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riseandshinelittleblossom · 5 years

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Meet the Beaumonts: When Maxwell Married Stephanie

This is yet another installment of the Cordonians Gone Wild AU created by @ao719 @cocomaxley @leelee10898 and @speedyoperarascalparty . Thanks for letting me join in on the fun, chickas!

Disclaimer: I don’t own the TRR characters, they own me.

Tag list: @fullbeaumonty @annekebbphotography @carabeth @stopforamoment @zaffrenotes @editboutique @moneyfordiamonds @give-me-ernest-sinclaire @3pawandme @ooo-barff-ooo @tornbetween2loves @choiceslife@ownworldresident @perfectprofessorherokid @wannabemc2 @enmchoices

Stephanie smoothed the rainbow-colored tulle of her mid-thigh length skirt, checking her reflection in the mirror. She adjusted the deep blue, sequined bust of the dress before reaching for her lipstick.

“You look fantastic, Rosebud.” Maxwell said utterly enthralled with the woman before him.

She peeked up into his eyes in his reflection in the mirror.

“Wedding colors and House Beaumont colors. You outdid yourself with this dress, Hun.”

Her fiance rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well it helps that you could make a potato sack look sexy.”

She spun to face him, stepping on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. His hands gripped her waist and he placed a chaste kiss to her mouth. He felt a smile bloom against his lips as a snicker fell from the love of his life.

“You look pretty spectacular yourself, Baby.”

Stephanie adjusted his tie and brushed off his shoulders. “I don't know why you bother with a jacket, though. They never last the whole event because you hate them.”

“Yeah, well. I have to try hard to look good enough to be on your arm, Red. Shall we?” Maxwell extended his arm and she took it, draping her hand in the bend of his elbow.

They entered the ballroom of the Ramsford estate, greeting guests as they headed towards the dais, grabbing champagne flutes along the way.

Bertrand and Savannah stood arm in arm on the raised platform, their own toasting glasses in hand. The Duke of Ramsford cleared his throat as his wife handed him a microphone.

“We'd like to thank you all for joining us for my little brother's rehearsal dinner. Savannah and I are overjoyed to be welcoming the lady Stephanie Scott into our family tomorrow. Please enjoy yourselves and do make sure to offer proper salutations to the bride and groom.”

A few hours later Stephanie found herself with Gen and Alicia near the dessert table.

“You called it with the jacket, Stef. I guess it must be hard to move like that in one.” Alicia laughed, gesturing towards Maxwell as he grooved out on the dance floor.

Stephanie glanced in the direction her friend had pointed to find her fiance, devoid of blazer with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Yep that's my Maxie.”

She beamed as she noticed Countess Madeline and Lady Kiara at a table nearby.

Knowing that the two bitter women were almost always trying to plot against Alicia and Pam, she edged a little closer to them, straining her ears against the absurdly loud music to eavesdrop.

“It's really very sad if you ask me, the nose dive this once prestigious house took when Duke Barthelemy and Duchess Renee died.” Madeline sneered.

“Oui. House Beaumont was once one of the most revered houses in Cordonia and now they've only sullied their name by Bertrand marrying a commoner.” Kiara agreed.

“And now the spare is following suit. And even worse, she's an American commoner. Maxwell's parents are likely rolling in their graves over his choice of a wife. Rest their souls.”

Stephanie gulped, her face going pale.

“Stef, are you okay?” Gen asked placing a hand on her friend's forearm.

“I…. I feel dizzy. Excuse me.” She replied as her world started spinning. She sat her champagne flute down and headed towards the nearest door.

She staggered into the the hallway collapsing into the wall. She pressed her back firmly against it, sliding into a sitting position, gently hugging her knees.

Stephanie's nostrils flared as her chest heaved, her breathing coming in short spurts through her nose.

Pam and Drake appeared in the hallway. He was adjusting his tie as Pam pawed at her hair, trying to smooth it back into place.

“Stephanie, oh my God!” The brunette woman rushed over placing her hands on her friend's shoulders.

Stephanie blinked furiously, trying to focus on Pam.

“Drake, go get Maxwell. She's having a panic attack.” She instructed. Drake raced into the ballroom.

“That's it, honey. Breathe. Max is coming.”

A few moments later Maxwell came flying out of the ballroom with Alicia and Anitah on his heels.

“Rosebud! What happened?!” He shouted kneeling to take Pam's place in front of his fiance. He gingerly cradled her face in his sizeable hands, his eyes darting back and forth between hers.

Just the sight of him calmed her by measures, but her breathing was still erratic. “M...Madeline…” she squeaked out.

“Sssshhhh. Don't try to talk, Sweetheart. Just focus on me.” Maxwell told her calmly.

Alicia began removing her dangle diamond earrings, promptly handing them to Anitah.

“Brooklyn?” The queen asked and Alicia nodded before stalking into the ballroom, her skirt swept up in her arm.

Stomping up to Madeline, she cocked her fist delivering a swift right hook to the Countess’ nose.

Madeline fell from her chair and Alicia stepped over the crumpled woman. “Listen now and listen good. I've had enough of your shit. You stay away from Stephanie. Do you hear me?” She pointed at the blonde on the floor who nodded swiftly.

“That goes for you too, bitch.” She huffed at Kiara.

Back in the hallway, Stephanie's breathing was almost back to normal and Maxwell helped her up, pulling her protectively into his arm. “I'm going to take her to bed. Anitah will you let B know what happened?”

“Of course.” Anitah replied.

The couple slowed as they approached Stephanie's estate room. She looked up at Maxwell with puffy eyes and tear-stricken cheeks.

“Are you okay, Rosebud?” He asked, his thumb gently caressing her face.

“I am now. I'm so sorry, Hun. I don't know what came over me. I just got so overwhelmed…”

Max placed a finger over her lips. “It's fine, Red. As long as you're okay now that's all I care about.”

Stephanie looked deep into his eyes searching for any hint of disappointment. Finding none, she wrapped her arms around his waist. She pulled him tight against her, breathing in his familiar scent. Maxwell always smelled like chocolates and coffee, and she sighed delightfully into his chest.

When they finally parted, Maxwell leaned in slowly. Just before his lips met hers she turned away, his kiss landing on her cheek. He didn't move at first except to lean away a little, his mouth still puckered a moment before it fell into a frown.

“Did I...did I do something wrong?” He asked, brows furrowing.

“No.” Stephanie began her gaze still averted. “It's bad luck before the wedding.”

“Well I've never heard that a kiss was bad luck. Just the spending the night together. Is that an American thing?”

She winced at his words, hoping he didn't notice. American thing.

She looked back up at him. The concern on his face was breaking her heart, so she smiled warmly.

“I'm just tired is all. I'm worn slap out.” She forced a chuckle, but he grinned in response and that was what she wanted to see.

“I love your southern-isms, Rosebud. Well I guess I'll let you get to bed then.” He planted a kiss to the crown of her head and slowly turned her door knob.

“Good night, Maxie.”

“Oh it's going to be the best night because tomorrow I'm going to marry the girl of my dreams...but like in real life.” He winked as she chuckled stepping inside.

“I love you, Maxwell Beaumont.”

“I love you too, Stephanie Scott. I already can't wait to see you tomorrow.”

The next morning the squad and Savannah all gathered in the bridal ready room positioned just off of the boutique. Stephanie's gown stood, all by itself, in the corner. She stepped over to it, admiring the craftsmanship of Ana de Luca.

It was a strapless dress with a white, corset-style bodice. Stephanie ran her fingers over the rainbow colored jeweled detail just below the breast. As her hands continued to dance further down the dress to the multi colored layers of tulle creating the skirt, she drew in a deep breath and tugged her floral print robe closer to her body.

Every piece of her was ready to meet Maxwell at the altar and become his wife. Every piece but one.

A nagging, irksome feeling in the pit of her stomach kept replaying the Countess’ words over and over again.

“...even worse she's an American commoner.”

“Well we're all dressed.” Alicia began, drawing Stephanie from her trance. She turned to face her bridesmaids, each wearing a different color of the rainbow.

Alicia was in royal blue, Savannah in a vibrant yellow, Genevieve wore hot pink, Pam a deep plum, and Anitah in a Kelly green. Each was a vision in her respective dress; Stephanie's childhood vision of her special day.

“Now let's get you in that thing. It's going to take all of us.” Pam mused pointing at the wedding gown.

The bride stood before the floor length mirror, her ginger hair pinned half up, the rest flowing down her shoulders in loose, beachy waves.

“So you have your something old.” Savannah stated, draping their grandmother's antique pearls around Stephanie's neck and clasping them.

“ Your something new. From Rashad's dad.” Gen held up a pair of freshwater pearl earrings.

“They're lovely, Gen. Please thank Demetrius for me.”

“And something blue…” Alicia finished, wrapping a blue handkerchief embroidered with House Beaumont's crest around the handle of the bridal bouquet. “Now we just need to find you something borrowed.”

“ I think I can help with that, actually.” Anitah said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a box, opening it to reveal a simple silver tone tiara adorned with Crystal and pearls.

“It's from my royal collection. It'll match your heirloom pearls nicely and I think every woman should feel like a queen on her wedding day.”

The monarch smirked as Stephanie's eyes went wide. She stepped up, adding the tiara to the crown of Stephanie's head, careful not to jostle her hair.

“Oh Anitah!” The bride began whirling to peer into the mirror once more. “It's beautiful. How can I ever thank you?”

“Just knock em dead out there. Seeing you look your best as you marry one of my best friends will be thanks enough for me.” The queen shrugged.

Stephanie studied herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her , wrapped in all the trappings of a noble wedding, looked nothing at all like herself. Suddenly she felt dizzy again. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was a mistake.

Not because she didn't love Maxwell. She did. More than anything; But seeing herself so dressed up only drove home the point that she didn't belong here on his arm.

And the others are court, people that were important in Maxwell's country, they were taking notice.

How could she ruin his House like this? Certainly she couldn't change the fact that his brother had married her cousin. The ladies at court would probably always gossip about Savannah, but at least she was a Cordonian.

… Maxwell's parents are likely rolling in their graves over his choice of a wife….

“I... I need to talk to Maxwell. Now. Right now!” Stephanie declared stepping away from the mirror. Her bridesmaids shared a concerned look.

“Stef, it's almost time to start. Drake will be here any second to walk you down the aisle. Max is probably already at the altar-” Pam tried to reason.

“I don't care what time the invitation says! Max and I are the ones getting married! What are they gonna do? Start without us?” Stephanie snapped.

Alicia's eyes went wide as she mouthed “okay…” turning to face Pam.

“I'm sorry you guys, I'm not trying to yell, I just...I really have to talk to him. Now. It can't wait.” Stephanie pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

Gen nodded. “Okay, but you can't see him before the wedding it's bad luck. So stand right here and me and Nitah will go and get him.”

The ladies ushered Stephanie to the wall just next to the door jamb. She leaned against it, her head falling back to rest upon it as well as she sighed loudly.

A few moments later they returned.

“He's right outside.”Gen told her, a small giggle escaping her lips. “Funny. He's standing just like that.”

Stephanie's eyes met Genevieve's, silently thanking her for honoring her crazy request.

“Okay, we'll give you guys some privacy.” Pam stated ushering everyone out. She paused in the doorway and said, “we'll be waiting in the vestibule. And no peeking you two.”

Once everyone was gone, Stephanie asked, “Maxwell?”

“I'm here. Is everything okay, Rosebud?”

She could hear the subtle anxiety in his voice and she closed her eyes as her heart sank. She slid down the wall, the fabric of her wedding gown catching slightly as she did.

There was a faint scraping against the other side of the wall indicating that her soon-to-be husband had done the same. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maxwell's familiar, large hand reach around the corner, palm pointed skyward.

She smiled to herself, lacing her fingers in his. Her hand suddenly looked so naked since she had removed her Sapphire and diamond engagement ring for the ceremony.

“I've just been thinking...we met seven months ago. Seven months. There are still so many things...and today we're getting married.”

She looked down at the multicolored tulle skirt of her gown, rolling the fabric between her unoccupied hand.

“Somehow you don't sound so sure about that, Red. Are we...are we getting married today?” Maxwell's voice was calm now, even and understanding.

“I love you so much, Max. I can't imagine my life without you, But this is a huge step. I guess I just wanted to..ya know? Give you an out. If you want one. It's just us here, so we can do this quietly-”

“Stephanie, why would I want an out? You're my soulmate.” He interrupted gently squeezing her hand.

“Look… I don't fit in here, Maxwell. I'm not made for all of the pomp and circumstance. The fancy parties and the opulence. I mean one of your best friends is literally a queen. I grew up on a farm in Texas. You're nobility. I can't compete and I can't keep up. And most of all, I know I'm not good enough. I just don’t wanna make you look bad.” Stephanie mused, her voice cracking.

From his place in the hallway Maxwell shook his head, wiping his hand down his face before nervously wetting his lips.

“What brought this on? Have you been just stewing in this? Stef...I love you and you love me, the real me. That's all there is to it. I don't care about all of the other stuff.”

“I overheard some ladies at our rehearsal dinner talking about how first Bertrand married below his station and now you were doing the same thing and how your parents would be so disappointed. I don't know.”

Maxwell pulled her hand further into the doorway. She could just make out the ends of his messy chocolate hair and the tip of his slightly upturned nose as he brought the back of her hand to his lips. He lingered there for a long moment, his breath warm against her fingers.

Finally he said, “ If you don't want to do this, I can't make you. It'll kill me to let you go, Stephanie; but I will gladly do that if that's what you want. I'd do anything for you, even break my own heart. I just want you to be deliriously happy, Rosebud. No matter what it takes. So I'll tell ya what I'm going to do. I'm going to head out there, to the altar, and I'm going to marry you, if you'll still have me. I don't care what anyone else thinks. I just want to be your husband, because I love you and I know that this type of love only happens once in a lifetime.”

Maxwell pressed his lips to her hand once more before standing. He brushed off his slacks before adding, “ I really hope you'll meet me out there. I can't wait to see you in that gorgeous gown, baby.”

Stephanie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was still silently begging her tears not to fall when Drake appeared in the doorway.

“There you are. Let's go get you married, Beaumont.” He grinned.

#cordonians gone wild AU #cgw au #trr fanfic #maxwell x stephanie #maxwell beaumont #drake walker #riseandshinelittleblossomfic

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storiesandgarbage · 5 years

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Chapter 5 - Rescue You

A Trip to Asgard

Pairings: Featuring: Avenger!OC // OC x Steve Rogers, OC x Loki Laufeyson

Style: Multi-chapter fic // Chapter 4 / ?

Word Count: ~2 k

Warnings (chapter specific): Mentions of a battle. Fun intrusions from ya fave Asgardians, a boring chapter

Summary: A Sunday afternoon spent at the mall is all Amelia wants for today but her plans get skewed just a bit when a rather inconvenient attack on Asgard occurs.

A/N: Hi my lovelies! I’m sorry this chapter is never what I imagined it to be, but the next chapter is everything you never knew you needed! I’m hoping the funk that I’m stuck in will pass soon enough! I appreciate you all reading my work. It means more than you know!

Please, as always hit me with asks, requests are open and so is my taglist! Thank you for reading and for your support x

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5 I Rescue You Masterlist I Main Masterlist

A peaceful Sunday. That’s all Amelia had wanted was one peaceful Sunday out on the town. It appeared that the team would never get that lucky. The group was spread about the outlet mall which Amelia insisted had something for everyone. She begged them to go, to spend some quality time with one another and relax. She forbade the gym that morning; making everyone sleep in and then cooked breakfast for the lot of them with all their different tastes taken into account.

“I want to have a good day.” She said when they pestered her about her motives. Everyone seemingly decided that they would let her have her way because it was much simpler than continuing to argue. And to her credit, everyone was having fun and relaxing. Loki and Thor had found a small shop with “authentic” relics from the times of old and were making fun of their historical inaccuracy together. The shop owner shushed them every time their laughter bubbled over. Tony had drug Steve into a virtual golf driving range and they were competing with each other for the longest drive. Bucky sat on the side and watched them bitterly, having been disqualified after being caught using his metal arm to increase his swing strength significantly. Bruce had cornered a group of tech geniuses at a Best Buy and was teaching them about how to hack their phones to get endless free content and data. Having picked up Peter on the way, Vision and Wanda were taking him shopping for “proper clothing”, didn’t that young man know how to dress? Was he taking fashion advice from Tony? Amelia, Natasha, and Clint made their way through several different stores together before settling in the cafeteria with slushies and hot pretzels.

Everything was fine, until Amelia caught sight of a TV broadcasting the news.

Three large words lined the bottom of the screen and there was a lump stuck in Amelia’s throat. “Attacks on Asgard”, it read. She put down her pretzel and stood immediately, bolting for the relics store in search of Loki and Thor, when she found them they were holding a bust that was to be of Thor but the nose was hilariously large. They looked up at her as she approached them, breathless.

“Amelia? Are you okay?” Loki’s concern was immediate.

“Asgard,” Amelia got out, “something is happening.” The two men looked at each other before leaving the store with Amelia in tow. They got to the nearest store with a TV and saw the news broadcast.

“It seems that early this morning invaders of some kind landed on the shores of New Asgard and began attacking the citizens.” The newscaster said. Thor didn’t listen any further, he was already out the door of the store and and summoning storm clouds to the area when Loki and Amelia caught up to him.

“Thor, wait,” Loki said, “we will get the team and go together.”

“There is no time to waste brother, our people are in danger, we must go to them.” With his words Thor raised a fist into the air and grabbed onto Loki’s arm, Amelia reaching for Loki’s hand at the last second, just as a bolt of lightning met Thor’s fist and the three of them appeared moments later on the beachy shore of New Asgard.

After Ragnarok Thor and Loki brought their people to Earth and forged a new land, a previously uninhabited island that now boomed with life. They called the land “New Asgard,” a bit obvious if you asked Amelia but who was she to judge? New Asgard was known for its trading systems and the services which the Asgardians could provide, techniques mastered over their civilization’s time which most Terrans could not begin to grasp. New Asgard was a beautiful place, an amazing contribution to society as a whole, which is why Amelia couldn’t understand, couldn’t process what was happening in front of her.

Smoke filled her lungs almost immediately while still on the beach. The small buildings which had sprung up all over the island were up in flames. People immediately ran to the beach when their crown royalty appeared before them. Frantic shouting and pointing toward the island’s center told them where they needed to go. Amelia reached out and placed her hand on several of the citizens, their cuts and bruises faded. She continued the action as she followed Thor and Loki further inland.

“What is this Lok?” She asked in a hushed tone as the hurried along.

“I really don’t know.” His tone showed his anger and the underlying fear for his people. She quickly squeezed his hand before veering off to help another group that looked injured.

She had no weapons of her own so her help in the fight to come would be limited to healing those involved as they went. As they approached the main town square the sounds of destruction rang loudly in their ears. Loki seemed to read her mind and quickly handed two of his daggers he conjured to Amelia before sprinting off behind Thor, it was certainly better than nothing but the wounded were her main concern. Running through rubble and taking care of anyone she could find became her routine. She dragged men away from the fray as best she could and healed them. Their Asgardian blood assisted greatly in the process and she was thankful, if it weren’t for the adrenaline she wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

Some time later the fighting seemingly stopped, or at least the noise had. The sudden silence made fear spread from Amelia’s core, the ending of the fight had one of two outcomes and there was only one she could bear. Standing up from the man who was no longer bleeding underneath her Amelia began to scan the surroundings for any sign of her boys.

Thor approached first beaming and bleeding and Amelia breathed a short sigh of relief until noticing that Loki did not follow immediately behind his brother.

“Loki is on the other side of that ridge, searching for people to be healed.” Thor brushed off Amelia’s attempts to get to a large wound over Thor’s eye. “Let’s go find him.”

The pair took off running in the direction Thor led. Coming over the ridge Amelia took in the sight of the entire battle for the first time. Rubble covered every square inch of the plaza. No structure stood intact fully. The antagonist was effectively thrown to the side, nothing left to see here type of fashion.

“You said he’s okay right?” Amelia’s strained voice broke through the silence of the pair. They hadn’t found Loki yet and the longer time went on the sick feeling in Amelia’s stomach grew. Catching sight of jet black hair under a golden helmet was all she needed. Her body moved without reservation toward him.

“Loki!” She exclaimed and he turned in time to catch her when she lunged at him. The hug was fierce and she nearly crushed him with her arms, legs wrapped around his waist and he hugged her back just as tightly.

“You scared me,” she breathed into his neck and he laughed.

“My sweet girl, you scared me. You dragged an Asgardian man fifty feet through a fire fight.” She laughed at him in return and shook her head at him as he set her back down on the ground.

“You shouldn’t have been distracted by me,” she chastised and turned to survey the scene around her. Most of the Asgardians were on their feet, helping one another up and healing on their own while a few others approached Thor and told him that they needed his healer.

Amelia quickly obliged and took care of anyone she could find. Loki stayed by her side while she worked to keep a close eye on how exhausted she became, not wanting to let her push herself too far.

“They will heal the small wounds themselves, dear.” He gently reminded her when she was still trying to touch everyone even as Loki practically carried her to a bed, her eyes drooping.

“I’m fine.” She stated as she drifted off to sleep, still fighting Loki’s gentle touch, pushing her shoulder down onto the mattress.

A few hours later Amelia woke up to the sound of laughter and talking just outside of the window. She sat up quickly and took in the room with bleary eyes.

“You shouldn’t watch people sleep ya creep.” Laughing Amelia threw a pillow which Loki deflected with ease.

“I wasn’t watching you sleep. I was simply sitting in a room where you were also sleeping.” The smirk on his face was evident even in the dimly lit room.

“What’s going on out there?” Amelia ignored his taunting and looked toward the window where more laughter bubbled over.

“A celebration, I guess you could say.” He stood and offered hand to her she took it and threw back the covers on the bed before standing. He took her outside where a large fire was glowing and seemingly the entirety of Asgard was gathered around eating, drinking, and enjoying one another’s company. When Loki led Amelia outside she was greeted with many cheers and pats on the back.

“Our true hero!” A voice called from behind her that she didn’t recognize. “Fandral the Dashing,” a blond man offered his hand to Amelia and she took it, “but you can call me any time.” He winked and Amelia blushed under his gaze.

“Get out of the way ya raging idiot,” A much larger man pushed Fandral and offered his hand to Amelia, “Volstagg ma’am. That’s Hogun over there, and Lady Sif!” He slapped the shoulder of a staggeringly beautiful woman who stood at his side, looking over Amelia.

“Amelia,” she said to all of them and smiled. Loki was still standing next to her and exchanged hugs with his friends before turning back to Amelia.

“Let’s get you some food and caffeine, yeah?” Amelia nodded vigorously and allowed Loki to place his hand on the small of her back, leading her toward a table covered with food. “I called the team, let them know what happened and that we were all okay.”

“Good, good,” people kept stopping and thanking Amelia for her actions throughout the fight and she could only insist that it wasn’t any big deal at all and she was sure anyone would do the same. Loki smiled proudly at her every time she responded in that way, knowing that she was special and that there weren’t many people like her, not many at all.

Night had fallen over New Asgard many hours ago but Amelia, Loki, and Thor still remained, listening to the stories of their people old and new. Heimdall shared the stories of a young Loki trying to sneak out of Asgard at seemingly every turn, much to Loki’s embarrassment.

“I am no longer much for running.” Loki admitted to himself more than anyone but Heimdall nodded at him, grinning.

“I know this, probably more than even you.” The man winked at him before letting Thor tell one of his many stories of battle throughout the years. Amelia yawned and rested her head on Loki’s, watching Thor intently while he spoke.

“At least we get to have at least a peaceful Sunday night.” Loki offered before wrapping an arm around her, giving her a squeeze.

Amelia nodded and sighed in content, “And you got to share Asgard with me,” she whispered to her friend, “it’s more than I ever dreamed.”

Loki wanted to correct her, tell her that this wasn’t Asgard, but he paused before he did, looking around at his lifelong friends, his people, everything about the moment which surrounded them and he knew that it was Asgard. Asgard isn’t a place. It’s a people.

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literarygoon · 4 years

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Inebriate of air

by Will Johnson

Shane squats to the meal pot, red-lit from the campfire, and dips his pinkie finger into the stew. Shirtless and shoeless, with an ocean-themed full sleeve tattoo on his right arm and a messily scrunched man-bun jutting from he’s skull, he’s the quintessential Victoria hipster: beachy-looking and pseudo-homeless, with a deep Tofino tan and scraggly-looking flannel. He’s the type of white kid who pore-oozes privilege — one percenter progeny — and from where she’s slung her hammock Tanille can watch him finger-slurp, tongue his lips.

“You know I broke my back as a teenager?” Shane asks. “Doctors figured I wasn’t going to walk again. Fell into this off-run crevice in Switzerland, man, like just barely out of bounds, and I ended up in the hospital for two months.”

“Sounds like something you’d do,” says Tanille.

Shane continues, too caught up in the rhythm of his storytelling to acknowledge her voice. “I’m carving down this slope, blissed out, right? Time’ve my life. All of a sudden I’m just falling. Like I know I’m falling and there’s nothing I can do about it, right? Then bam, I’m draped over this cleft like twenty feet down, sprawled out on this rock ledge, and when I look around me I’m in this shimmering cavern.”

Shane likes to hear himself talk, but it’s not normally Tanille that has to listen. He’ll find himself a readier audience with Paisley, but she’s been gone all afternoon. Now she’s stuck with some dipshit musician too drunk on groupie love to realize what a fucking idiot he is.

“I could’ve fallen a lot further. I mean that crevice, right, it must’ve been like hundreds of feet deep. There’s crazy light bouncing, like I’m inside a mirror ball, and here I am drifting in and out of consciousness. The rescuer rappelled down and strapped me to a spine board, got me helicoptered out of there, and in every direction all I could see was a white dream.”

She noisily turns the page of her book.

“I made a promise to myself, right there: I’m not going to waste this miracle. If I get out of here alive, I’m going to do something — I’m going to make music, I’m going to help people, I’m just going to live the shit out of my life.”

Tanille sighs. There’s plenty of proselytizing going on in her vicinity — it’s part of the protest camp package — but there’s something about Shane’s particular brand of self-righteousness that makes her feel like wrenching out his fingernails one by one. It’s not that she hates straight men, or white men. It’s not even that she hates rich people. It’s that Shane thinks he deserves everything he’s received from life, including Paisley’s long-term attention. Tanille’s savvy to his barefoot bullshit; his social posturing and faux humility couldn’t be more transparent. She has no patience for listening to him self-aggrandize while he stinks up his parent-bought clothes and pretends to be an activist.

“I bet undergrad girls eat that shit up,” she says. “Carpe fucking diem, Shane? Your emotional depths awe me.”

She couldn’t help but be fatalistic, cynical, because what did Paisley actually expect to happen here? Did she figure the Mansion-Landers would offer up their luxurious beachside estates, open their condos to the homeless? Just like that they would embrace gender fluidity, communal living and interracial relationships, right? Did she really think people would happily participate in the dismantling of the social hierarchy that had benefited them for generations?

Tanille’s tent is pitched at the base of a granite plinth with veins of moss sprouting from the dark stone. At some point there were words chiseled into its base, but not anymore. It looms phallic above their semicircle of tents, the tarp tied around its midsection, shielding the meal pot from the ocean breeze. Most of their camping chairs are empty at the moment, leaving only Shane stirring the communal soup while her friend Espoir lazes belly-down on an air mattress, wrapped in a sleeping bag and scrolling through her iPhone’s Twitter feed.

“Paisley told me you’re a cynic,” Shane says, taking a soup-slurp from his pinkie. “A Doubting Thomas type.”

“And that makes you what, a believer?”

Shane grins. “I’m John the fucking Baptist.”

***

The year before Tanille started herbology school, she road-tripped out to the Kootenays with some friends for the Shangri-La Music Festival. That’s where she saw Paisley perform for the first time, crowd-crammed against the Treehouse stage as thousands of ravers trampled in. One half of Paisley’s head was shaved, while the other sprouted tangled dreads that coiled over her shoulder like uncoiled pythons. She had Cleopatra-style mascara, her lips looked like they were bleeding, and her elaborate beaded neckpiece sent splashes of light out in all directions. Below that she was wearing a thin white dress with thick woollen leg warmers.

The crowd roiled as she took the stage.

“This is a ditty I call ‘Demons in the pews’,” Paisley said, climbing on to her stool with her banjo. “Wrote this while I was in high school, back on the coast. I grew up in a little town called Garibaldi, up the Sea to Sky Highway, and when I was a teenager we all went to church like good little Christians. Who here went to church growing up?”

The audience answered with one indecipherable voice. She sneered for a moment, looking down. “Jesus loves the little children,” she murmured.

Paisley let her eyes close as she strummed through the intro, her legs hooked around the legs of the stool. She had backup — there was a fiddler, one guy with a stand up bass, another one on percussion — and though Tanille had never had any interest in bluegrass, she was drawn in by the way Paisley whispered and sighed into the mic, cooing the opening lyrics. Eventually the electronic effects built behind her, encompassing them.

“Saved by grace n’ swathed in lace, I came into the chapel,” she sang. “My second life as Jesus’ wife, who wouldn't eat that apple?”

As she neared the chorus, a man carrying a large electronic didgeridoo appeared behind her. She exposed her pale throat to the audience, her voice cherubic yet furious, and as the man let out his first vibrating blast she leapt to her feet and shrieked into her mic.

“In church you showed me God, then fingered me ’til I bled — are the demons in the pews, or are they all inside my head?”

It wasn’t until Tanille was back in Victoria that she got a chance to download Paisley’s album Church Fire and look her up on social media. It didn’t take her long to find Inebriate of Air, her YouTube channel, where she’d posted a capella versions of her songs, interviews with fans and experimental short films. Tanille sat in her residence building and worked her way through the entire playlist, scribbling down choice lyrics in her journal and playing particular music videos over and over again. She felt herself being seduced by the savagery, the feral power in Paisley’s voice, the raw defiance. In one minimalist black and white short, Paisley screams into the camera and claws at her face as images appear of Jesus healing the sick, turning water into wine, walking on water. Tanille had never been especially religious, and didn’t have any particular problem with Christianity, but Paisley’s anger was intoxicating, communal. She was autonomous in a way that Tanille had never seen a woman be.

On one track Paisley’s backed by a children’s choir: “If blackmail’s the price of Heaven, then set me a place in Hell, no matter what you’ve forgiven, this won’t be ending well.”

***

“The cops’re coming tonight,” Shane says. “I can feel it.”

He’s belly-balancing his stew, puffing away at his pipe while his campmates ladle out dinner and gather in the dirt. The sky has gone orange, the horizon burning, while people jostle and gossip. Tanille swabs a crust of bread along the rim of her bowl, reddening it. Paisley still hasn’t returned and she’s still pretending not to care.

“Don’t be such a drama queen. This isn’t Iraq.”

“Not yet.”

“Does it make you feel important, this delusion that you’re in danger?”

“Did you see that guy they arrested last week? Dude was screaming like they were going to break his arms.”

“But did they?”

Shane shrugs.

“Didn’t he bust somebody’s windshield? Right? It’s not like they’re grabbing randoms, this guy was destroying other people’s property.”

“Some rich fucker’s car.”

“You have no idea who’s car that was. It could’ve been a students. Could’ve been mine.”

“You don’t even have a car.”

Tanille takes a long deep breath through her nostrils. Shane’s not here in Tent City because it matters, he’s here because it’s cool. Because this is the sort of person he wants to be. Earlier she’d caught him taking selfies near the entrance, watched him swipe through various filter options before posting it online. His middle name could be Narcissism.

“Did you see the video King Solomon posted last night?” Shane asks. “The shit he was saying about the God-shaped hole, that was basically what I was talking about the other night.”

Espoir snorts. “I want someone to fill my God-shaped hole.”

Shane ignores her. “He was talking about the basic dissatisfaction, you know? Everybody has it — that impulse that drives us towards sex, towards drugs, towards God. It’s that part of us that can never be one hundred per cent happy, no matter what.”

“Cheerful sentiment,” Tanille says.

Shane ignores her.

“Or did you see the one he did about his youth pastor?” Espoir asks.

That’s another topic Tanille knows something about. Apparently the Garibaldi church Neil and Paisley grew up with had a pedophile as a youth pastor, a guy who ended up in a Tijuana prison called El Cuchillo for molesting a teenage boy. His name was Trent Stonehouse and according to Paisley he’d spent over a decade in Mexico before fleeing to the Yukon. On her last album there was one song, “Conflagration”, which was addressed to him: “Though you taught me well / I’m a scorched out shell / When my soul caught fire / That’s when you fell.”

“King Solomon made this good point,” said Shane. “Like about how we label people—criminal, hooker, junkie—and suddenly we don’t have to care about them. Sinner, stuff like that. And it’s like, yeah, this dude Trent did some horrible shit, but that doesn’t negate everything else, right? Nobody’s one hundred per cent black or white.”

“So you’re a pedophilia apologist now?”

“No, see: that’s exactly the attitude he’s talking about. He who is without sin should throw the first stone, all that.”

“I’ve never raped any kids, Shane.”

“I know you get my point but you’re just being a bitch about it.”

***

Tanille isn’t quite sure how to feel about King Solomon, this guy Neil that grew up with Paisley back in Garibaldi. She’s subscribed to his channel, Fellowship, where he releases music videos and meandering pseudo-sermons, never failing to mention the affordable housing crisis or whatever particular social justice cause happens to be most fashionable that week. At first she couldn’t take him seriously: in his videos he wears giant aviator sunglasses and shaggy headgear, black shirts with white-slashed words across the front: “Forgive yourself first”, “All of us are seekers, none of us are found”, “Only one believer”. In one, “Whatever you’re on, I want some”, he monologues about his time living as an addict. In “This is how you talk to strangers” he describes how Paisley has helped him funnel his spiritual pain in a positive direction, how they collaborated for one track on her album Church Fire. Then there’s the one that describes his experiences performing at the Shangri-La Music Festival for the first time — that one’s been shared over 600,000 times.

Solomon’s catchiest track, the one that went viral during Tanille’s undergrad, was called “Wasting Days”. It was upbeat, with ska elements, and an endlessly repetitive chorus. Solomon’s vocals were animalistic, Cobain-esque, tortured-sounding.

“She comes round like a virus, like a hustler on the run — asks me ‘you want to have some fun?’” he sings. “Like a bigtop freak drifter tryin’ to eke a living from this chaos, it’s useless and fruitless and nothing can be done!”

A children’s choir, their voices distorted, then chant: “Useless, fruitless, nothing can be done! Useless, fruitless, nothing can be done! Useless, fruitless, nothing can be done!”

Solomon’s on his knees in front of a silhouetted church, steam rising from his shoulders while the music builds. His eyes meet the viewer’s for a moment, and then he reels into the chorus.

“She can see I’m wasting all my days—my days, my days—all I’m doing is wasting days. I know I’m wasting all my days—my days, my days—all I’m doing is wasting days.”

Eventually Tanille met Neil, at Shane’s apartment in Victoria, shortly after he’d been released from rehab for the third or fourth time. He looked sleepy and defeated, his eyes twitchily scanning the room at all times, and when he hugged Paisley at the end of the night he broke down into hysterics and fled into a nearby bathroom like a tantrum-throwing child. Tanille waited for nearly half an hour while the pair of them barricaded themselves inside, speaking in lowered voices, while Shane smoked pot on the balcony oblivious. She hated herself for how she strained to hear what they were saying, for how much she yearned to be sitting there on the linoleum with Paisley while she consoled her friend, how much she wanted to know about their shame, about their shared trauma. She couldn’t help how she felt: jealous, left out, untrusted.

Eventually she stood up and went home alone.

***

Paisley neck-nuzzles, purring, and nudges Tanille back into semi-consciousness. She’s back, finally. The tent walls are rain-throbbing around them, her sleeping bag is damp, and the world is made of shadows and silhouettes.

They kiss.

“I went swimming in the harbour,” Paisley says. “Apologies for my briny aroma.”

Tanille breathes.

“You awake, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Is my girl in a bad mood?”

Tanille mind-grapples with the urge to engage, to express her frustration, to sob about her stoned loneliness. She doesn’t want to be this person, this pathetic attention suck, this cliche of the needy female. That’s all gay women do: talk about their feelings, having check-ins and sobby convos. But Paisley won’t go there, won’t let herself be that vulnerable, so she’s trying to match her at the emotional distance game.

“Just sleeping,” she says finally. “Shane puked on Espoir’s backpack.”

Paisley snickers.

“I don’t know why you make me put up with him.”

“Shane?”

“How many women do you know that would be okay with having an ex-boyfriend around constantly?”

“I didn’t date Shane.”

“But you fucked him.”

Paisley sighs. “There’s so many things we could be talking about right now.”

“He’s here, right here, now.”

“But so are you. And who’s tent am I in?”

Tanille huffs. How long has she been awake, even? Her neck bristles, and she rises up on her elbows to face her girlfriend.

“This power dynamic doesn’t work for me, Paise.”

“Power dynamic?”

“This whole I-give-everything-and-you-give-nothing thing.”

Paisley crawls towards her. “I give nothing?” She presses her wet nose against Tanille’s cheek, kisses her cheekbone.

“You know what I mean. I don’t know anything about you. Shane knows more about your life than I do.”

“Shane does not know more than you.”

“What about Neil?” she asks. “Or Amber?”

Paisley’s quiet.

“You bring me around like I’m some sort of pet, leave me unattended while you go off n’ live your life, then you come back whenever the fuck you feel like it. It’s like you don’t trust me to be able to engage with what you’re going through, ” Tanille says. Around them the storm winds hiss. “I’m living in Tent City with you, I’m filthy and dead-tired, but I’m here because I want to be with you, right? You used to include me.”

Outside Tent City campers are still playing guitar, undeterred by the weather, banging on drums and shouting at the night sky. This is one of several conversations within earshot, and for a moment strangers’ voices fill the void between Tanille and Paisley. They’re still intertwined, semi-prone, their faces nearly touching.

“I know I’m fucked up,” Paisley says finally. “I get that.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. You always go for self-loathing first.”

Paisley shrugs, sits back. Is she crying? She paws one of her dreadlocks out of her face.

“I just want to be a part of whatever’s going on in your head.”

Paisley retrieves a joint from a small tin in her chest pocket, takes a long moment to light it. Once the air between them is fogged, once she’s let out a lengthy, pained exhale, that’s when she speaks. She takes a piece of Tanille’s hair and finger-tangles it.

“You don’t need to worry about Shane, okay? What we have has nothing to do with him, or anyone else,” Paisley says. Then she lets go. Tanille sits cat-curled in the silence while Paisley begins to monologue, hitting topics she’d only half-known about, starting with her high school relationship with her first girlfriend Amber, a situation she had to keep covert while attending their church, St. Catherine’s, and their summer camp, Evergreen. She talks about shame, about going to her youth pastor Trent for guidance when she was a teenager. She talks about finding her faith, then losing it after his arrest, about touring and performing and always knowing that Quatsino was waiting for her, Eden-like, though she couldn’t bring herself to return.

“I want to believe we can be better than this, that’s why I’m here,” she says. “But I know it’s not true. The Christians were right: we’re all sinners, and we’re doomed to make the same fucking mistakes over and over again. And if there’s no God, there’s nobody around to forgive us for any of this shit.”

“What do you mean?” Tanille asks. “Forgive us for what?”

***

The title of Paisley’s YouTube channel, Inebriate of Air, was from an Emily Dickinson poem. Tanille looked up the poem online and memorized it before their first sushi date, ultimately reciting it over miso soup. That was three years ago.

“I like the idea of being high on air,” Paisley said, booth-sprawled. “That we’re constantly sucking back nostril-shots of pure energy. This is the stuff that makes us run.”

“The Yoda-style diction. A great poet, she is.”

“Sounds classy, right?”

“Like whoah, dude—I’m so high on this breeze. Man, take a toke of that wind.”

They laughed, wasabi-stirred. “And it’s perfectly designed for that purpose. Like to fill our lungs and pump our blood.”

“Right.”

“So how come you don’t believe in God then?” Tanille asked. “How do you figure the air, the world, got here?

Paisley spent some time chewing before saying anything else. For a moment Tanille thought she’d made a verbal misstep, navigated into a conversational no-go zone. Paisley sang extensively about losing her faith on her album —almost every track had a religious overtone, and sometimes her lyrics were even God-directed—so she thought this was a topic that would get some mileage. Religious people had always fascinated and confused Tanille, in pretty much the same way musicians did: she looked at them like shamans or conjurers who channeled elemental energy from the earth and emanated whitish-blue light from their chests.

“I meet people who didn’t grow up religious,” Paisley said, rolling a dread between her fingers. “And I’m jealous, you know? Is there a God, isn’t there—that shit hasn’t even occurred to them.”

“That sounds like such an empty existence, though.”

She shrugged. “Thing is, being a former Christian is kind of like being a former meth addict. Even if you’re not using, you still remember how it tasted, you still crave that high. Because you’ve been high, normal feels low.”

***

Somebody’s angry.

Tanille jolts up in her sleeping bag as the world erupts with sound. Dogs are barking, men shout, and somebody’s rhythmically banging on a resounding gong. It’s bright out, must be early morning, and through the half-open zipper she can see flurries of movement. Paisley’s gone. Ducking into her sports bra and jeans, and jumping into a semi-crouch, she peers past the tent flaps at a human scuffle in progress on the pavement. A uniformed cop is on his back, grappling with a Tent City kid, his muscled arms straining as he tries to regain control of his baton. His sunglasses are cracked, his face pink and trembling, while he spits out macho mono-syllables, grunting.

“Tanille?” Shane appears in front of her. “Tanille, man. It’s happening. The cops’re raiding the place, arresting people.”

“Where’s Paisley?”

“Everyone’s getting together, linking arms. Photographers are here n’ everything. This shit just got real.”

Tanille pushes her feet into unlaced boots and leans into the day. She’s about to say something, about to ask Shane a question, but then she’s gravel-sliding, a lightning storm of pain blossoming in her face and neck as a panicked man body-surfs her across the ground. He’s surrounded by other runners, people fleeing, and a few of them stumble and crash over top of them. Tanille feels a palm rough on her forehead, a boot crushes her hip, a knee rolls across her ribs. People scream. When she rolls to her side she can see the police officer has fought his way to his feet, and he’s clubbing his opponent viciously. The man curls fetal under the blows.

Shane bats at his fellow protesters, taking Tanille by the armpit, and they’re jostled, body-checked, as people careen wildly past. He drags her out of the crowd’s flight path, up a mud-slicked grass slope, and she stumbles, half-upright, then falls to her hands and knees. There’s blood in her eye, stinging, and her cheek feels cheese-gratered. She fingers the wound, gazes dizzy into the canopy of trees above her. Part of her is fully processing the parade of images flash-dancing across her consciousness, but there’s part of her that’s sauntering through the aisles of a calm grocery store, looking for dinner ingredients. This is nothing but a news story in progress, a Facebook post waiting to happen. Somebody else will eventually spot her fuzzed image in the background of some YouTube video, her face crimson and gleaming, while the police officer kneels on the protesters’ neck and struggles to snap his handcuffs shut. She’s an injured bystander, some hipster kid in the background, and already she can’t blame her imaginary audience for how little they care. She’s not even in the foreground.

The Literary Goon

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literarygoon · 6 years

Photo

So,

This story is called “Inebriate of Air”.

That’s the name of Paisley’s YouTube channel, and it’s a reference to “I taste a liquor never brewed” by Emily Dickinson. The story is about a woman named Tanille who’s living in a tent city during an Occupy protest.

This is the 6th story in my novel Whatever you’re on, I want some.

The Kootenay Goon

Inebriate of Air

Will Johnson

SHANE SQUATS over the meal pot, red-lit from the campfire, and dips his pinkie finger into the stew. Shirtless and shoeless, with an ocean-themed full sleeve tattoo on his right arm and a messily scrunched man-bun jutting from he’s skull, he’s the quintessential Victoria hipster: beachy-looking and pseudo-homeless, with a deep Tofino tan and scraggly-looking flannel. He’s the type of white kid who pore-oozes privilege — one percenter progeny — and from where she’s slung her hammock Tanille can watch him finger-slurp, tongue his lips.

“Sounds like you,” says Tanille.

She noisily turns the page of her book.

Tanille sighs. There’s plenty of proselytizing going on — it seems to be part of the protest camp package — but there’s something about Shane’s particular brand of self-righteousness that makes her feel like wrenching out his fingernails one by one. It’s not that she hates straight men, or white men. It’s not even that she hates rich people. It’s that Shane thinks he deserves everything he’s received from life, including Paisley’s long-term attention. Tanille’s savvy to his barefoot bullshit; his social posturing and faux humility couldn’t be more transparent. She has no patience for listening to him self-aggrandize while he stinks up his parent-bought clothes and pretends to be an activist.

“I bet undergrad girls eat that shit up,” she says. “Carpe fucking diem, Shane? Your emotional depths awe me.”

All around them, conversations like this are in progress. People are praying, preaching, singing — hundreds of social justice warriors coming together as part of an affordable housing protest in downtown Victoria. It’s nearing dinnertime and the sky has turn ashy, the ocean wind buffeting the ragged blue tarp overhead. All day long Tanille smells untreated sewage, rotting garbage, cannabis stink. She’s surrounded by dirt-caked feet and unwashed clothes, and she wishes it didn’t disgust her but it does. Princess Tee, that’s what Paisley’s been calling her even since she dared to question their multi-month participation in this little project. She couldn’t help but be fatalistic, cynical, because what did Paisley actually expect to happen here? Did she figure the Mansion-Landers would offer up their luxurious beachside estates, open their condos to the homeless? Just like that they would embrace gender fluidity, communal living and interracial relationships, right? Did she really think people would happily participate in the dismantling of the social hierarchy that had benefited them for generations?

“Paisley told me you’re a cynic,” Shane says, taking a soup-slurp from his pinkie. “A Doubting Thomas type.”

“And that makes you what, a believer?”

Shane grins. “I’m John the fucking Baptist.”

***

The year before Tanille started herbology school, she road-tripped out to the Kootenays with some friends for the Shangri-La Music Festival. That’s where she saw Paisley perform for the first time, crowd-crammed against the Treehouse stage as thousands of ravers trampled the grass behind her. One half of Paisley’s head was shaved, while the other sprouted tangled dreads that coiled over her shoulder like uncoiled pythons. She had Cleopatra-style mascara, her lips looked like they were bleeding, and her elaborate beaded neckpiece sent splashes of light out in all directions. Below that she was wearing a thin white dress with thick woollen leg warmers. The crowd roiled as she took the stage.

The audience answered with one indecipherable voice. She sneered for a moment, looking down. “Jesus loves the little children,” she murmured.

“Saved by grace n’ swathed in lace, I came into the chapel,” she sang. “My second life as Jesus’ wife, who wouldn't eat that apple?”

“In church you showed me God, then fingered me ’til I bled — are the demons in the pews, or are they all inside my head?”

On one track Paisley’s backed by a children’s choir: “If blackmail’s the price of Heaven, then set me a place in Hell, no matter what you’ve forgiven, this won’t be ending well.”

***

“The cops’re coming tonight,” Shane says. “I can feel it.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen. This isn’t Iraq.”

“Not yet.”

“Does it make you feel important, this delusion that you’re in danger?”

“Did you see that guy they arrested last week? Dude was screaming like they were going to break his arms.”

“But did they?”

Shane shrugs.

“Didn’t he bust somebody’s windshield? Right? It’s not like they’re grabbing randoms, this guy was destroying other people’s property.”

“Some rich fucker’s car.”

“You have no idea who’s car that was. It could’ve been a students. Could’ve been mine.”

“You don’t even have a car.”

“Did you see the video King Solomon posted last night?” Shane asks. “The shit he was saying about the God-shaped hole, that was basically what I was talking about the other night.”

Espoir snorts. “I want someone to fill my God-shaped hole.”

“Cheerful sentiment,” Tanille says.

Shane ignores her.

“Or did you see the one he did about his youth pastor?” Espoir asks.

“So you’re a pedophilia apologist now?”

“No, see: that’s exactly the attitude he’s talking about. He who is without sin should throw the first stone, all that.”

“I’ve never raped any kids, Shane.”

“I know you get my point but you’re just being a bitch about it.”

***

A children’s choir, their voices distorted, then chant: “Useless, fruitless, nothing can be done! Useless, fruitless, nothing can be done! Useless, fruitless, nothing can be done!”

Solomon’s on his knees in front of a silhouetted church, steam rising from his shoulders while the music builds. His eyes meet the viewer’s for a moment, and then he reels into the chorus.

“She can see I’m wasting all my days—my days, my days—all I’m doing is wasting days. I know I’m wasting all my days—my days, my days—all I’m doing is wasting days.”

Eventually she stood up and went home alone.

***

They kiss.

“I went swimming in the harbour,” Paisley says. “Apologies for my briny aroma.”

Tanille breathes.

“You awake, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Is my girl in a bad mood?”

“Just sleeping,” she says finally. “Shane puked on Espoir’s backpack.”

Paisley snickers.

“I don’t know why you make me put up with him.”

“Shane?”

“How many women do you know that would be okay with having an ex-boyfriend around constantly?”

“I didn’t date Shane.”

“But you fucked him.”

Paisley sighs. “There’s so many things we could be talking about right now.”

“He’s here, right here, now.”

“But so are you. And who’s tent am I in?”

Tanille huffs. How long has she been awake, even? Her neck bristles, and she rises up on her elbows to face her girlfriend.

“This power dynamic doesn’t work for me, Paise.”

“Power dynamic?”

“This whole I-give-everything-and-you-give-nothing thing.”

Paisley crawls towards her. “I give nothing?” She presses her wet nose against Tanille’s cheek, kisses her cheekbone.

“You know what I mean. I don’t know anything about you. Shane knows more about your life than I do.”

“Shane does not know more than you.”

“What about Neil?” she asks. “Or Amber?”

Paisley’s quiet.

“I know I’m fucked up,” Paisley says finally. “I get that.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. You always go for self-loathing first.”

Paisley shrugs, sits back. Is she crying? She paws one of her dreadlocks out of her face.

“I just want to be a part of whatever’s going on in your head.”

“What do you mean?” Tanille asks. “Forgive us for what?”

***

“I like the idea of being high on air,” Paisley said, booth-sprawled. “That we’re constantly sucking back nostril-shots of pure energy. This is the stuff that makes us run.”

“The Yoda-style diction. A great poet, she is.”

“Sounds classy, right?”

“Like whoah, dude—I’m so high on this breeze. Man, take a toke of that wind.”

They laughed, wasabi-stirred. “And it’s perfectly designed for that purpose. Like to fill our lungs and pump our blood.”

“Right.”

“So how come you don’t believe in God then?” Tanille asked. “How do you figure the air, the world, got here?

“That sounds like such an empty existence, though.”

***

Somebody’s angry.

“Tanille?” Shane appears in front of her. “Tanille, man. It’s happening. The cops’re raiding the place, arresting people.”

“Where’s Paisley?”

“Everyone’s getting together, linking arms. Photographers are here n’ everything. This shit just got real.”

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