cancer hadn’t got through the walls yet. It’s an amazing looking thing! My wife was like: ‘What are you looking at pictures of your tumour for?’ But it looked like a sea urchin with all these alien tentacles! It’s an amazing thing. But if they go undiagnosed and it goes into other organs you’re done, really.

“We seem to be pretending we’re not, but we’re fucking lost!”

‘Spirit’ is more of a social outlook on humanity itself, and we’re lost. We seem to be pretending we’re not, but we’re fucking lost! It’s a bit apocalyptic and bit post-apocalyptic in places, this record; ‘Cover Me’ being post-apocalyptic, ‘Fail’ being now, ‘Poison Heart’ being, you know – ‘You’re the devil and we all know it, but you’re in power!’ And then there are songs like ‘Going Backwards’ or ‘Scum’, which are just horrified at humanity, at ourselves.

Where’s the spirit? Where’s the spirit in really caring? And people say, you know, ‘It’s easy for you guys in your fancy houses,’ but like Martin has said, just because you’ve had some success it doesn’t mean you have to stop caring about what you see and feel. And you do the best you can. The way we can portray how we feel is through music, through art. And ultimately we’re here to entertain you but to maybe entertain you with a sense of reflecting. This is not a record that’s ramming something down your throat. This is not Billy Bragg.

(via Tell Me About It: Dave Gahan – “‘Why is your music so depressing?’ is a really lame question” - Loud And Quiet)

[finsterhunde]

Something I find extremely funny/ironic is that when my birth father cheated and my mother finally kicked him out he immediately started trying to pretend that he was the victim in the relationship but the only things he could come up with that weren't outright lies were that he didn't like her cooking, she got after him for leaving trash in the living room, and that she "made the boys think he was a drug addict"

But then when you actually look at what my mother was going through she had to constantly take psychological, verbal, and physical abuse from him, clean up after him, do literally everything for him, let him do horrible things to her children, smoke in the house, get drunk every single fucking day and leave trash everywhere.

And like, I know my mom is still a toxic person and is manipulative. But my birth father certainly isn't the victim.

Mom's only victim was us kids. She used us as scapegoats and therapists. Like whenever she wanted to vent but couldn't phone her siblings because my birth father would hear she'd lock me or my brother in the car and just scream and cry for an hour and make us listen and then feel bad after and get us McDonald's. I don't blame her for that even though it was on her for doing it.

But like, my birth father was never the victim. It was a pyramid of abuse with him at the top and us kids at the bottom.

My birth father has this habit of "stealing" afflictions he caused in us kids. Like I grew up having him deny that mental illness was a thing and refuse to let me see professionals but nowadays he's like "I got PTSD because I [assaulted] a police officer. And I have anxiety and depression" and I'm just sitting here like "oh, those things you said I didn't have? Huh... Interesting..."

But the fact that he tries to pass off the fact that he was abused by my mother is infuriating and funny and sad. Because her life was ruined because of him and he was this grand abusive manipulator but suddenly when she FINALLY has enough after almost two decades and two ruined childhoods and an abusive loveless marriage and two dead dogs and a physically disabled son it's suddenly "wahhhh I'm the victim!"

The final straw was cheating and weed in the house. He could have easily not had the weed in the house. Both us kids have respiratory problems partially caused by all his secondhand smoke. Why would weed be allowed in the house. What.

But like the big thing he says is that "she LIED TO YOU" and [Anakin voice] "you TURNED thEM AGAinST mE" (you have done that yourself) and like, him blaming her for why we hate him even though it's because he's an abusive creep who spent most of our childhoods as a drug addict alcoholic who was constantly beating the shit out of us.

Mom is actually too soft on him. Her religious programming normalized a lot of it. She gets mad at me when I say I wish he was dead. She cares more about how he cheated than what he did to us. The animosity me and my brother have for him is very much something we developed on our own. I can first remember actually hating him since I was around 8 or 9 years old. It wasn't this new thing after the split. I hid my feelings out of fear until then, but holy shit did I hate him.

He actually had a lot of deep-seated resentment over the fact that I didn't love him unlike my older half-brother who he lost custody of at a young age. (Hmmm I wonder why) but like, it isn't normal for children to hate their parents. To not bond with them even a little bit. Maybe we could look back at the relationship we had and... oh... hmmmm... real big mystery why I hate you. (I often wonder if his last marriage and the loss of custody had anything to do with that. That his previous wife actually protected her son. I don't like to dwell on it but I think about it a lot. He actually fought really really hard in court and had a TON OF MONEY to do it and had military ties but he still couldn't get custody. That is very telling.)

And the added irony is that he's a very "I am tough and the younger generations are all snowflakes who play the victim and we should be allowed to hit children" sorta guy but the minute someone stands up to him he's all "I'm being abused and I don't like it!"

Like when the police had a warrant for his arrest and they were entering his property and he fucking hid behind the door and when they opened it he tried to punch them in the face but then as soon as they tazed him he was all about the "Police brutality! Abuse! Home invasion!" Talk shit get bit old man.

Anyways the point I'm trying to make is that even the most horrific abusers will play the victim when they start to face consequences.

But look where we are. My mother is finally starting to heal, and he's over in fuckhead land failing to start a cringe esports "career" while his basement is flooded with sewage. Me and my brother are still absolutely fucked but at least we're out of that environment.