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seanfalco · 4 years

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Road Trip: Punk!AU

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Punk!Valdo x Punk!Aevryn (oc), Punk!Geralt x Punk! Yennefer, Punk!Jaskier x Reader Word Count: 2963 Rating: T Taglist: @ficsandcatsandficsandcats, @nevadawolfe, @magic-multicolored-miracle, @coffee-and-stories a/n: This installment is really oc heavy sorryyyy. Also I’m really terrible at writing lyrics, so please forgive my shitty attempt lol. The next part will be supplied by @ficsandcatsandficsandcats :3

{Part I}{Part II}{Part III}{Part IV}

Part V - If You Need Anyone

Chicago had been fun.

After her talk with Win, Aevryn felt like a weight had been lifted from her lungs. She still wasn’t talking with Yennefer, which stung, and Valdo’s request for her to listen to his new album hung over her head, twisting her stomach anxiously, but at least one thing was okay.

I release you.

She’d finished out the rest of the city with a genuine smile on her face, glad that Jaskier had begged for them to stop and have some fun, forgetting her worries for at least a few hours.

Back in Roach Aev sat in the backseat as the others piled in for the night, exhausted, putting her earbuds in as Win’s comforting presence settled next to her. Leaning against the darkened van window she watched the dark lake shore fly by with the blur of headlights, the city skyline shrinking in the distance, an empty ache settling in her chest. Valdo’s album was set to drop soon and she didn’t know if she was ready.

True she’d put on one of his songs the other morning as she’d drove, just to hear his voice, but it had been one she’d heard many times before. This new album was uncharted territory and she worried it might dredge up more emotions she wasn’t sure if she was ready to face yet; there was still so much to unpack there, things long buried.

Unlocking her phone she opened up her twitter messages, reading them over again when a new message alert popped up.

@valdomarxofficial: Hey, happy birthday, beautiful. Am I the first to wish you that? I hope so.

Shit, she swore, eyes flicking up to the top bar of her phone that displayed the time, to see that it was indeed a couple minutes after midnight, July 31st. Her birthday.

Groaning at the thought of what embarrassing things her bandmates’ were going to attempt to do to celebrate, a slight giddiness filled her chest that Valdo had been the first to remember.

@aeverona: You are, actually. I’m impressed you remembered.

@valdomarxofficial: You wound me, love. How could I forget something so important? Are you doing anything special to celebrate?

Shaking her head fondly, Aevryn scooted down further in her seat, chewing her lip, fighting back a smile as her fingers flew over the onscreen keyboard.

@aeverona: you prick, there are a lot of important things you’ve forgotten over the years... but i’m glad you messaged me. No, we’re just driving right now, everyone’s asleep.

@valdomarxofficial: a shame, you should be the center of attention at a decadent party thrown in your honour. Perhaps i’ll have to rectify that. Well, if you have nothing better to do, consider this your birthday gift from me. x

Attached was a download link from his bandcamp and Aev sighed at the sight. He really wanted her to listen, didn’t he?

@aeverona: a bit self absorbed, are we? lol okay, i give in i’ll listen to it

Taking a deep breath she clicked the link to the download. While she waited she turned back to the window, pressing her cheek to the cool glass. She could hear Yennefer’s voice in her head, as if her friend could read her thoughts even now. Don’t. How many times are you going to let him hurt you?

She closed her eyes.

—

Yennefer pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she shifted in the passenger seat, trying to find a comfortable spot while avoiding glancing at Geralt behind the wheel. The soft music he had turned on had effectively lulled the rest of the van to sleep, but her thoughts swirled, keeping her awake.

She could sense Geralt’s eyes flicking to her every so often and sighed, sitting up in the seat, unable to will herself to sleep anyway. Her change in posture signified that she wanted to talk, but an awkward silence fell over them while Geralt merely waited.

“So… what did you and Jaskier do today when we split up?” she asked without looking at him.

Geralt glanced at her, a ghost of a smile tracing his lips for a moment.

“We climbed a rock wall.”

Yennefer jerked in surprise, her dark eyes peering back at Jaskier, snoring softly. “But he hates heights.”

“I know,” Geralt replied with a soft snort, wanting to say more, though the words died on his tongue. Silence fell once more.

Several miles passed.

“What about you and [Y/N]?”

Yennefer shrugged. “We rode the carousel and talked.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.” Yennefer answered simply. “I got to ride a dragon.”

Geralt snorted in amusement. “Very you.”

Yen’s answering laugh lifted his spirits, buoying him even as silence fell once more. At least she was talking to him again.

—

Aevryn startled awake as the van slowed, turning off the highway into a brightly lit truck stop. Geralt threw Roach into park and got out. The others stirred slightly, but no one woke. Aev looked down at her phone. Fuck, she thought angrily, Valdo’s album list staring her in the face. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It had only been an hour and a half, but now that she was awake and filled with nervous energy she didn’t think she could just sit there.

Carefully extricating herself from the depths of the van she slipped out the sliding door, following Geralt into the rest stop. The usually stoic drummer gave a start when he turned from the cooler, drink in hand, to find her standing right behind him.

“Jesus Aev,” he growled, frowning, stepping around her to go pay.

“Can I drive for a bit, Gery?” Aevryn asked, quickly grabbing another Red Bull from the cooler before jogging to catch up to him, flashing him a smarmy smile as he grabbed a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.

“Don’t call me that,” Geralt grunted, setting his purchases on the counter. After a moment he grabbed the giant can out of her hand to set with his stuff before handing the cashier a worn twenty.

“Please?” Aevryn asked. “If I don’t keep my hands busy I’ll go crazy. And I need to keep my mind off some… stuff.”

“Hmm.”

The cashier handed him his change and Geralt handed Aev her drink.

“You’re not tired?” he asked, giving her a pointed look, his light hazel eyes studying her sharply, knowingly.

“No.”

“Hmm.” After a moment Geralt nodded and shoved the box of cakes at her. “Here. This is for you.”

Aevryn ducked her head to hide her grin as she followed Geralt back to the van, noticing the cakes were mini birthday cakes.

Taking the driver’s seat Aevryn buckled in and stuck her headphones in her ears, not wanting to face a repeat of the other morning as she listened to Valdo’s new music. If Jaskier happened to wake up and heard it he would flip his shit, and on top of everything else going on, that was the last thing Aev wanted to deal with. She still didn’t know how she was going to break it to him that she was on speaking terms with her ex again, amongst other things.

Taking a swig of her energy drink and stuffing one of the snack cakes in her mouth she turned on the first song as she pulled back onto the highway.

This album is a letter, one I should have written long ago.

Valdo’s low voice in her ear sent an involuntary shiver down her spine and her breath caught at his words, fending off the intrusive thought that he was speaking directly to her before the guitar swelled, leading into the next song and Aev nearly barked a surprised laugh at the opening notes -- a cover of one of her favourite songs.

Not usually one to care for covers, she couldn’t help but admit that it was good; Valdo’s voice filling each familiar lyric with new meaning, and again it felt as though he were singing for her and her alone, a private performance that the masses might peer into, but never truly understand. The next song was an original one, but again with an easter egg she felt was strangely meant for her to uncover. Valdo’s haunting vocals were joined by another voice, barking and raspy, and instantly recognizable to Aevryn.

That fucking bastard, she thought, shaking her head in disbelief, though a smile stole across her face like a thief. He’d just had to go and collaborate with her favourite musician -- one so obscure that not even Jaskier knew she listened to. Now he was just showing off.

As she continued to listen, each song had something jump out at her, some lyric that tickled her memory or a reference to some in-joke shared between the two of them as teens, and it was becoming more and more difficult to believe that these were just coincidences. Looking down at her phone she realized she was already on the final song and that’s when it happened.

The opening notes were accompanied by a lonely piano chord and the instant mood change gripped her, holding her hostage as she listened raptly, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. Valdo’s voice trembled with emotion, weaving poetry that would certainly steal anyone’s breath away -- personal and raw, but the words hit her like a train, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open.

Darling, it was always you, since day one, I knew, I was smitten, I admit, but it was more than that. After all, ‘just friends’ don’t look at each other like that. ‘Just friends’ don’t kiss each other like that.

It nearly took this immature fuckup too long to realize, What you meant when you said I needed you. And by then it was almost too late. How was I to know you’d need me too? I never told you, when you lay in that hospital bed, unsure if you’d ever wake, It nearly killed me, it drove me mad. Not caring what might become of me I went to his house and I went to bat, I lashed out in hate. Please don’t tell me it was all for nothing...

Her throat suddenly dry, Aevryn swallowed as the song continued on.

It was her. It was their life.

Had he really done that, she wondered, her breath shallow as a memory she’d fought hard to bury surfaced hazily. When she’d woke in the hospital after telling him why she’d done it, he was lying in the bed with her, his cut lip and bruised knuckles standing out in stark relief now. She’d never really questioned where they came from before.

“Oh my God,” she whispered; her hand covering her mouth as her lip trembled and a single tear fell.

This song was about her, for her. No, not just this song, she realized -- “this album is a letter…”

As Valdo continued to spin their story, the highs and the heartbreaks, his fuck-ups and regrets -- it broke her anew and soon she was wracked with silent sobs, tears flowing freely down her cheeks til she could barely see the road before her.

Forgive me Aev, I never deserved you in the first place, but I want to be the man that does.

In the passenger seat Yennefer stretched, a soft sound catching her attention and she opened her eyes slowly.

“Aev?” she asked softly, noticing her friend in the driver’s seat. Then she noticed she was crying. “Fuck, Aev! What’s wrong?” Yennefer sat up quickly, reaching out to touch Aevryn’s arm.

“That fucking bastard,” she managed to choke out, crying harder and Yennefer quickly glanced in the back to make sure it hadn’t woken anyone else. Her violet eyes swung back to Aevryn and then noticed the wires going to her ears connected to her phone and she snatched it up, her stomach dropping when she saw what her friend was listening to.

“Aevryn, why?” she demanded, disappointment and anguish thick in her voice. “Why would you do this to yourself?”

“He asked me to listen to it,” she sobbed. “It was for me. The whole damned thing!”

“Aev, I think you need to pull over,” Yennefer urged, anxiously eyeing the sign for the next turn off.

Aevryn nodded and did as she was asked, barely able to see through her tears. As soon as Roach was stopped, she jumped out, walking swiftly away, though not as if she knew where to. “Aev!” Yennefer called after her, circling the van to chase after her.

At the slam of the van door Geralt sat up abruptly as the others stirred groggily.

“What was that? Why are we stopped?” Jaskier asked, looking around, the feeling that something wasn’t right gripping him, waking him faster. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt answered, worriedly watching Yennefer take off after Aevryn.

—

“Aevryn!” Yennefer finally caught up to her friend and grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Talk to me, please,” she begged. She’d never seen Aev look so lost.

Wiping her jacket sleeve across her damp face, Aevryn sniffled, trying to calm her breaths. “I knew you’d tell me not to listen to it, but… but I did. I couldn’t help it. I had to know why he wanted me to hear it so badly. And I know now. It was for me. It was his apology. The whole fucking thing. He even released it on my fucking birthday.”

Yennefer gaped at her, unsure how to respond. If what she said was true… well, it certainly sounded exactly like something Valdo would do; he was nothing if not that extra.

“Just… just listen to the last song,” Aevryn exclaimed, holding out her phone. Wordlessly Yen took it and put the earbuds in her ears.

It felt like an eternity elapsed as Aev waited, Yennefer’s face an unreadable mask as she listened. When it was done Yennefer took a deep breath and pulled the headphones from her ears.

“I must admit he certainly has gone to lengths to get his point across.”

“I still love him, Yen,” Aevryn said softly.

“I know,” Yennefer replied simply, holding her arms out.

With a soft sob Aev surged forward and Yennefer wrapped her arms around her, letting her cry against her chest, her fingers combing through her friend’s messy hair til she was all cried out.

“I want to make it work,” she said thickly through the remnants of her tears. “I want to give him a second chance.”

“I know,” Yennefer murmured soothingly, her heart twisting with hope and fear for her friend. She knew all she could do now was support her in her decision.

“I’m so sorry Yen,” she exclaimed, tears running down her cheeks once more. “I don’t want us to fight anymore. I want you to look after me.”

“I will always look after you. You know that.” Yen’s voice shook as her arms tightened around Aevryn. That was how Geralt found them and Yennefer raised her eyes meeting his silent gaze as she gave Aev one last squeeze before stepping back.

“I need to call him,” Aevryn murmured absently, glancing over her shoulder to throw an imploring look at Geralt before directing it at Yennefer, who knew what she was asking of them wordlessly.

“Don’t worry about the others,” Yennefer said, smoothing Aevryn’s hair with her hands. “We’ll be waiting at the van.”

With a nod Aev watched Yennefer and Geralt head back and she waited for them to pass out of sight before pulling her phone out. Despite the hour she had a feeling that Valdo was waiting for her call and sure enough the phone only rang once before he answered.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Aev whispered, her voice trembling. “I listened to it.”

“Yeah?” Valdo asked, the hope in his tone unmistakable.

“Yeah. You fucking asshole, you could have warned me,” she exclaimed, though there was no heat in it. “Did you mean it -- everything you said in there? You’re being absolutely serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack, babe.”

“Please don’t joke right now, Valdo.”

“I’m not.” She could hear him breathe, a shaky sound that rattled her own chest. “Can I see you?”

“Yeah. I’d like that,” Aev answered, a small smile tugging at her lips.

—

“Yen, Geralt, what the fuck is going on? Is Aev okay?” Jaskier demanded as his bandmates walked side by side back to Roach. You and Win were both out of the van as well, worry gripping you as Jaskier’s tension bled into you.

“She’s alright,” Yennefer answered as Geralt clapped a hand to Jaskier’s shoulder as he passed.

“But-but what’s going on?” he asked, the helplessness in his voice twisting your heart.

The sigh that left Yennefer’s lungs was heavy with the secrets she couldn’t yet tell him. For it truly wasn’t her place to tell Jaskier, though she also didn’t like keeping him in the dark. Beside Valdo he was Aevryn’s oldest friend.

“She listened to something that made her a little emotional and I didn’t want her to crash the van because she was crying.”

It technically wasn’t a lie.

“What did she--?” Jaskier cut off before finishing his question, his lips twitching into a frown. “Aevryn…” he grumbled, something akin to exasperation creeping into his voice as he closed his eyes.

Just then she walked back to the van, stopping next to Yennefer, looking rather small. “I’m okay now. I’m sorry for worrying everyone,” she said softly, not quite meeting Jaskier’s gaze before climbing back into the van.

“Jask?” you asked, slipping your hand in his as you looked up at him.

He watched his friend, worrying his lip, clear blue eyes cloudy with worry and hurt. “If what I think is happening, I’ll kill him.”

#punk!au #road trip series #punk!jaskier #punk!geralt #punk!yennefer #punk!aevryn #punk!valdo #punk!jaskier x reader #punk!geralt x punk!yennefer #punk!valdo x oc #valdryn

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xmxisxforxmaybe · 5 years

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Remnants, Part V

If you’ve got questions, shoot me an ask and I’ll answer if it won’t spoil the plot : ) I hope you enjoy this update--I know I enjoyed the hell out of writing it.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV,

Summary: You are in the midst of formulating your dissertation, but you’ve hit a wall. Your doting aunt, Rebecca, has a solution that brings you face to face with Ahkmenrah, Fourth King of the Fourth King. As the connection between you and Ahkmenrah grows, and as the secrets of his ancient tablet unlock, the once-king will find himself faced with a difficult choice.

Thanks so much to @kitkatcronch @kpopperotp12 @seafrost-fangirl @sassystrawberryk and @perfect-rami for reading : ) If anyone else wants added to the taglist, let me know. I’ve greatly appreciated all of the feedback!

Warnings: Yup. Smut, full steam ahead, so get out if you’re under 18. Ahk is a solid 20 years of age to be certain to avoid any squick factor.

* * * * *

After looking over your appearance for the 25th time, you decided enough was enough. You had spent an inordinate amount of time on your hair, wanting to get it just the right amount of styled, yet still soft, loose, and naturally pretty. Your makeup was done with the same sort of precision as your hair, and for your outfit, you chose a black maxi dress made of a light material that would both accommodate the summer heat and compliment your figure. You settled for a pair of cute, comfortable flats that would be practical for all of the walking you’d be doing tonight.

The evening was set. You’d start at the Empire State building, then take a walk on the High Line before ending up in the village just as the night was evolving into its full swing. There were two bars that you wanted to take Ahkmenrah to: an underground club that was a cozy little hideaway that hosted some of the best, under-the-radar Jazz musicians in the city, and the other was a more contemporary bar with an outdoor patio that hosted a variety of bands every Saturday night. You wanted to expose Ahk to as much as you could to see what he liked so maybe—

No, you thought. Knock it off. Dangerous thoughts, dangerous thoughts. Has to be a one-time deal. Can’t normalize—

The near heart attack you had as you popped out of the subway station across from the museum interrupted your mental chastisement. It looked like there was a party going on; people were lined up and waiting to get in the front doors, music was blasting, and the laser lights were flashing.

You thumped your hand against your forehead.

Duh.

It was the first Saturday of the month—the night the museum came alive after dark.

What a clever little pharaoh, you thought. All Ahkmenrah had to do was tell Larry and Aunt Rebecca he didn’t feel like giving a tour and they wouldn’t question it. They had a thousand things to do on open-museum night and one less exhibit-come-to-life to worry about was a blessing.

Because of the scads of people milling around the entrance and on the first floor, you were able to sneak up to Ahk’s exhibit without being noticed. You actually didn’t even notice that he was standing by one of his Anubis statues, waiting. You almost walked by before he grabbed your wrist.

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head.

“God, Ahk. You blend right in!”

“Except for this,” Ahkmenrah said wiggling the toes of his stocking feet.

You laughed and said, “Come on. I’ve got your shoes in my backpack.”

The two of you quickly walked to the museum staff’s breakroom. Once inside, you took Ahk’s shoes out of the bag and helped him put them on.

As you were tying the laces, Ahkmenrah said in a low voice, “You look beautiful, Y/N.”

You smiled and thanked him as you proffered your hands. He took them and you pulled him up. He moved his feet around and you could see him attempting to wiggle his toes.

“These do feel much better.”

“See? You can trust me,” you said as you rummaged through your backpack to grab your small, crossbody bag.

You tucked your backpack into an unused locker before you and Ahk snuck out the back door.

Ahk took a deep breath and grinned, delighted to be free of the museum for an evening.

You stared, again surprised at how natural he looked in regular clothes. He could’ve easily been someone you passed on the way to one of your classes, or a guy sipping a beer, sitting on a barstool, watching the tv play overhead.

You took a breath, shaking away your thoughts and explained, “It’s quiet here, Ahk, but the places we are going will be crowded. If you feel overwhelmed, just squeeze my hand and we’ll get out of there.”

“I shall never be afraid with you by my side, Y/N.”

Fucking charmer.

“Alright, let’s go!” You said as you offered your hand to Ahkmenrah. He clasped it in his own, and the two of you headed back across the street to catch the subway.

Ahkmenrah did an excellent job of not gaping or craning his neck to see every little thing in the city. In fact, he exuded an air of authority, and you wondered if that was a defense mechanism. It made you believe all the more in his ability to rule Egypt if he were able to project power even though he was feeling out of place.

As you navigated the subway, Ahkmenrah quietly asked questions about the process, how the train moved, how you knew where you were, and you explained everything to him with as much detail as you could. His genuine curiosity was endearing.

Because of Ahk’s time with Jack, and because of his time exploring his current museum, he wasn’t unfamiliar with the layout of a city or its technological advancements. He had seen cars and cellphones, television and movies, modern clothing and hair styles; he did, after all, live in one of the country’s best museums. The exhibits often passed time by exploring the new displays that popped up, like the current “Kitchens through the Ages,” and many of these new displays followed a common theme: a critical look at life in the United States.

Upon reaching the Empire State Building, Ahkmenrah did crane his neck to look up, asking if it was the tallest building in the world.

“Not even close. In fact, there a few taller ones right here in the city.”

He shot you a look of amazement, and you smiled, pulling him into the lobby. Once the two of you stepped out of the elevator and onto the observation deck, Ahkmenrah let go of your hand to rush to the edge and look down.

You let him take it in, hanging back to watch him. His excitement was contagious, and you took this time to consider just how much of a blessing Ahkmenrah was for you. First, he helped you with the formulation of your dissertation, something that had been plaguing you for longer than you cared to admit, then he accepted your friendship with his whole being and you wondered if you’d ever had a friend of the like before, and now, here he was, breathing new life into the way you saw the city you grew up in.

After a few minutes, you approached him and were surprised to see his eyes glistening with tears.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice filled with concern.

“It’s beautiful, overwhelmingly beautiful. The progress. The advancement of civilization. Never in a million years could I or any one of my people have imagined a world such as this. Do you know how lucky you are to have so much? To live, to breath, to walk amongst such phenomenon?”

You wanted to swallow your cynicism to tell Ahk, yes! Yes, you saw the beauty of the city and the modern world, and you appreciated it every day! But you couldn’t lie to him, not when he was so open with you.

“Honestly, I look around me and see flaws instead of beauty. That’s what drew me to the past, to your culture. Your people saw the beauty of life, day after day, through their hardships, their labor, all because of their love for their land. When we claim to love our country, it’s a fallacy—it’s something we are bred to say; it’s not something we feel in our hearts. At least not lately, anyway.”

Ahkmenrah looked at you for a long time before saying, “I am sorry for you, Y/N. But it is not too late to learn to love the blessings your land has bestowed. Look at your life—you’re free to do as you please, to make of yourself anything that you wish. My people lived and died as they were born.”

“Have I ever told you how wise you are, former pharaoh?”

“I am forever a pharaoh; and no, you have not. I believe I shall never tire of hearing it, though,” Ahkmenrah replied as he smirked at you before growing serious again.

“I also think you feel this way because you’re . . . oh, what’s the word? Without feeling?

“Numb.”

“Yes! You are numb to this place because it belongs to you, and we tend to treat the things that belong to us, the things that we are entitled to in the worst manner because they are just that—ours. People forget to appreciate what they have until it is gone.”

Your smile was genuine, and you thought, for a flicker of a moment, that you could love this man in front of you so, so deeply.

Fuck—no. Forget that. Forget that thought immediately.

“Come on, we’ve got a lot more to see,” you said, changing the conversation.

Ahkmenrah took your hand again as you made your way to the High Line. It was a linear park, built on an abandoned elevated railroad and provided gorgeous views of the city at night. It was open until 11, so you had made your reservation for the club in the village at 11:30.

“My gods,” Ahkmenrah commented. “People just scramble about through the city like tiny little scarabs devouring a corpse; they don’t stop to see anything. No wonder they feel as you do.”

You looked at him with raised brows.

“Too dark?”

You laughed and shook your head, “I kinda like that side of you.”

Ahkmenrah squeezed your hand and pulled you a little closer, shifting his grip to lace his fingers between yours.

It was actually a nice night; a little cooler than you expected, but still humid. You wondered for a moment if it was going to rain, but there was nothing on the radar when you checked before leaving your apartment.

Just like on the subway, Ahk asked a lot of questions, pointing to this building or that tree and wondering what it was. You answered his questions, appreciating the seriousness of his face as he stored every bit of information.

You continually snuck glances at him when he grew quiet in order to just drink in his face. You could mentally trace the angles of his jaw, the curve of his nose, and the jut of his chin for hours. It was a face sculpted by the gods; of that, you were certain.

Once the park closed, you set out for the nearest train entrance and travelled to the village. The bar was a few minutes’ walk from the stop, and Ahkmenrah was quiet again as he observed the happy, some of them drunken, people on the street. The village had a different vibe than Manhattan, especially the west village. You loved it here and your apartment was only a few blocks away from the place you were headed now.

The first bar was an underground jazz bar and it reminded you of the 1920s. Red curtains adorned the back of the stage, and candles were lit on every table. The lighting was low and the ceiling lights only adorned the outer walls. The tables were all close together and the musicians on stage tonight were very popular. You had made a reservation for one of the tables along the wall closer to the bar side than the stage so it would be a less crowded and Ahk could ask questions without the din of the music drowning him out.

You took your seats, squeezing in next to each other. When you handed him the drink menu to look over, he looked at you shamefully before lowering his eyes.

“What?”

“I can’t read. Well, I can’t read in English.”

Your mouth popped open.

“How did I not know that? And, Jesus, of course not. When would you have learned how? I’m sorry, Ahk. That’s my fault for assuming.”

“I should have been honest with you.”

“Stop looking like you’ve done something wrong,” you said lifting his head with your fingers under his chin. “I’m not judging you! How many people can read, speak, and write in ancient Egyptian?”

Ahkmenrah rolled his eyes.

“It’s not exactly a useful skill. Everyone in your world can read. It’s shameful not to be able to.”

“I’ll teach you. You already speak the language fluently, better than most native speakers. You’ll be reading in no time.”

“Do you mean that?” Ahkmenrah asked, his eyes filling with happiness again.

“Of course,” you said with sincerity.

Ahkmenrah smiled and pressed his lips to yours in a gesture of thanks. It felt natural, like the entire night of holding hands, soft touches, and smiles was leading to this small, but more intimate moment.

He pulled away and studied your reaction.

“I’m sorry—that was forward of me.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was perfect of you,” you said, moving forward to kiss him again.

This time you both smiled as you pulled away, and you turned your attention back to the drink menu.

“Hmmm. We should probably take it easy. I have no idea what your tolerance for alcohol is.”

“I beg your pardon. I am a king. No one was drunk at a party until I declared them so, least of all myself.”

You laughed, “Okay, tiger, calm down. But we are still going to stick to white wine.”

“Hmph.”

“I am not carrying your ass to the subway station.”

Ahkmenrah was still unapproving of your attempt to censor him, but after each of you had drank two glasses of white wine, you knew you had made the right decision.

While Ahkmenrah watched the musicians, you watched him. He was impossibly close to you, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes half-lidded. His arm had snaked around your waist and his fingers were playing with the material of your dress, occasionally pressing into your thigh as he moved them in circles.

Once the musicians finished their set, you whispered in Ahk’s ear to ask if he was ready to go to your last stop.

“There’s more?” he questioned as he moved his lips closer to yours, the sweetness of the wine on his breath making you feel a little bit reckless.

“I’m assuming you know how to dance?”

“I’m descended from the gods. Of course I can dance!”

“Alright, god-king,” you said through a chuckle. “We’ll see.”

You paid your bill and exited up the stairs and on to the street. Just as you were about to get to the crosswalk, and just as Ahkmenrah had leaned into you and tangled his fingers with yours once again, your eyes connected with a very familiar pair of light blue ones.

Fuck, you thought instantly. No, not fuck. It’s Ryan. My friend, Ryan.

The balance between you and Ryan had worked for a long time. What was going to make this exchange awkward was that you had completely blown him off. You knew he wouldn’t appreciate that, especially because it was for some guy who looked younger than his 20 years of age, and who was a little bit drunk, and a lotta bit attached to your side.

“Y/N!” another friend of yours shouted, spotting you just after Ryan had. “Did you decide to make it out after all—oh, who is your . . . friend?”

“Hey, Chels. This is Ahkmenrah. He’s one of the new docents at the museum.”

You should have been ashamed with how easily the lie flew from your lips, but all you wanted was to end this encounter and to not spoil Ahkmenrah’s evening.

“Ahk, these are my friends Chelsea, Ryan, Timmy, Jess, and Ahmad.”

“Hello, everyone,” Ahkmenrah greeted politely, firing off that charming smile of his.

“You guys should totally join us,” Chelsea said, eyeing Ahkmenrah. “We are headed to that new place off of Hudson street along West 10th. What’s it called again, Ry?”

“Bleaker’s.”

You shook your head, and said, “We’re actually headed in the opposite direction, but maybe next time.”

“Aw, it’s been forever since you’ve hung out with us, Y/N.”

“Dissertation research first, Chels.”

“Clearly,” said Ryan. “Ack . . . Ahk—what was it again?”

“Ahkmenrah,” you stated.

“Let me guess—you’re an expert in ancient Egyptian culture?”

“Yes,” Ahkmenrah stated before you could answer for him again. “I am.”

“Fuckin’ aces, man. Hey—don’t let us interrupt your night,” Ryan said as he shoved his hands in his pockets and started toward the crosswalk. The rest of your friends waved goodnight, and Jess gave you a big hug, whispering how much she missed you, making you feel like a real bitch for having blown everyone off and getting caught while doing it.

You hung back to miss the light and pulled out your phone. You had missed dozens of texts from your friends and now felt even more like an ass. Who doesn’t check their phone? As it turned out, you were so wrapped up in Ahk’s experiences that you didn’t even bother.

“Is something wrong? We could still join your friends? It would be nice to talk to other people my age, too.”

“Except that they aren’t exactly your fucking age, Ahk, are they?”

The hurt in his eyes was damn near palpable, but what replaced it was worse. He knew you were right.

“It doesn’t matter how much I may want to experience the life of this world because I never really can. Tonight was just an illusion.”

You didn’t know what to say. He was right, but you were wrong for rubbing it in his face.

“That guy, Ryan. He was, well is, sort of my . . . more than friend, if you catch my meaning.”

Ahkmenrah thought for a moment before asking, “Is he your concubine?”

You snorted out a laugh then stopped as you realized how accurate the term actually was.

“I guess you could say we are mutual concubines. He lives his life, and I live mine, we’re friends, really good friends, but occasionally we have, well had, sex. It’s not something we’ve done in a while.”

“Why not?”

Before you could respond with, “Because I met you,” and potentially ruin your whole goddamn life, some higher power took mercy on you and opened up the sky. The storm came on so suddenly that Ahkmenrah looked pointedly up at the sky and asked what he had done to so offend Set.

“Curse the gods later—come on!” you said, pulling Ahkmenrah along with you.

This was supposed to be Ahk’s perfect night, and as you ran through the streets, the both of you just started laughing. Without fail, the universe gave zero shits about your carefully laid out plans.

“My apartment is there,” you shouted, pointing to a brick building a few yards in front of you.

You reached into your bag and grabbed the key for the front door, unlocking it as fast as you could. Ahkmenrah rushed in behind you, the two of you leaving actual puddles in the lobby. You waved an apology to Franklin, the night watchmen.

Ahkmenrah followed you as you got on the elevator, pushing for the 6th floor, once again leaving tiny puddles in your wake. Once inside in your apartment, Ahkmenrah looked around, clearly dismayed by your tiny abode.

“This is actually a pretty nice place for the city,” you said as you walked to the closet beside the kitchen to retrieve a few towels. You handed a towel to Ahk before you bent to wrap your ruined hair up in your own towel, hoping to stop some of the dripping.

When you straightened, you saw that he was shivering, his curls completely flattened with water rolling down the sides of his face.

You moved to place another towel around his shoulders and said, “We better get you out of these clothes.”

You ran the towel through his hair, his curls springing back in a deliciously disheveled manner. You dropped the now heavy towel to the floor and reached down to pull his shirt over his head. It made a wet plop as it landed on the hardwood floor of your living area. You had no idea just what the fuck you thought you were doing as you ran your hands over his chest and down his arms, watching as goosebumps that probably didn’t have anything to do with the chill anymore popped up along his skin.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered as you continued touching him, your hands moving to frame his face before running through his hair.

“What are we doing?” Ahkmenrah asked in a whisper.

“Don’t you know?”

“I think I know, but I know that I should tell you to stop. Tell you that we cannot do this,” Ahkmenrah’s face was so close to yours that the whisper of his words ghosted over your lips.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not fair to you, Y/N. You cannot have a normal life with me. And it’s also not fair to me to have a taste of something I can never truly have.”

“You’ve thought about that?” you said, taking a step back to look at him.

Ahkmenrah fixed his eyes on yours, clearing away the haze of lust before he said, “Ever since that day you stopped to ask me if I was sad or lonely. I’ve wanted you from the moment you showed me that compassion, from the moment you saw me as a person.”

A sigh was all that could form and escape your body before you pulled Ahkmenrah’s mouth to yours.

This kiss is heated, so unlike the soft, sweet kisses you had shared earlier in the evening. And as Ahkmenrah returned the kiss, you were taken aback at his boldness. Every ounce of timidity was gone from his demeanor, and it was clear that you were kissing a king, a young, virile man who once ruled all of one of the greatest empires in history.

Ahkmenrah broke the kiss.

“Tell me to stop, Y/N. Push me away. I will always do as you command.”

“Ahkmenrah . . . don’t you dare stop.”

His lips were on yours in an instant, and you kissed, tongues exploring, teeth nipping at lips, all while still standing in the same place, both of you wet, breathing into one another, becoming a writhing blur of want.

Apparently, there were some things that you didn’t forget even after being dead for a few thousand years, and Ahkmenrah seemed determined that you should know that.

He walked you back into the nearest hard surface, his mouth never leaving yours, his hands reaching up to pull the towel off your head so he could grip your hair. Once your ass connected with a surface, Ahkmenrah reached under your thighs to hoist you up, pulling your legs to wrap around his waist. His lips attached to your neck and one of your hands was fisted in his hair while the other held onto his shoulder for leverage.

You could feel now that he was rock hard as he rolled his hips into your center, and you were suddenly so aware of the encumbrance of the barrier made by his pants and your underwear. You wanted to be naked and underneath him.

You pushed his shoulder, rocking your hips out to detach him from your neck, and he stopped sucking, turning his lust-dazed eyes to yours.

“Bedroom,” you insisted, loosening your legs and hopping down, as you grabbed his hand to lead him around the corner to your room.

It was a small room and there were only a few short steps to the edge of your full-sized bed, but you loved the windows that lined the wall. You could see just enough of the city to make the smallness of the room worth the price of rent.

The rain had stopped, clearly just a squall, a reminder of how insignificant people are compared to nature. The water drops still clung to your window panes, reflecting the lights of the city. You reached behind your bed to plug in the string of fairy lights that lined the wall above. There was no way in hell you were doing this in the dark.

You also stopped to pull all of the clothes from your outfit changes off the comforter and to toss them into the closet. Then you turned back to Ahk and pulled your sopping dress off, quickly followed by your bra. You reached up to finger comb some sense into your hair as Ahkmenrah watched the movements of your breasts and your arms, his eyes drinking in the sight of you. You couldn’t resist turning to look into the mirror, wondering if you looked like a racoon. Surprisingly, your makeup looked more late-night party, next-day smudged than drowned.

“I know you never want to believe me when I say these things, but your beauty is unmatched, Y/N. Never have I wanted someone the way I want you.”

You took a deep breath before saying, “Now would be a good time to take those pants off, Ahk.”

And there was that grin, the one that made your heart sing like a fucking cartoon bird.

He struggled for a moment with the snap but succeeded in quickly shucking off both his pants and underwear before realizing he still had on his shoes.

You giggled and dropped to your knees to untie the strings and to help him kick them off. You finished peeling his soaking garments off, including his socks, and you pushed back up to a standing position to finally, finally take in your king’s naked splendor.

You had noted it before, but his physical form was perfectly proportioned perfection, and now you could see that his cock was also no exception.

You let out a hum of appreciation and Ahkmenrah’s sweet grin turned into something that would make the devil blush. Never had a man looked at you with such wicked, unabashed lust. That little shit knew just how beautiful he was.

“Undress,” he delivered in the form of a command that made you immediately discard your underwear.

Ahkmenrah’s eyes drank in your body, traveling slowly to take you in from toe to head, his gaze making you feel like you could have been his queen in another life.

Once his eyes locked onto yours, he closed the distance and kissed you with the same intense passion as earlier.

“My king,” you whispered, eliciting a growl of approval from deep within Ahk’s chest. He gently pushed you back to the bed and spread your legs as he made his way up your body.

He began to take his time, kissing sensitive places, exploring what made you sigh or moan.

By the time Ahkmenrah’s fingers and lips reached your center, your body was begging to be fucked. He slid his finger into you, quickly following it with another once he realized just how wet you were, and he worked that holy point of contact just inside of your walls until you were about to come.

You pulled your hips away and Ahkmenrah didn’t need you tell him what you wanted. He wiped his wet fingers across the tip of his cock, and then watched himself enter you, his eyes slipping shut with every bit of him that sank further into you.

You both moaned together at the contact, and you gripped his thighs with your hips, wanting to memorialize this moment. There would never be another like it because there never was in any relationship; the first time Ahkmenrah sank into you, sated you, was something you wanted to carry with you forever.

Ahk began to move, slowly, his muscles twitching with the effort of holding back his orgasm, but you were selfish and bucked your hips into his. You grasped his biceps with a force that would probably bruise, if you were fucking a guy who didn’t turn into a corpse in the morning.

Of course Ahkmenrah responded to what you demanded; even as a lover, he was selfless and kind. He began to push in and pull out of you in earnest, his body now acting of its own accord. His orgasm was powerful, long, and he made the most delicious sounds as he came inside of you.

Ahkmenrah rested his forehead against yours, issuing a string of apologies, and you laughed and said, “My god, I would’ve thought I was doing something wrong if you lasted much longer.”

Ahkmenrah did not join in your laughter and instead slid down your body and attached his lips to your clit in such a quick movement that your laughter choked into gasp of pleasure.

Ahkmenrah’s fingers slid into your heat, slick with his come and yours as he worked you to an intense orgasm that had you grasping the slats of the headboard and groaning his name, your thighs clenching around his face as you rode out your high.

Your body sank into the mattress, sated, and Ahkmenrah moved up to lay beside you. The two of were in a blissful state of shock.

Eventually, you turned your body to face him, only to find his large, swirling blue and green eyes watching you. There was no doubt that he adored you, that he wanted to spend all of eternity doing this with you, and that deeply flattered you.

You reached out to trace the line of his jaw and his chin, your fingertips gliding over his soft lips after running down his perfectly Egyptian nose.

“We’ve got to get back,” you sighed, daring to speak the words you both dreaded.

“I know,” Ahkmenrah said softly. “Thank you for this. For everything. This has been the best night of my life.”

“Your undead life or your whole life?” you asked, intending it as a joke.

“I cannot think of a single moment from my entire life that rivals any moment I spend with you.”

Your face fell into a serious expression before you said, “If things were different—"

“I know. But they are as they are, and we would be fools to dwell on the ‘what ifs.’”

You kissed him, lips against lips, hoping that he understood everything you didn’t dare to say.

“Ugh,” you said, rolling over Ahk to get to your dresser. “Let me see if I can find you something dry.”

You rummaged through your clothes and found a pair of NYU sweats that would fit him along with an NYU t-shirt.

“If Larry and Rebecca catch us walking in there like this, they are going to know without a doubt what we’ve been up to.”

Ahkmenrah smiled, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

“Leave them to me.”

#Ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah fanfiction #natm ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah imagine #ahkmenrah x reader #female reader #ahk #rami malek #rami malek imagine #NATM

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mapowrites · 6 years

Text

Misericórdiae (Erwin Smith/OC)

Chapter 9: Thyme

[ I ] [ II ] [ III ] [ IV ] [ V ] [ VI ] [ VII ] [ VIII ]

(Art by http://koo-kachoo.tumblr.com/)

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a magnificent spring evening upon the Trost district. Within the city’s bustling uptown, hoots and hollers were heard from the inside of an animated bar. Inside sat a few dozen military officers and civilians, drinking and talking merrily amongst themselves while a small ensemble of musicians played various gigues and folk songs for their patrons.

Hanji’s squad, including Rick and Lyor, sat at a long wooden table, each of them dressed in civilian garments. They were in the middle of a drinking game when Hanji, who sat at the head of the table, downed her fourth pint of beer and slammed it down proudly. Sitting adjacently to the squad leader was Lyor, and Moblit across from her. The seat beside Moblit was empty, as Keiji had gotten up to present the group (and the entire bar) with a song — The Fisherman’s Ballad.

The group cheered him on, but mocked him exuberantly for his handful of drunken voice cracks and attempts at dancing. Lyor stifled a giggle when Keiji nearly accidentally spilled his beer on the violinist, the mouthful of alcohol she had threatening to come up her nose if she laughed. She had been careful not to drink too much, but the heat in her face warned her to eat something before she continued.

Over the laughter that erupted from her group when Rashad threw ice cubes at Keiji, Lyor waved down a barmaid, and she thanked her when she was handed a menu.

“Food! Good call, Lyor.” The menu caught Nifa’s attention, who sat beside her. They perused the list of meals together before their view was obstructed by Hanji’s hand smacking the menu onto the table.

“Hey, hey! We’re here to get drunk, not to eat. You’ll slow the drunken-ing process!” Their squad leader slurred, while Moblit made sure she didn’t tip over in her chair, muttering about how she can’t just make up words.

“Hanji, I haven’t eaten since lunch. I’ll remind you that you’re the one who cut my dinner early when you snuck us out of the graduation ceremony early,” Lyor retorted, watching Hanji teeter in her seat before returning to her menu. “I don’t want to be sick.”

“Goody-goody…”

“Oh, how was the ceremony?” Nifa asked, genuinely interested. Lyor opened her mouth to reply, but Hanji interrupted.

“Long and boring! I can’t believe I was the only one who showed up!” Hanji leaned over to bunch Lyor’s cheeks in her hands. “Our poor, abandoned newbie.”

“None of us had the day off!” Moblit objected while Lyor smacked Hanji’s hands away.

“I know that, but apparently Hanji can’t keep track of her squad members’ schedules,” Lyor jabbed, glaring at her boss, but then offering a smile to her teammate. “Don’t worry about it, Moblit.”

“You know, I know of a person who had today off, but curiously enough, I didn’t see him anywhere,” Hanji commented, leaning back in her chair, while Keiji finally regained his seat only to be assaulted with insults about his singing by the rest of the group. Lyor pretended not to hear Hanji and stuck her nose back into her menu. “Did his invitation get lost in the mail?”

Still pretending not to hear her, Lyor hummed thoughtfully at the menu. “I wonder what their best dish is…”

The brunette huffed, and placed her elbow on the table to lean her cheek into her hand. “So, are you going to tell me what it is you two are fighting about?”

“We’re not fighting.” Lyor stated flatly, flipping the menu over, her eyes still focused on the list of meals.

“Okay, are you going to tell me what is you two are not fighting about that keeps you from talking to each other?”

“What about the chicken breast?”

“What about ‘Lyor’s two years old’?”

“Never heard of it. Is that a soup?”

Hanji huffed and gave up, ordering another beer from the bar from her spot. “You’re impossible.”

“Oh, you’re right, ‘you’re impossible’ is the soup dish.”

The group ordered another round of drinks and a few meals for the hungry ones, and they fell back into another heated discussion about whether or not Hanji had a crush on Shadis. Hanji was in the middle of grabbing Rashad by his shirt collar when Lyor’s laughter was interrupted by the sight of two men entering the bar. She quickly averted her eyes when she risked to meet blue ones.

“Squad leader Erwin! Mike! You made it!” Lyor watched Moblit stand from the table to greet the two men. Lyor couldn’t help but watch Erwin out of the corner of her eye while he conversed with the younger man. Effortlessly handsome, as always, he wore a casual dress coat over his usual civilian combo — white button up and slacks — and he paired his outfit with an indiscernible expression. He had yet to notice her, but for the briefest second, while Lyor eyed him, he was the only person in the room who existed.

“Come have a seat and discuss my personal life with us! It’s apparently up for debate.” Hanji chimed from her seat to her old friends, her smile betrayed by the passive-aggressive vein popping in the side of her temple, and the handful of Rashad’s shirt in her fist.

“When is it not?” Erwin retorted, and Lyor forced herself not to laugh.

“Two more beers please!” Rick called as the two men took a seat across and on the opposite end of the table from Lyor.

Over the music and the chatter, the barmaids brought the group their drinks, and Keiji stood after a few minutes, albeit unsteadily, and raised his pint in the air.

“To our new squad leader, Hanji!”

“Hear, hear!” The group answered, and they each raised their glasses. Smiling, Lyor’s eyes wandered to the other end of the table. Her eyes met Erwin’s across the way, who also held up his glass with an easygoing smile, before his blue eyes reminded her of the regret he had caused her. She pulled her gaze away, and saw Hanji stand up in her peripheral vision, her drink raised high. She could still feel his gaze on her.

“Not another speech, Hanji!”

“Silence!” She snapped, before regaining her seriousness with a hiccup. “And to our newbie’s graduation! To Lyor!” Some of Hanji’s beer spilled on the table, and Nifa and Abel inched away from it, laughing, while Moblit scolded his leader.

“Hear, hear!” And with that, the group collectively downed their umpteenth pint, applauding and cheering as Hanji bowed.

“Now, as per Recon Corps drinking protocol, honourees are subject to entertain their guests with a song,” Rashad recited matter-of-factly, folding his arms over his chest. Lyor watched the rest of the squad nod along. “We’ve heard Hanji sing —”

“Too many times!” “So now, pray tell, Lyor, what song will you grace us with tonight?”

From across the way, Erwin noticed Lyor’s flush spread even further on her face as her colleagues eyed her expectantly, and she waved her hands in panic. “What? No, I’m not any good!”

“A song, a song!” Someone twittered, and after the group broke into a chant, repeating ‘sing’ over and over again, the blond watched Lyor reluctantly get up from her spot. The group exploded into applause and cheers, and Erwin smiled to himself as he watched her make her way over to the group of musicians.

His eyes never left her figure as she leaned down to speak to the pianist, most likely requesting a song. He noticed the change in her appearance: she wore a tailored navy dress, intricate embroidery framing her décolleté, and the fit flattering her hourglass figure. He also noticed the small, elegant pearl earrings that hung from her ears, her brown locks pulled back into a half-do, tied with a thin, delicate ribbon. Paired with his finely tuned observational skills and Hanji’s habit of divulging information to him, he divined that she had gone to her graduation ceremony earlier that day.

Hanji had spoken with him about it, trying to set a time to pick him up in order to split the carriage ride cost with him, and she had been surprised when he told her he wasn’t going. Hanji, knowing the two were good friends, had tried to assure him she must have simply forgotten to invite him, but Erwin refused to show up to the event unannounced. Erwin was too occupied for frivolous matters to think anything of Lyor’s actions — or lack thereof — but he always wondered if something had happened to suddenly disjunct their friendship. He would have to congratulate her another time. But if anything had perturbed him, it was that she had given his gift to a certain brigadier general.

Ridding himself of any undesirable thoughts, Erwin took a swig of his cold, refreshing brew, and turned his attention to the musicians and Lyor, who stood, sheepishly, before her comrades. The group gave her another round of cheers as the pianist introduced the folksong with a few arpeggiated chords, and the young woman began to sing.

Come all you fair and tender girls, that flourish in your prime, beware, beware, keep your garden fair, let no man steal your thyme, let no man steal your thyme.

The folksong was slow and solemn, and it seemed to hush all commotion from the bar. She clearly wasn’t a singer, her timbre not remarkably high, but her voice was airy and delicate, and the notes were at least in tune. Erwin couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips as he attentively watched her. She placed a palm over her middle, as if monitoring the intake of her breaths.

For when your thyme, it is past and gone, he’ll care no more for you, and every place where your time was waste, will all spread over with rue…

“Will all spread over with rue.” Erwin, lost in her words, only noticed the male voice that sang in unison when Lyor’s expression shifted.

Everyone, including Erwin, followed her surprised glance across the floor, and they spotted Markus, sitting at a table of MP’s in the corner of the bar. The officer stood as the music continued, the sleeves of his chemise rolled up, and a vest donned around his middle. His green eyes never left hers. Involuntarily, Erwin’s grip on his glass tightened, but his face never exuded any emotion, and he blinked placidly as the events unfolded before him.

The gardener’s son was standing by, three flowers he gave to me, the pink, the blue and the violet true, and the red, red rosy tree, and the red, red rosy tree.

Singing through her surprise, Lyor watched Markus advance towards her as he sang in harmony with her. She wondered when he had gotten here, and why she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Whether it was the alcohol or not, Lyor’s heartbeat quickened as he flashed a charming smile at her, and she returned it. Had he always been here, and had they simply not noticed him this whole time?

But I refused the red rose bush, and gave the willow tree, that all the world may plainly see, how my love slighted me, how my love slighted me.

His voice deep and skillful, he sang the last verse with her as he stood directly beside her, and Erwin shifted in his seat. They finished the song together on different, harmonising notes, and the entertained crowd let out an eruption of drunken applause and whistles. The blond applauded out of political necessity, and the two singers smiled at the crowd and bowed facetiously. He watched, thankful, Hanji interrupt Markus’ ignition of conversation with Lyor to hand her a drink. The two women downed their drinks in front of the squadron, as per their requests, earning themselves yet another roar of cheers.

Everyone regained their seats, and food was finally served to the table. Erwin watched Markus walk back to his table, and with his presence gone, Erwin finally engrossed himself in conversation with his fellow scouts, trying to forget the moment the couple had shared.

They ate, drank, laughed and sang for a few more hours, before Lyor began to feel a bit claustrophobic from all the noise, cigarette smoke and alcohol stench.

“I’m going to go get some fresh air,” She excused herself to Nifa who barely heard her over Hanji and Keiji’s hectic debate about Commander Shadis’ expanding bald spot.

The same blue sky that had watched over the bar for the day was now engulfed in a blanket of midnight black, dotted with stars. Though the street was asleep, the bar was not. A few street lamps lined the street, and the flames licked the air with the soft glow of their light. From outside, Lyor could hear her friends’ laughs and singing. A moment did not go by without entertainment that night.

Lyor leaned against the bar’s window ledge, and inhaled the crisp midnight air. She thought about how she had caught a twitch of jealousy in Erwin’s face during her song, when he thought she wasn’t looking. She smiled coyly to herself.

“I thought we were rather good together,” Lyor’s head turned to find Markus making his way towards her from the bar’s entrance.

She smiled politely and her eyes returned to the street in front of her. “So did I.”

“We would make a fine duo.” The man commented, leaning on the windowsill beside her. She hummed absentmindedly, enjoying the mixture of the fresh evening air and the slight buzz of inebriation. She heard him laugh. “You finally agree with me? Does this mean you’ll let me take you out?”

She scoffed and gave him a surly look. “Have I not made it clear enough for you?”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“Oh, no, I’ve shocked you,” She replied sarcastically before she turned to have her body face him. He watched her inquisitively, a smile still on his face. “Why are you so insistent?” She finally asked — blurted — what had bugged her about him for so long.

“Because I like you,” He smirked, his arms crossed over his chest as he eyed her through hooded eyes. “And you’re beautiful.”

She blinked at him in disbelief before she copied him and crossed her arms, looking away as she scoffed. “Oh, please.”

“What angers you, exactly?” He spoke evenly, his tone impish. “What I said or the way I said it? There must be some man who tells you that you're beautiful.”

“Not to my face, no,” She retorted before she locked eyes with him. She felt particularly outspoken tonight now that she had alcohol to blame for any regretful outbursts. “But there are thousands of women who must throw themselves at you in the inner city. You’re a high-ranking, probably rich, military police officer. And your looks don’t make women, you know, gag, so you must have your pick of companions.”

Markus watched her without saying anything, only a smirk on his lips.

She shifted uncomfortably under his stare, her foot stomping impatiently. “Is it a sport thing, then? The more I say no, the more you see me as some sort of prize to be won?” Lyor finally punctuated when he didn’t answer.

“You don’t think very highly of yourself, do you? You don’t think I could simply, genuinely, like you?” The way he chuckled made her skin prickle. He was impressed that she had figured out something was off with his pursuits. “You could say it’s something like that, yes, but you don’t know enough about me to figure me out.”

He stood to his full height, uncrossing his arms, and his eyes suddenly became very ominous. Lyor stiffened as his signature smirk fell, and for the first time, she saw him glower. “I do not appreciate people going over my head.”

She watched him carefully, blinking in confusion.

“When I first heard of your father, I was assigned by the crown to his case. You see, your father really doesn’t care for obedience, my dear Lyor. We told him to stop his research on the grounds that his projects were too dangerous to carry out alone for the public. What happens if — when —a plane crashes into a crowd of people? My men offered him a position within the inner walls, with good pay and a safe place to execute his projects, but the man simply refused to oblige. So what happens when you say no to the crown? We’re forced to make you oblige. Real shame about your mother.” Lyor was stunned. Markus took a step closer to her, and she could only watch him.

“But even after all these years of warnings and sneaking around, I found out that your little group is making illegal trips outside the walls! I had evidence!” A cynical smile broke out onto his face, and he threw his hands up. It made Lyor flinch, as he was now standing only a few centimetres from her, his height towering over her smaller frame, and she tried to back away only to have him follow her. “I get this close to catching you rats, when I’m suddenly told to back off and to let the Scouts handle you. Ten years I’ve been working on this case, and the instant I call for Reichart’s arrest, all of his crimes are suddenly pardoned, and he’s allowed to work on the very same projects I was tasked to forbid.”

With every step he took closer to her, Lyor began to feel more and more panicked. Feeling threatened, she tried to brush it off with a nervous laugh, and started towards the bar. “Ha-ha, brigadier, you’re quite the talkative drunk. Please excuse me.”

Before she could get anywhere, she felt his broad hand snake around her wrist, and he pulled her roughly back to him. With a hand on his chest to create a semblance of distance between their bodies, Lyor shrinkingly looked up at him, into his brazen eyes. Any sign of amusement had vanished from his features, and she could feel his breath on her lips.

“As I said, I don’t appreciate people going over my head. I’m also a man who savours vengeance, you see,” he continued without skipping a beat. His grip on her wrist tightened, and she winced at his immense strength. “And what better vengeance than to make the antagonist’s daughter your bride?”

Lyor wanted to laugh in shock, but all she could do was stare at him, stupefied. In the moment of shuddering silence they shared, Lyor pulled at his grip, and he allowed her wrist to slip out of his grasp. He also allowed her to back away from him, and she rubbed at her wrist as she glared at him.

“And you expect me to marry you over this empty monologue? Or are you going to walk me down the aisle handcuffed and gagged? I wonder if my grandmother will cry of joy.”

Finally, trademark nonchalance returned, and he smiled at her wit. “Of course not. Why don’t you just wait and see?”

Back inside the bar, Erwin was in mid-debate with Rick, Hanji, and Mike about which kind of whiskey paired best with pork ribs when he saw Lyor enter the room, her face blanched. The three continued to yell drunkenly at each other, but Erwin watched her walk over to their table, her eyes sullen. As Erwin stood from his seat, he noticed Schoenberg re-entering the bar, the usual curl on his lips when he sat back down with his men at their table. He looked back at Lyor who sat, her posture slouched, and he moved to walk to her when Hanji suddenly collapsed on the ground behind him.

“Hanji!” Moblit exclaimed, and moved to kneel beside her.

Hanji, on the ground, laughed uncontrollably before she trilled a moan and held back a dry heave. “Ugh, Moblit, I don’t feel so good.”

“You don’t say…” Moblit sighed, and Erwin turned to recover his steps towards Lyor, only to find her walking past him to help Moblit get Hanji off the floor.

“Let’s get you to bed, Hanji.” Lyor laughed — though Erwin could see past her smile to her eyes that crinkled with worry — and she and Moblit made plans to take the squad leader home. Feeling certain that Lyor would be safe tonight with Hanji and her assistant, he refrained from intervening and took his original seat with Mike. Whether he liked it or not, it wasn’t his place to meddle in the woman’s affairs, and this became the best state of mind for him to repress any worry that threatened to plague him.

Half an hour later, Lyor, Moblit, and a quasi unconscious Hanji descended from their carriage ride and helped Hanji to her room within the Recon Corps’ HQ. Once in her room, Lyor assured Moblit that she could handle it from here, and bid the young man a good night.

Lyor dragged Hanji to her bed, the squad leader’s arm over the brunette’s shoulder, and laid her down as gently as she could. While Hanji moaned to no one in particular, Lyor gathered a bucket to place beside her superior’s bed, and she filled a glass of water to force down Hanji’s gullet. It wasn’t too hard, considering the woman could barely lift her arms, but she did receive a few slurred insults. She filled another glass to place on Hanji’s bedside table, and sat on the edge of her bed for a moment.

She stared blankly at the floor, deep in thought.

Why don’t you just wait and see?

Markus’ voice echoed in her head like a scream in an empty valley, and it made her shudder.

“Hanji… I need to tell you something…” Lyor hesitantly spoke, as if Markus would hear every word if she said them too loudly. She turned to Hanji, who was embracing her pillow with her eyes closed, slobbering all over it.

“Oh, commander Shadis…” She moaned.

The scene made her momentarily forget her anguish, and the young woman let out a chortle at her squad leader. Her friend's state alleviated her distress. It had been an eventful evening, and the younger woman to decided to chalk up Markus' actions to a mere drunken vocalisation.

Lyor draped a blanket over Hanji. I guess she really does have a thing for Shadis.

The following Monday morning, Lyor greeted the familiar soldiers she crossed on her way to her squad’s offices, and paused in the hallway when she saw Hanji, Keiji, and Moblit all making their way to the mess hall for breakfast.

“Good morning.” Lyor smiled at her coworkers as she met them halfway, and Hanji and Keiji both groaned and shuddered at her voice. Lyor blinked at Moblit. “What did I do?”

“You spoke in a normal volume,” Moblit offered. “They’re still hungover.”

“Hasn’t it been almost 48 hours?”

“I think I know what an aneurysm feels like before you have it…” Hanji grumbled before she walked past Lyor to get away from their echoing voices.

Keiji followed suit and added, “Like a baseball the size of a cantaloupe in your head.”

Lyor heard Hanji giggle unintelligently. “Good one.”

Moblit sighed to himself before he turned to his coworker. “Want to grab some breakfast with us?

“No, thanks. I already ate. I’m going to get a head start on things this morning.” She smiled and waved goodbye, heading towards her shared office.

When she got there, she found the place empty, to her relief. She wanted some peace and quiet this morning to bury herself in her work — it was one of her coping mechanism. She hung her coat before she walked over to her desk, and she was about to set down her bag when her eyes spotted something unusual at her workstation: a humble bouquet of purple creeping thyme flowers placed in a glass vase. She raised an eyebrow, set her shoulder bag on the ground, and sat down at the stool at her desk. Curiously, she picked up the small card. It read:

Come all you fair and tender girls that flourish in your prime

Beware — keep your garden fair. Let no man steal your thyme.

Congratulations on your graduation.

Erwin Smith

Notes:

Please let me know what you think! I'd love your thoughts on Schoenberg -- I'm not always the best at coming up with villains heh -v-;

#erwin smith #erwin smith x oc #erwin smith/oc #aot #snk #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #fanfiction #ao3fic

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mrsrcbinscn · 5 years

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BDRPWriMo Task #6 - 10 Short-Short Stories

Task #6: Write ten short-short stories of no more than a paragraph long.

Franny Robinson’s musical influences; ten interview quotes about other musicians and singers that she says inspire her work

i. Jenny Lewis

“I dunno, there’s just-” Robinson paused and with her palms flat up, made claws with her hands as she searched for the words. “-something so honest about Jenny. I had the honor of performing with her once and I was just in awe. I think I have a little bit of a crush on her. I was first introduced to her work in 2001 by a great friend of mine from college, Dani Weiss [currently a member of the American-Canadian newgrass band The Weepy Willows]. We were...going on a little trip -

Q: Acid or shrooms?

“My husband is sitting right there, oh god. Acid. In moderation, I think things like that can be worthwhile experiences. In moderation. We were doing acid in her apartment and listenin’ to music and she [Weiss] put on their album Take Offs and Landings. I was real into it from Go Ahead [the first track]. Which. I always liked chill music when I dropped acid, anything too loud and busy made me anxious. And when the followup, The Execution of All Things came out, it was like - I was like - just like, ‘damn, this woman is amazing.’ Her songwriting ability is just phenomenal and her voice- I feel like I’m sittin’ across from her and she’s tellin’ me stories. There’s- again, the only thing I can think of is this honesty about her.”

ii. Hizuru

“Japan actually has a vibrant history with jazz music, so I’m familiar with a lot of Japanese jazz and have had the honor of working with many talented Japanese jazz musicians. I don’t know very much about Hizuru, actually, other than I love them. I have been experimenting with incorporating traditional Cambodian music with, you know, jazz and other western styles of music. That part of my culture is very important to me, so I want - I want to show the world how beautiful instruments like tro and chapei are. Anyway- I was struggling with a balance of sounds when in 2017 I stumbled upon a Hizuru song called - oh, god, I don’t speak Japanese, so I’ll probably butcher this. The song is called Ushiwakamaru. It is an instrumental piece, as is the entire self-titled album, and the blend of traditional Japanese music and modern jazz on that entire album is perfection. I hope they come out with more soon, I am hungry for more, truly.”

iii. Ella Fitzgerald

Q: Of the early jazz vocalists, who inspires you the most?

“Oh my god, Ella Fitzgerald. Well - mm, no, absolutely her, no question. I am by no means implying I live up to her standard, in fact I never will, but I have channeled her. Especially in my earlier work when I was a bit more concerned with going what jazz fans want, expect, and love versus taking lessons from those who came before me and building on that with my own ideas, my own voice. If that makes sense? She was classic. It’s Only A Paper Moon was, I think, the first jazz song I heard when I was little. Or, it was the first that really struck me. [laughs] My oldest brother used his birthday money to buy an Ella Fitzgerald album for me on vinyl so I would stop running around the house singing the only lyrics I remembered. I think it was like [singing]- Say, its only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea...and I forgot the rest so I could just repeat cardboard sea like three times.”

iv. Patsy Cline

“I’m from Georgia,” laughs Robinson, running a hand through her hair as she pulls her feet up under her on the chaise lounge in her Swynlake home. “Like, out in the country in Georgia. You couldn’t grow up there in the eighties and not have known who Patsy Cline and Dolly Parton were. Dolly was more, like, relevant and current, but Patsy’s a classic. And as a woman whose natural register is lower myself, I really appreciated being able to sing along decently well without much effort. We don’t - we don’t get to see alto voices in popular music a lot. Pop, even the jazz music that gets a following outside of hardcore jazz fans. Hitting the craziest high notes does seem to be a current trend across the genre spectrum.”

When asked if that was a bad thing, Robinson simply shook her head. “I don’t think it;s positive or negative one way or the other. It’s just an observation.”

v. Ahmad Jamal

“I mean, if you want to talk jazz pianists, you can’t not talk about Ahmad Jamal. On Green Dolphin Street? Autumn Rain? F---, man, leaving him out is criminal. He’s been in the game for five decades, that’s longer than I’ve been alive. I only hope to be on his level. Like, I hear words from his piano. I understand what I’m supposed to be feeling, thinking, or seeing when I listen to his work. And with instrumental music, that’s a challenge. Classical? I struggle to listen to classical music. I think it’s beautiful, and I really respect classical musicians, but unless I’m explicitly aware of what picture this piece is supposed to paint in my head, when I tell a classical expert what a piece makes me feel, they’re usually like ‘ACTUALLY...’

vi. Édith Piaf

“My father - well, he’s technically my stepfather,” Robinson said, scowling at the word like it was a swear. “But, he adopted me when he married my mother, and my biological father may as well have been a sperm donor. Anyway. My father is from Switzerland, and they have four official languages there. He speaks them all, plus English, plus he learned to speak Khmer when he married my mother. He’s so cool, my dad. He’s from a Francophone-Italophone Swiss family, so I grew up listening to a lot of old French, Italian, and some German music from him. I still don’t speak German and Italian though, [laughs] sorry Dad.”

“We listened to Édith Piaf a lot together. I was very protective of my mother as a child, you know how kids of single moms are? My mom was my superhero and I was used to American men thinking they had a right to touch her because she was just a poor foreign woman who owned a restaurant. So when my future dad started hanging around, I hated him. But he was determined to make me like him so I’d let him marry my mother, and he’d take me for ice cream and play Édith Piaf cassettes in the car. He’d tell me about what the love songs meant, and didn’t tell me about the songs that weren’t, and told me the love songs are how he felt about my mother. He was like, ‘Dara-’ my legal first name is Darareaksmey, it’s Khmer. My parents usually calls me ‘Dara.’ ‘Dara, if you let me, I’ll be good to your mother, and to you.’ I eventually got tired of him begging me to marry my mom so I let him. [laughs]

I asked if she ever regretted giving him her blessing.

“No, never. He’s my dad, and the two boys he brought into the marriage are my older brothers. I’m my Swiss grandparents’ only granddaughter, so they spoiled me even from Switzerland. No, we’re family.”

vii. Dolores O'Riordan

Interview date, 26th of January, 2018

Q: Let’s talk about something I just found out about you from your Twitter feed the other day.

A: Oh, no, should I tell my husband to cover his ears?

Q: No, it’s rated H for Husband.

A: Excellent.

Q: You’re a huge fan of Dolores O’Riordan. Which, I wouldn’t have guessed. But on the day the tragic news of her passing broke, you Tweeted out a tribute to her including ffive meet and greet pictures of the two of you together- the first, correct me if I’m wrong, is from 1994?

A: Yes, yes I had actually seen then the year prior, when I was thirteen, but ‘94 was the first time I could afford a backstage package with my babysitting money. The other four are from 1999, 2002, 2010, and 2016. I loved The Cranberries, they were the first concert I dragged my husband to when we were dating.

Q: Safe to say you’ve been a hardcore fan for-

A: Two and a half decades, yeah. Yeah, The Cranberries are one of my all time favorites. Dolores O’Riordan’s voice was...everything.

Q: You’re a jazz artist, primarily. What’s consistently drawn you to The Cranberries?

A: [laughs] Other than being a teenager in the 90′s? I mean, her voice. She changed the game for what it meant to be a female vocalist in rock music. And up until my second year at NYU, I wasn’t sure where I was going with music. I loved rock, I loved jazz, I was into R&B, I loved bluegrass. I sang in several bands in high school and college, and The Cranberries were usually on the setlist. Her voice was amazing. I idolized her as a young vocalist, even if I ended up gravitating toward a different genre.

Q: You uploaded a cover of Dreams with Irish alt-rock singer and guitarist Padraig Chen, and Irish indie musician Siobhán Walsh as well. How did that collaboration come about?

A: Padraig’s been a friend of mine for a long time; we met through a mutual friend who is also an Asian-diaspora musician in the UK and Ireland and it was a match made in music heaven. We’ve collaborated a lot. Siobhán is a friend of Pat’s, and we all looked up to Dolores, so we just got together and made our little tribute to her.

viii. Badi Assad

“I was first introduced to bossa nova...probably during my sophomore year of college. Her voice is like butter, but frankly, that’s not the most interesting thing about her. She combines traditional jazz, bossa nova, other Latin music elements, and traditional Middle Eastern sounds. Anything that is a marriage of different tastes and cultures is interesting to me, and when its done as well as she does it? Forget it. She is one of the best jazz and jazz-adjacent guitarists out there today. I really admire her. I hope to perform with her one day, it’s genuinely a dream of mine.”

ix. Ros Serey Sothea

“One of my most unexpected musical influences...well, I don’t - I don’t think she’s so much unexpected, as any of my following outside of my small Cambodian or Khmer-American following won’t have ever heard of. Ros Serey Sothea is one of the most important singer in Khmer popular music history, she’s called the Golden Voice. My mother would sing her songs to me as a child, whichever of them she could remember. Under the Khmer Rogue, which my mother survived, something like 90% of Cambodia’s artists, dancers, musicians, and singers died or were executed. She was one of them. And my mother’s favorite singer. Most of the master recordings from her and other singers like Pen Ran and Sinn Sisamouth were destroyed by the Khmer Rogue, so whatever recordings we do have of Khmer rock and roll from that era are so, so vital to preserve and keep record of. Even though I am a jazz music educator, at my lower level, more generic classes where I have the wiggle room to do so, I talk about Khmer music of the 60s and early 70s for a class because I feel so strongly about the legacy of this music.”

“I went on a tangent,” Robinson said apologetically. “Where was I? Oh, Ros Serey Sothea. Right, so her voice was just-” Robinson put her arms out to her side and swayed to the imaginary music in her head. “-you could just kind groove like this to only her voice, nothing else needed. Her voice danced on top of the backing band. My mother managed to get her hands on some records, her siblings who remained in Cambodia sent some to us and her other siblings who were resettled, in the mid-eighties. So, I was six or seven before I heard my first Khmer song from a record player or a cassette instead of my mother’s voice, even though she’d been singing to me since I was born. These songs are still incredibly important to Cambodians today, and diaspora as well.”

I asked her if that had anything to do with the semi-viral success of her recent cover of 70′s singer Sieng Vannthy’s ‘Console Me’.

“Oh, for sure.” Robinson said. "It’s the first time I professionally recorded a song in Khmer, a lot of people were surprised I spoke the language.”

x. Dolly Parton

“Okay, Dolly probably has less of an influence on my music than my persona, I’ll be honest. But her music means so much to me. At my wedding, during toasts, my mother mortified me by throwin’ in video footage of my first ever live performance from ‘89. Little nine-year-old Franny was on stage in little secondhand cowboy boots, this horribly 80s lookin’ frilly dress, my hair in little twin braids, singin’ and dancin’ to Why’d You Come In Here Lookin’ Like That. To this day, my husband still brings that up.”

Q: How do you mean Dolly Parton influenced your persona?

“Great question. So, our origins are similar. Kind of. She grew up poor one of twelve children, I grew up poor, one of three. My family eventually was lucky enough to make it out of the poverty I was born into but we were still always poor, you know? Like. I remember my mom rationing her food so I could eat enough until that stopped when I was about seven and my mom didn’t have to make a meal for herself last two meals. And we’re both from the American South.”

“I grew up on Dolly. She’s the queen of our people [laughs] and I’m not even being facetious. We love her. Can’t get enough of her. And I include myself in that; Dolly Parton is an icon. She is unashamed of who she is and where she comes from, which really struck a chord with me. As the American-born daughter of a refugee, I was always caught between two cultures. Am I Cambodian, am I American? Which can I claim? My mother taught to me my Cambodian culture, our Vietnamese friends taught me about Vietnamese culture, but my white father was from Switzerland so I didn’t learn to be American until school. That’s when I started droppin’ my G’s, sayin’ y’all and ain’t, and asking my parents to make grits for breakfast when they’d never eaten them before in their immigrant lives. I wanted so badly to just be seen as American, to be seen as just a girl from Georgia. If it weren’t for my mother refusing to let me speak English to her at home I would have lost my Khmer. She spoke English just fine, but English was for Out There.”

“My mom taught me to be proudly Cambodian, but I’m not just Cambodian, right? I mean, I’m biracial, sure. But more importantly, I’m bi-cultural. I’m not just Cambodian, I’m American - Southern, if we wanna get real specific. Both of my cultures are vibrant, and beautiful, and are equally important to me. My mom taught me not to be ashamed to be the daughter of a refugee - she didn’t get into specifics until I was older, but she was always made it clear she had Been Through Some Shit and could handle anything. Even now, when I go through something difficult I just tell myself, ‘Mom survived genocide, you can do whatever this is.’ I knew how to be proudly Cambodian, I knew how to wear traditional dress to nice events, and wear Khmer wedding clothes for my wedding instead of a white dress. But I didn’t know how to embrace this other part of myself - because wasn’t raised in the default Middle America. Even my American side is a type of odd culture, isn’t it?

Dolly Parton taught me not to be ashamed of the other half of where I came from. She is unapologetic about bein’ who she is. She is proud of where she came from. And I want to be the Dolly Parton of my rural Georgia town. My identities as Cambodian and Georgian are more important to be than my identity as, like, an American person in general. I want people to think, ‘that’s a Georgia woman’ when they think of me, just like you look at Dolly and say ‘that’s a Appalachian girl’ before you just go ‘oh, she’s American.’

#bdrpwrimomckala #bdrpwrimo #&&...hc #// some of these got long fight me #franny has feelings about music

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stephfm · 5 years

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Candid Conversations, IV. The Future of Classical Music

Last, but certainly not least, I sat down with a friend, who like me is involved in the classical music industry, but does not classify himself as a musician per se although he performs in various choirs. Both of our journeys with classical music are very similar. At the age of 10, we both joined our respective school choirs and over the years, we ventured deeper into classical music.

He, however, listens almost exclusively to choral music, claiming that over 90% of the music he listens to are choral pieces, and the remaining are orchestral. For some reason, he defended himself saying, “Not being a snob, but I do not listen to pop music.” I laughed at his behaviour, knowing exactly why he felt the need to do so.

“I think people get the misconception that people who listen to classical music exclusively, they tend to be ... a bit too cultured or even snobbish.”

Although he explained that he derives more pleasure from choral music or sometimes orchestral pieces featuring a chorus, like Elgar’s The Music Makers, he still enjoys listening to pure orchestral music. He went on to talk about why he likes such music.

“The lack of lyricism, that’s one. Because there are no lyrics, the piece is almost entirely open to interpretation. I can interpret it any way I want, and that’s the beauty of it. It’s subjective— what others think of the music is irrelevant.”

At this point, we established that he shared very similar taste in music— classical music—although he leans towards choral music more than I do. And so, we began to talk about the classical music industry. When asked to describe it, he replied with “I would describe it in two ways. First, exclusive and second, old.” My brows were furrowed and I was taken aback by what he had just said.

“For someone who is part of this circle, compared to someone who does not know much about classical music, you still describe it using almost stereotypical words. Why’s that?” I questioned.

"Just because they don’t know, doesn’t mean they’re wrong. I mean there is some truth behind it and I’ve seen it for myself. I’ve attended many classical concerts and that seems to be the best adjectives to describe the other audience members sat around me. I mean they are either in the know or old ...I wouldn’t blame the layman to have the conception that classical music is reserved for those two groups of people, when in reality, it isn’t.”

He was right, there is some truth behind it and so, I decided to stop using the word misconception. We then talked about how these perceptions people have may affect the industry.

“It limits their reach when it has the potential to reach out to so many more people who are neither in the industry nor old,” he expresses. If we were to draw a graph, it would show a straight line, a plateau. “I wouldn’t say that classical music will decline and just disappear, but it would remain exclusive to the groups of people we mentioned earlier.”

I decided to share with him some statistics I came across.

"Oh! That’s great, I’m impressed. I guess I was wrong. I hope this will break the mold that classical music is reserved for a certain group of people.” He sounded hopeful as I told him that classical music was the fastest growing genre last year and streams increased.

I decided to probe a bit more and so I asked, “What if the increase in streams is attributed to the group of people who listen to it as background music? For sleep, for studying, almost like an afterthought or filler.”

That’s where our differences showed. To him, any form of consumption was enough, while I wanted more people to have a genuine interest in it. There isn’t a set purpose for classical music, or any music for that matter, and so it can whatever anyone wants it to be, and he was fine with that.

When asked what his thoughts on why people aren’t actively listening to classical music, his responses were very familiar. Almost like he quoted my friend from the very first conversation, he talked about the lack of lyricism, the need for interpretation and effort.

“It's just the features of classical music, or lack of, it’s in the music itself…” I began to realise.

He added, “I also feel that to truly appreciate classical music, you do need some knowledge.”

“I genuinely believe that you don’t need any knowledge…you don’t have to be a musician and you don’t have to have studied it before. Yes, it can be helpful, but all you have to do is listen.” I jumped in.

He agreed, but still felt that one can derive more appreciation with knowledge. When I emphasised that appreciation wasn’t what I was talking about, but just pure enjoyment and pleasure, he replied “Oh, then no. To get the most out of classical music, knowledge will help, but to enjoy it no no no…”

We began to discuss what exactly is hindering people to give classical music a go. Besides lyricism, it’s pop music as a competitor and the sheer reach and saleability it has. Remembering what I studied in my Music History class, I mentioned that composers back then wrote for longevity.

“But I guess it isn’t lasting….” I trailed off, a tinge of sadness in my voice.

I wanted to find out then, since he feels that classical music has reached a “dead end”, why he is still actively part of the industry.

"Because I like it and it is a very significant part of my life, since 17 years ago,” was his reason.

He does it simply because he enjoys it, for his own satisfaction when he steps onto stage. It wasn’t the most altruistic reason, but it was a reason nonetheless. I began to wonder if the idea that classical music may just decline and disappear eventually affects him in any way.

“ I wouldn’t say it bothers me, but it would be a shame.”

“So how can we combat that? How can we help classical music survive, if not grow?” I asked.

“We need to make it relevant to a wider audience. Social media…”

I tilted my head, urging him to carry on. “I know about TwoSet Violin, who’s doing just that,” he continued and I smiled at the mention of the Australian duo.

"I wouldn’t say we should educate the layman, but introduce them to classical music in bite size portions. Because it can be overwhelming and intimidating, when it really isn’t.”

“To debunk misconceptions or conceptions, break it down, expose and eventually, educate.” I summarised.

He added, “And peak their interest using trends or whatever is relevant today. Classical music, at the end of the day, isn’t for everyone but it is open to everyone.”

And so, to wrap up our conversation, I asked what advice he would give to anyone who is apprehensive about giving classical music a go.

“Whether you want to give it a go on Spotify or attend a concert, go in with no expectations, perceptions, prejudices…just let the musician tell the story to you and you decide what it is. If you don’t enjoy, it’s fine…you gave it a shot. Just go in and just let it flow over….”

“Just see where it takes you,” I said in agreement.

“Yeah. And trust me, it’s completely fine if you have absolutely zero knowledge on classical music.”

“Even if they can’t tell the difference between a violin, viola and cello?” I joked.

He smiled, “Well, just learn along the way.”

Although our passion for classical music stems from different reasons— his being almost solely because he does it for his own enjoyment and me, not only because I enjoy it, but because I genuinely do want to see the industry grow and not just survive— I guess we’re both playing a role in keeping this bit of history alive.

#classical music

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icyroseslove-blog · 6 years

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GHOSTWRITER

ghost·writ·er

/ˈɡōstˌrīdər/

noun

a person whose job it is to write material for someone else who is the named author.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Identity is the single most important thing when it comes to the art of ghostwriting. In fact, it’s what defines the business as a whole. There are two types of identities a person will find in the ghostwriting industry: the famous and the enigmatic.

The famous are the stars, the ones who appear on TV with dazzling smiles and a charming bounce in their step. They’re the artists who have their names printed into record books with a net value attached. The famous have giant followings and their faces hung on the walls of a squealing teenage girl’s room, covered in a protective lamination to defend against her baby brother’s invasions. In dehumanizing terms, they’re the perfect products and money making tools of a company. In ghostwriting terms, they’re the buyers.

The enigmatic, which are more commonly known as the ghostwriters, are the famous’ unknown secrets. They’re the ones who sit at a desk for hours, painting the paragraphs that will soon be filling the best sellers under another person’s name, or counting the measures to a star’s greatest hit. The ghostwriters, who are the sellers, are the people who make a creation that someone else will soon take credit for. Their names do not go down in history for being diligent workers, and most of the time, they don’t want to be known. That’s why the sellers choose their careers. They, of free will, become the ghosts of a world that know the art from their fingertips.

But there is one type of identity that allows a person to be both the famous and the enigmatic. Some call it a double life, while others call it a symbol. But the identity has a true name: aliases. Pen names allow people to become the ghostwriters of themselves, sitting down to write a novel that their second name will assume the attention of. There would be a name to the work, but still no face to go with it.

Androkles didn’t feel that it was necessary to have a face assigned to a novel. In fact, he preferred being faceless, because it meant he could go to the ice cream shop two blocks down from his house without having paparazzi shove expensive cameras in his face. After all, he was the most popular writer of the 21st century.

Androkles Hemmer, or more commonly known to the world as Andrew Homer, was the man responsible for writing 12 novels, 10 plays, 3 musicals, and hundreds of ghostwritten songs for the music industry in the span of a few years. He was the author of the most famous play in modern times, One is a Thousand. The extent of his fame and achievement was international. Often times, he’ll see yet another critic praising the philosophical aspects of his novels or a fan gushing about the flowery romance between the two leads of a play in another language.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the blank paper presented in front of him. There was a need to write gnawing at him, his mind pouring over possible story ideas. They were good, in fact, they were probably so original it could spawn a few new genres, but there was something about them that felt empty, something non-genuine, which was the complete opposite of what Androkles was often eulogized for.

There was a play that was itching to be produced onto paper. But there were no characters, no twisted and selfish motivations the protagonist was harboring for the greater good conjuring themselves in the writer’s mind. That was odd. But he knew exactly what he was going through after finding he couldn’t create anything for months: a writer’s block.

Groaning, he placed the pen down on the desk and stretched his sore muscles. Androkles kicked the chair, grumbling about how he needed to buy a better one. Deciding to take a small break before continuing his work, he walked into his living room and opened his laptop. The light lit up the dim room, causing his pupils to shrink from the bright source. He checked his singular social media account, which had millions of followers that he didn’t know he would gain. He rarely posted anything, and often it was just pictures with no words for context. There were countless pictures of his cat, Andrew, who was most likely outside killing something before he presented it to Androkles. The male looked at the most recent post, dated to be published last month.

yay strawberry

It was a picture of the pot that was on his front porch currently. There was a small green sprout bursting from the soil, morning dew making the plant dip a bit. Admittedly, he was terrible at taking care of plants, but the seed proved to be strong, growing despite his inconsistent watering schedule.

He scrolled through the feed, looking at insignificant and important things alike. It was the usual on the website; the front page was filled with news about trends, celebrities, and political decisions, as well as rising musicians (some of which he wrote title songs for at one point). But there was always a singular article about him, who was one of the biggest accounts on the site. It was the same topic that sprung up over and over, becoming even more complex as the years progressed: Who was Andrew Homer?

At this point, everyone knew it was simply a pen name, not a real one. Besides his cat, the only shred of information he ever shared with the media is that he likes writing with feathered pens.

(Everyone thought he was pointing to quills. He was actually talking about fluffy pens, the $1 ones with the soft fluff at the top and a plastic tip to cover the ballpoint end when you were done. He doesn’t need expensive materials be successful. The quill eventually became his trademark.)

Suddenly, his phone rang, blaring out the notes to the default ringtone. Androkles pulled it out of his pocket, not bothering to check the ID because he knew only one person had his phone number.

“Hello, Ryo.”

“Hi there, Androkles! Are you in high spirits today?”

Androkles rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth pulling a bit. “Spare me the jokes, please. I have an ache in my wrist and I’d rather not make it worse by facepalming. What do you need?”

“Always the straightforward man. Well, it’s best if I get to the point. A client wants to hire you to write a song for him. He’s a musician named Phanuel, have you heard of him? He’s the guy who just peaked at the top of the Billboards just last week.”

He hummed in reply. The writer had the radio on yesterday, cooking as he mindlessly bobbed his head to a bubblegum-pop song that he composed a number of years ago (the client was adamant about making it appeal to as many people as possible. He begrudgingly accepted as he wrote a V-vi-IV progression in C major), when a radio host rambled with a caller about a rising star named Phanuel. Androkles brushed off the commentary quickly, as his eggs were starting to burn.

“Yes, I know him. The person who sang ‘Our Letters,’ right?”

“Right on the dot. He called to ask for a written song. Any genre and whatever you’d like.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s a lot more creative freedom than I’m usually given. Are there really no details the client wants me to put in the song?”

“Actually, that’s where there’s going to be some complications.” There was a silence. Androkles waited for him to continue. “He wants to discuss the message of the song in person at your house. Face to face.”

Androkles froze.

“Wait, did I hear you correctly? Did you say that a client actually wants to meet me? He doesn’t want to send a note or something?”

Ryo sighed, his breath crackling over the phone. “Phanuel said that he likes working together with his coworkers. Talking helps his creativity start to flow much easier. A people person, he called himself.”

“What about a fill-in actor?”

“No one has your writing skills, I’m afraid. Anyone can tell the difference between a pro and Andrew Homer. Homer does it better.”

The writer fiddled with his glasses, pushing them up with shaking hands. “Ryo, we can’t do something like this. You know that better than anyone else.”

“I know, I really do. It’s just… I know how you hate disappointing people. Especially your clients. I told him I would discuss it with you, but it was likely that such an arrangement wasn’t possible. Phanuel said that composing the song would be impossible otherwise.”

Androkles rubbed his temple, attempting to sooth the headache spawning itself from frustration. This was the first time anyone had ever requested to be face to face with him. He’d heard that some ghostwriters meet with their clients to discuss the future of the project, but he was lucky that no such request had been asked of him in the long years he’d been a writer. He really wanted to keep himself a secret. But if there was anything he valued more than his identity, it was having a satisfied client.

“Would it be possible…” he spoke softly, “for Phanuel to come here and for me to wear a disguise? Or stand in a separate room and talk to him from there?”

“...you’re actually going through with this?”

“Of course. I’m not letting down anyone who wants to work with me. Especially someone who just started his career.” He tried to say it with confidence, but the shakiness of his words betrayed him. “Besides, it doesn’t take me a very long time to write songs. I could probably finish it in a few days, given that I take as minimal breaks as possible. Phanuel will be out quickly.” He wasn’t going to mention that he had writer’s block at the moment.

There was a static-filled huff over the receiver. “Alright. As your agent, I’ll support your decision to do this. But as your friend—” Ryo stressed the word heavily, “I don’t know if I like your choice. It’s just… your situation and all.”

“Ryo,” he murmured. “I’ll be fine. I manage to get the groceries without anyone suspecting a thing, right? I’m sure I can handle a few days of talking to a customer.”

“I just want you to stay safe, that’s all.”

“I’ll take every precaution. I’ll even wear that mask you gave me. The one with the bear face on it? It’s right here.” Androkles reached out to the side table cluttered with notebooks, pulling a white mask toward him. He wrapped the strings around his ears and inhaled through his nostrils. “Mhmm, it still smells like the hot chocolate you spilled on it.”

“That was an accident.” He could hear the smirk in his voice. “Okay, if you're really confident about this, I’ll call him after I get the paperwork done. But remember, stay safe, okay? And if you want, wear the mask.”

Androkles nodded to no one in particular. “I will.”

“Alright then. I’ll update you on Phanuel when I get an answer.”

Just like that, Ryo hung up, ending the call with a beep. Androkles removed the phone from his ear. He was trembling.

The writer got up from the russet couch and walked into the kitchen, pulling open the drawer to get a cup so he could shock the nerves out of him with a glass of extremely bitter coffee. He grabbed a porcelain white cup, grasping the smooth handle with his fingers. Androkles was fumbling to open the coffee maker, his shaking hands making it difficult to place anything down.

Was this guy— Phanuel— actually willing to meet up with a ghostwriter when it was old knowledge that you could exchange a few emails with them and receive a song in a matter of weeks? Moreso, why would he ask Androkles for a song when he was already skilled?

Through all of this mental turmoil, Androkles didn’t notice the mug was phasing through his hand. Finally, it slipped through and shattered on the tile floor, making a loud crash. He was shocked. Uncontrollable transparency only happened when he was extremely nervous.

He sighed audibly, walking over to the corner to grab a broom and a dustpan to clean up the mess. He floated over, picking up his feet to avoid cutting them.

It was hard to be a famous ghost writer sometimes. Especially when you’re an actual ghost.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ONE IS A THOUSAND

DEDICATION

This play is dedicated to my friend, who, after reading such a play, will know that despite end dates, he will still have an identity to me.

STORY OF THE PLAY

Clark lives in a world where the date of someone’s death is shown in bold letters above their head, although you cannot see your own. He is a man who has anxiously watched dates approach and has seen many people succumb to mortality, but despite all of this, Clark wants nothing more than to find who he is and live life in a society that tells him the numbers over his head are the only things that distinguish him as an individual.

One is a Thousand tells the tale of Clark’s identity to his loved ones after his death. A million dead is a statistic, but one tragedy can be the sorrow for a thousand.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Today was the day.

Androkles was running around his room, emptying his closet and heaving stacks of coats onto his bed. He lifted them, observing how much skin they would cover if he wore it before throwing it onto the floor behind him. None of them were perfect. They either exposed his neck too much or made him look like a junkie. The brown trench coat he usually wore outside was acting as a makeshift bed to Andrew, who refused to get off the comfy coat despite Androkles's pleading. Clothes were scattered everywhere, thick sweaters hanging off the armrests of chairs, the shoe rack overturned for tall boots, and twisted scarves resting on his work desk. He still needed to find gloves.

“Woah, what happened in here?” Ryo asked, sticking his head into Androkles's bedroom doorway. There was a spark of amusement in the eyes that were scanning the clothes strewn across the furniture.

The writer was visibly startled by his friend’s appearance, yelping before phasing through the floorboards. His head popped up from the ground.

Ryo extended a hand to him and the ghost took it, floating out from the basement and back into the bedroom. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

Androkles shot a hard glare at him before grabbing the nearest piece of cloth and whipping it at his friend. Ryo shrieked, retreating back into the living room.

“Hey! Don’t throw things at me!” A fountain pen flew at Ryo, the nib stabbing his cheek harshly, leaving a large ink stain the color of his hair staining his face. He threw up his hands as he backed away. “Okay, I surrender! See, look, I have my hands up. Androkles, I’m waving the white flag now, stop throwing things at me. Andro—Androkles, no. Put the typewriter down. I’m not ending up in the hospital because you gave me a concussion.”

Androkles's eye twitched, his lips contorting into a maniacal smirk. He lifted the typewriter higher. “You wanna bet?”

“No, I don’t wanna bet on anything, because there are only two outcomes to this. One leads to me being confined to a hospital bed. Put it down.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Now.”

The ghost lowered the machine, sighing. “Fine, I will. But only because a client is coming over in a few hours and I’d rather not explain why there’s an unconscious man in my living room. Now come over here, I need your opinion on this coat.”

His friend had a wave of relief wash over his face. The war was finally over. “Sure. No chucking things at me, though.”

Androkles rolled his eyes, He held up the coat by its shoulders, presenting it to the raven-haired male who strode up next to him. “It covers my wrists, but it leaves my neck exposed. If I really want to wear it, I’d have to put on that sweater over there. But that still leaves a giant space under my jaw. The mask could cover it up, but there’s a chance it could slip off and reveal my whole face. What do you think I should do?”

Ryo hummed in thought, closing his eyes and putting a hand to his jaw as if deep in thought. After a silent 10 seconds, his dark eyes lit up and he had a devious expression, grinning as if he’d found the cure to a disease. Then, he walked over to Androkles's work desk, where scarves were hiding his drafts and fluffy pens underneath. His friend took a brightly colored cloth in his hand, showing it to a confused Androkles.

“I have just the solution for you.”

All of a sudden, Androkles felt even more anxious.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ONE IS A THOUSAND

SCENE 1: I QUESTIONED

(AT RISE: FATHER is sitting in the house, reading the newspaper on the couch. It is lively and children’s toys are scattered everywhere. A crayon drawing of a nuclear family hangs on the wall. CLARK’s death date is marked on the calendar, followed with the date in the future.)

(There is the sound of a door opening. A child CLARK runs in from offstage and drops his backpack, rushing to jump into his father’s arms.)

CLARK

Dad!

DAD

There’s my little champ. How was school today?

CLARK

It was so fun! We made rainbow toast and painted our favorite animals. Do you wanna see mine?

DAD

Of course I do.

(CLARK runs to get his backpack and pulls out a drawing of a badly painted bird. He gives it to DAD, who breaks out into a giant grin.)

DAD

This is amazing, Clark. The bird looks so real. You could become an artist if you wanted to. But my memory’s a bit fuzzy… can you remind me what animal this is?

CLARK

It’s a puffin!

(DAD pulls CLARK onto his lap.)

DAD

A puffin? Where did you see one?

CLARK

It was in one of the books the teacher always reads to us! Puffins are so cute. I think they’re my favorite animal now.

DAD

Did you hear that, honey? Our son loves puffins!

(MOM is heard laughing off-stage.)

CLARK

Hey Dad, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.

DAD

What is it?

(CLARK points to the numbers above his dad’s head, which are dated to be a decade before his son’s.)

CLARK

What are these things?

DAD

(expression darkening) Why do you… want to know?

CLARK

Well… everyone has them, but no one talks about it. They’re just kind of there. And Suzy had one that was dated for today. She didn’t come to school today and the teacher was very sad. Are they vacation days?

DAD

(hesitating) Not… exactly. See son, when the date of the numbers finally arrives, those people get to go somewhere. It’s a place far away, farther than their loved ones can reach them. Their vacation lasts a very long time. But after a while… we get to visit those people on their relaxing vacations.

CLARK

Are they at the beach?

DAD

It can be wherever they want, as long as they love that place.

CLARK

Then I’m going to go to my bedroom when my date arrives! I love my bedroom. It has all of my toys. Are you going to visit me when that happens?

DAD

...I am. Wait, is that Will I see out there? Why don’t you go play with him?

CLARK

Okay! Will!

(CLARK runs offstage. Mother walks onstage a few moments later.)

MOM

I heard your conversation.

DAD

I was hoping you would.

MOM

Is it really… necessary for children to know about the dates? Can’t they wait just a bit longer?

DAD

They’ll have to know about it sooner or later. I just wish we had more time…

(MOM sits down next to DAD. They lean on each other.)

MOM

...26 is a young age to die, isn’t it?

DAD

It is.

MOM

I wish he had more time. I wish I didn’t have to watch my son die.

DAD

Shhhh, don’t say that. Let’s just enjoy the time we have together.

(Freeze frame. Adult CLARK walks on stage.)

CLARK

I didn’t know the reality I was told that day. That a vacation which became permanent for someone wasn’t willing. That day… after Will told me Suzy had drowned in the river next to her house after trying to get her beloved stuffed dog back from the water… I realized… what death dates were.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He should have never listened to Ryo.

An image in the mirror reflected back at him, and he wasn’t quite sure it was even him under all the layers of clothing. A large winter hat covered his head, the sides falling over his ears (which were growing red from embarrassment). On his body was an oversized street style coat that stopped at his ankles, covering most of the turtleneck he had on. Black jeans were stuffed into combat boots (he didn’t wear shoes in his house, but it was all for the sake of his image). The bright scarf that was previously in Ryo’s hands was now draped loosely around Androkles's neck, covering the skin that the bear mask failed to conceal. The only thing left to cover was the transparent skin of the midsection of his face.

“And the final part of my plan are these,” Ryo announced, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a large pair of dark sunglasses, handing them to Androkles. He slipped them on, and the bright light filling the room seemed to dim immensely, leaving him disoriented for a second. Ryo grabbed him by the shoulders, cocking his head toward the reflection.

“Well?” he asked.

“I look like I’m ready to battle the blizzard of 1888,” Androkles admitted. It wasn’t hot under the bundle of clothing (temperature didn’t affect him), but it certainly felt uncomfortable.

“That means we got you all covered up. No transparent skin revealed at all. Another perfect plan of mine.” Ryo adjusted the scarf, pulling it up more. “Phanuel will be over in an hour. I told him about the secrecy of this meeting because as it goes for all ghostwriters, you don’t want your identity to be known. He said that he’ll promise to not let any information get out there, so don’t you worry about anything. Everything’s going to be okay. Your hands don’t need to tremble anymore.”

Androkles didn’t notice his limbs were shaking. Ryo held him in a comforting embrace, and he let the easy familiarity calm his nerves. His friend pulled away from him and sighed. “I have to go now. It’s busy work, being the agent and editor for the world’s biggest author and all.” Suddenly, Ryo’s gaze grew dark. “But before I go, I just need to remind you to do something…”

Androkles gulped. “What is that?”

Ryo kept his solemn face as he glared at the writer. “Remember to stay super neutral.”

The man ran out of the house before Androkles could get his hands on the typewriter.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ONE IS A THOUSAND

SCENE 3: THERE’S SOMETHING MORE

(AT RISE: Adult CLARK and WILL are at a post office. It is relatively quiet, with the exception of the ticking of a clock in the background. Workers are standing behind desks, chatting with each other as they wait for customers. A large mailbox stands center stage, facing out to the audience.)

(CLARK dumps a load of letters into the mailbox.)

WILL

What are they for?

CLARK

They’re letters for the people who might miss us when we’re traveling the world! Of course, we’ll write while we’re overseas, but we can’t just leave without telling anyone. That would be heartbreaking.

(CLARK starts to pull out more letters.)

(cont.) See, I have one for everyone. The boss at work, our co-workers, the nice lady who always gives us extra bread at the bakery… They’re all getting one! Look, even your mom’s getting a letter!

WILL

Was it really necessary to write all of those letters? Half of those people probably don’t even care about what you’re doing in your life. I mean, my mom probably does, but that’s because she has a personal connection to you.

CLARK

Everyone has a personal connection to me. It may not seem like it, but every stranger you’ve ever met has made an impression on you, even if you’ve glanced at them for only a second. Besides, I see these people on a daily basis. Getting a letter sent to them isn’t going to hurt. We just have different interpretations of each other. Now help me get these letters in, they’re falling out.

(CLARK and WILL gather the letters that have fallen out of his pockets. They put them in the mailbox.)

WILL

Is that all of them?

CLARK

… no. I have more at home, but I couldn’t fit them in my pockets.

(WILL sighs.)

WILL

Let’s go get them then. I’ll grab a few so that you don’t have to carry so much.

CLARK

You’d really do that for me?

WILL

Of course. You’re the one that’s paying rent.

CLARK

Very funny. I’m going to ask someone when these letters will arrive. I don’t want them to arrive after we’ve been gone for too long.

(CLARK runs off stage. A worker from behind the desk calls out to WILL.)

WORKER

Are you friends with that guy?

WILL

Roommates.

WORKER

I see. Are you aware that it’ll probably take more than a week to deliver that giant stack of letters? The big city isn’t exactly an easy place to deliver letters.

WILL

I am.

WORKER

You wanna break it to your friend that those letters might not be delivered while he’s still alive? Or do you want me to do it?

(The room freezes.)

WILL

I’d rather be the one to do it.

WORKER

Good. Spend your time wisely, kid.

(CLARK runs on stage with a smile stretched across his face. He embraces WILL.)

CLARK

They said that they could send all of the letters in a week or so! Everyone will receive something right after we leave. Although, those people were looking at me weirdly. But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that we’ve got the world ahead of us, Will. Now come on, we’ve got more letters to get!

(They run off stage hand in hand.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There were only 5 minutes remaining before he would hear those fated knocks.

Androkles was quaking. He checked himself in the mirror at least 50 times in the past half hour, frantically searching again and again for any skin that was showing. With the exception of the little dots of olive skin not covered by the sunglasses, everything had remained the same as the time of Ryo’s departure. He sighed heavily, feeling anxiety rise in his chest.

Wait, he had to talk, didn’t he? This wasn’t just a chain of emails with no voice to assign the words to. He had an actual voice. One that Phanuel would hear.

The ghost was about to start screaming.

A soft mass brushed up against his leg, startling him out of his thoughts. Androkles looked down to find that his cat was stepping on his boot as if he knew it would temporarily break the toxic cycle of anxiety. He looked at Andrew fondly, bending down to pick him up and cradle him in his arms.

Andrew was a stray Androkles had stumbled upon at the beginning of his career. It was a rainy night in a dark alley, and being the person he is, the man couldn’t ignore the soft purring coming from a cardboard box. He opened the lid to find a starving kitten lying inside, not bothering to look at Androkles. It just stared at the corner unmoving. He took it to the vet, waiting for news to come back about the kitten.

1 hour. It was the longest he had ever spent outside and it was for Andrew.

Now it was time for a significant upgrade: 4 hours every day for less than a week spent with a stranger that he had to write songs for. The anxiety of having to veil his ghostly origins came back to him again. Androkles buried his face in the cat’s black fur, causing Andrew to purr contently.

There was no way he was going to get through this.

Knock, knock, knock.

Androkles's movements came to a halt. A silence followed the quiet rapping, hanging in the air like mist.

Time froze. A paused moment suffocated Androkles, and Andrew was kneading his hand. It was comparable to the second of thinking before replying to a well-thought-out question, or the still atmosphere of a picture of a family at an amusement park being taken by a stranger.

Androkles was experiencing one of those moments, and his heart was starting to race.

The knocks resounded from the door again. Androkles panicked, placing the midnight cat down before checking himself in the mirror once more. He adjusted his scarf, the thick, leathery gloves restraining his movements a bit. He took a breath, smacking himself mentally to gather his thoughts. Androkles looked at himself with a determined expression.

Come on, you can do this. It’s only a few days. Answer the door.

Forcing his limbs to move, he opened the bedroom door and approached the oak door. The average-sized entrance suddenly seemed to be looming over him as if it were an obstacle. His shaking hands grasped the bronze doorknob.

I can do this. I can do this. Everything will turn out to be fine and my identity will be hidden.

Androkles's wrist refused to turn the knob.

No I can’t, this was a stupid idea. Why did I agree to this? I don’t have the skill to be sly. The client is going to find out I’m a ghost and it’s all going to be over. Oh no, oh no, what do I do…?

A soft pat on his left foot made him look down. Andrew was kneading at his foot, meowing loudly. The feline looked at him with a blank expression.

Androkles grinned. “You’re right, Andrew. It’s just one person. I can stop being afraid.”

He unlocked the door, pulling it open and letting sunlight flood into the room, allowing Andrew to slip outside. The dark environment around him brightened, and if it weren’t for the sunglasses, Androkles would be rendered to a blind mess.

Through the tinted lens, he saw a boy. Actually, rather than a child, it was a man about Androkles's age in appearance, though his soft face gave him a youthful charm. The man was an inch taller than the writer, and his jaw was strong and defined. His skin was a caramel, and his hair was a dark brown, leaning closer to black than a milk chocolate. A guitar case was secured onto his back, the black strap digging into the light blue cardigan he had on.

Androkles stared for a bit, taking in the man’s confident stature. He had a fist raised, almost as if he was about to start knocking on the door once more.

Phanuel lowered his arm. He cleared his throat. “Hello there. Is this the household of Andrew Homer?”

The writer hesitated before speaking. “I-It is.”

“Oh.” Phanuel tilted his head to the side, causing curly brown locks to fall into starry eyes. “Are you… Andrew Homer, the writer?”

He nodded weakly, pointing to himself with his index finger. “That’s me. Are you Phanuel?”

Something in Phanuel’s eyes brightened, and suddenly, the man straightened his posture. He extended a hand. “Y-Yes, I’m Phanuel. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Phanuel was blushing, and the hand held out for Androkles to take was shaking a little. Oh, so the guy, who was supposed to be a charismatic teen heartthrob was nervous in Androkles's presence. He couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the man standing in front of him. At least Androkles wasn’t the only one that was nervous. He took Phanuel’s hand and gave it a semi-confident shake. “The same as well. Here, come inside. We can start working on the song in my living room.

At that, some of the tightness in Phanuel’s jaw disappeared. The dark-haired male nodded, and Androkles moved aside to let him in before locking the door. They walked to the table in the middle of the room in relative silence before sitting down at the opposite ends.

Phanuel spoke up. “Aren’t you… hot in all of those clothes?”

Androkles shrunk into his scarf. “I-I get cold easily.”

The air around them was awkward. It was the type of atmosphere that came when you were left alone with the friend of a friend, unwilling to talk without the thread connecting you two filling in the gaps in the conversation, but forcing yourself to so you don’t sit in silence. It was to be expected. After all, they were strangers to each other, only meeting up for the sake of work. Androkles didn’t know how Ryo could deal with this type of unsettling quietness.

“I have to apologize, I don’t usually have guests over,” Androkles said sheepishly as he cleared the papers and scattered pens off the table. He walked over to the cabinet, searching for some blank sheet music. He suddenly remembered how Ryo dealt with meeting new people, as being in an industry meant you had to make lots of connections. “S-So, Phanuel. Tell me a bit about yourself.”

If there was any previous tension between them, Phanuel seemed to have forgotten, because his words had an easy flow to them. “Well, I’m a musician, but you already know that part. I play the guitar, and I’m allergic to pollen.”

Androkles nodded, hoping that Phanuel saw it. He bent down to check for a pencil, having already found a stack of paper. “Really? How about your likes and dislikes?”

“Ah, uh…” The man hummed in thought. “I really like peach flavored candy. Specifically peach-mango lollipops, those are delicious. But the coffee flavored ones, they don’t really appeal to me. They try to be caramel and chocolate at the same time, but they’re only trying.” The writer, although faced away from Phanuel, could almost feel him making hand gestures to his speech. “I also hate wet socks. It’s my belief that they’re sent directly from the fiery pits of the underworld to torture my feet.”

Androkles held back a laugh. “Oh really? How exactly do they torture your feet?”

“It’s how the water just sticks to your feet and you can’t wipe it off because it’s the cloth that’s wet. The socks get soggy and the part in the front starts to droop down and cling to the sides of your toes. It’s cold and unpleasant. Then you have to take it off and but the spot the water got onto is still moist and…” Phanuel shuddered. “Just...no.”

The writer was struggling to keep down his giggles. Anyone would agree with that. “Favorite song?”

“Mmhm, probably ‘Love Lies’ by Khalid and Normani.”

“Favorite genre of music?”

“Surprisingly, classical.”

“Favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Pineapples on pizza or plain?”

“Are you kidding?” Phanuel leaned back in the chair, causing it to creak quietly. “Pineapples on pizza. Plain pizza is bland.”

Androkles gasped, turning around to face his guest. “What you say is delicious is an invention made by the devil. I will not stand for anyone liking pineapples on pizza in this household.”

Phanuel laughed loudly. “And I’m sure you’re very happy with extremely plain pizza.”

The ghost rolled his eyes, blushing slightly. “Favorite novel?”

Now it was Phanuel’s turn to turn red. He dipped his pink dusted head down, staring at his hands. “U-Uh, Perhaps in Death. Your novel.”

Androkles almost dropped his papers right there. He was frozen to his spot. Perhaps in Death was one of his earliest novels, but it was still successful and managed to get a movie adaption. It was the story of a girl making a contract with a demon to find the murderer of her sister. It had been a long time since someone mentioned it since the work that took the limelight was One is a Thousand. “T-That’s your favorite story?”

“Yeah, it is. Don’t get me wrong, I love One is a Thousand, it’s just…” Phanuel struggled to find the right words. “I don’t know. I think there’s something very powerful about people making promises. ‘We’ll meet again, I promise, but perhaps it will be in death.’ I think that’s such a great line, don’t you think?”

The writer flushed deeply, pulling up the scarf covering his neck. “Y-Yeah, I guess it is.”

Androkles sat down at the table, passing some paper and a pencil to Phanuel. “So, do you have any ideas for the song?”

“...no, actually,” Phanuel admitted. “I’m going through some… musician’s block. I know I really shouldn’t force myself to compose any songs at the moment, but there’s a song that’s just waiting to be written. I just don’t know how to execute it. That’s why I wanted to hire you to help me write the song.”

Ah, so there was the problem. Once again, there was a similarity between them, but this time it was one that might hinder their work. “Okay, let’s start with the basics. What story do you want to tell? Maybe something current?”

Phanuel looked to be deep in thought. He rested his head on top of his hands. “How about… finding inspiration after a long period of nothing? I really can’t think of anything other than overcoming a creative block at the moment. You know, like when it rains after a long period of no water? And then it smells really nice outside?”

Androkles blinked. “Petrichor?”

The musician’s eyes widened by a fraction. “There’s a word for it?” He nodded, and Phanuel’s eyes looked like they were about to fall out of his head. “It sounds so… serene. I like it.”

It was. There was a tinkling of notes resounding from the back of his mind, and Androkles knew he had to compose it now. “Take out your guitar. I think I have an idea.”

Phanuel nodded his head, moving to open the black case that was currently lying on the ground unopened. With a few clicks, it was unlocked, and Phanuel pulled out a sand-colored acoustic guitar. Androkles didn’t know how to play the instrument, having only mastered the piano and violin, so he figured he would let the musician strum all of the chords for him.

“Play… D Flat Major 7.”

Phanuel adjusted his hands on the neck, barring one of the frets with his first finger before strumming. The guitar made a rich sound, the chord resonating in the wooden body. It sounded perfect.

“Alright, now play E Diminished, then C Minor 7, and then A Flat.”

Phanuel obeyed, playing the chords Androkles was stating. He shook his head, asking the man to switch the last two chords in the progression. He made a sound of agreement and played the chords in order. They both looked at each other.

“That sounded... really nice,” Phanuel said, wonder in his eyes.

Androkles was furiously writing down the notes. This was working. “It does.”

Just as he was about to give more directions to Phanuel, a loud purring from behind him erupted. The two of them were startled, and Phanuel cocked his head to the side, looking past Androkles to see where the sound came from. He lifted a caramel finger to Andrew, who was meowing softly.

“Is your cat supposed to be on top of that bookshelf?”

Androkles whipped his head around, almost causing the winter hat to fall off. His eyes landed on Andrew, who was inching his way across the top of a tall spruce bookshelf with a dead mouse in between his fangs. The shelf he was standing on was stuffed with books, some of them his own and others from authors he occasionally read from. It was old and therefore weak, and the paint was starting to scrape off. The second thing he noticed was the lack of empty spaces on the various shelves. He would have to get a new bookcase sooner or later.

The first? The bookcase was wobbling forward.

“Andrew! Get down from there!” Androkles shouted as he bolted out of his chair, running toward the teetering spruce shelf in record speed. Phanuel followed, and as soon as they were halfway across the living room, the shelf tipped over, causing Andrew to let out a hiss and jump.

The two of them extended their hands, waiting to catch the feline. Androkles watched as Andrew fell into an arch directly into Phanuel’s arms, causing him to dip his body. He let out a sigh. But Androkles was starting to shout something at him.

“Andrew, watch out—!”

Androkles turned around and a shadow was looming over him. The assortment of brightly colored novels flew at him, blinding him from the shelf that was about to collapse on top of him. He let himself grow intangible, and he fell through the floorboards, avoiding the bookcase that landed with a loud bang.

“Andr—Andrew! Oh my god!” He could hear Phanuel scramble to move the piece of furniture. “Andrew, if you can hear me, I’m going to call the police to help me get you out of there! Please respond if you’re under there!”

“No, I’m okay!” Androkles flew through the floor, reappearing in the living room. He ran to Phanuel and grabbed him by the shoulders. “I’m okay! I’m right here, see?”

Phanuel’s jaw dropped, shocked. “Andrew…?”

“I’m not under the bookshelf! See, I’m uncrushed and… right in front of you…”

Androkles took a step back from Phanuel, retracting his hands as if contact burned his palms. He was sure that he was wearing the same stunned face as the man except 10 times worse. The writer looked down at his hands.

They were transparent.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ONE IS A THOUSAND

SCENE 5: THE ACT OF SUNRISE

(AT RISE: CLARK and WILL walk upstage together, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders as they share raucous, hearty laughs with each other. Their business clothes are untidy and neckties loosened, as the alcohol has made them unrestrained, rendering them to stumbling drunks, constantly tripping over their own feet. The looming apartments of the city surround them, shrouding them in shadow and distancing themselves from the noisy bustle of city life. A sunrise is peeking over the horizon.)

CLARK

(laughing) You should have seen the way you threw that punch at that guy when he was poking fun at me! Your face just got all red and taut, then out of nowhere, a fist comes flying and a guy is on the floor. It’s a shame we got kicked out, we only got to celebrate for an hour. But I don’t think the poor guy really deserved that.

WILL

Oh, he did.

CLARK

Look, drama can be fun sometimes, but you shouldn’t resort to violence when you get angry. You could’ve offered the guy a drink instead of a punch… but the past is behind us. We’ve got plane tickets, and next week, we’ll be traveling the world! I can almost feel what it’s going to be like in other countries. The hot springs of Switzerland, the Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze in Florence, the cherry blossoms in Japan… they’re calling for the both of us to explore them. Aren’t you so excited?

WILL

I am, to be traveling the continents with my best friend. I’m hoping we won’t lose each other in the crowds.

CLARK

We won’t. You always keep a tight leash on me. Remember how I wandered off in the aquarium during a field trip and you were the only one that could find me?

WILL

You could never stay away from the puffins.

CLARK

And I will continue to run after them on our trip to Iceland. Now sit down with me. If I keep walking like this I’ll throw up on my loafers.

(They collapse onto the sidewalk, chuckling. They lean on a lamppost, sitting with content smiles. The sun starts to rise in the distance.)

WILL

You know, Clark, I don’t usually say things like this but… I’m glad you’re my best friend.

CLARK

Oh? What’s this all about? Are you going through the sentimental phase of the alcohol?

WILL

I think I am.

(CLARK grows quiet. He stares at WILL.)

(cont.) Sometimes I think about what it would be like if I hadn’t met you. How different would my life be? Would I be a completely disparate person to how I am today? I don’t know. But I know one thing’s for certain. You made everything better for me just by existing. These emotions… they’re hard to put in words. But I think the only thing I can say is ‘thank you.’ I’m so glad I met you.

(CLARK pauses before laughing. He smacks WILL on the shoulder.)

CLARK

Oh, Will, you’re so funny at times. I suddenly have a philosopher as a friend. But I can’t deny that I feel the same, too. But you act like we’re going to part ways or something. That’s not gonna happen. You’re my best friend for life.

(WILL glances sadly at the date over CLARK’S head. His friend is scheduled to die in 6 days. The sun starts to rise. Lights slowly become brighter.)

WILL

… the same for you, Clark.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Androkles stared at his wall unmoving. Andrew crawled under his arm, trying to get him to open a can of cat food for him, but he felt too numb to get up.

After he revealed himself to Phanuel, he nearly shrieked, running over to grab the guitar and its case before shoving the musician out with his instrument. Androkles slammed the door on Phanuel’s protests before dashing to his blankets and crying under them. He was sure Phanuel stayed at the front door for nearly an hour, realizing that it was a fruitless endeavor once it started to rain outside. The sound of heavy footsteps walking down the porch’s steps gave Androkles some peace of mind before the reality hit him once more.

Was Phanuel going to reveal his identity to the world? Was the rising star going to hop on social media and post a long message including the details of his visit, explaining how Androkles flew through the wooden floor after a bookcase fell on top of him? All of this drowned Androkles into the fantods, and he started crying even harder.

He had multiple missed calls on his cellphone, all from Ryo. They were all probably about his ghostly origins being revealed by teen heartthrob Phanuel, so he didn’t bother to pick up. He didn’t want to hear those words anyway.

Androkles fell backward onto his bed, groaning loudly. The feline crawled on top of his chest and curled into himself, resting his soft body on top of Androkles's. Everything was going fine until Andrew crawled on top of the bookcase and knocked it over. Of all days, why did the shelf have to fall down the day of a visit?

He was never going to write another novel ever again.

The clock struck 2:30, the time Phanuel was supposed to come and work on the song. Tears burned at Androkles's already raw eyes. He knew his client wouldn’t come back after the disaster that was yesterday. Even if Phanuel didn’t care about the fallen bookcase (which was still on the floor after having been toppled over), would anyone want to work with a ghost?

Knock, knock, knock.

Androkles shot upward, causing Andrew to fall off his chest and earn himself a hiss from the feline. His heart began to pound in his ears.

“Andrew?”

Phanuel’s voice was muffled behind the wooden door, He knocked the door a few more times, and Androkles pulled the fluffy blanket over his head. He just wanted Phanuel to go away, to just tell him he revealed his identity to the world and leave his front porch with the strawberry plant alone. But the musician kept rapping on the door with his knuckles after a few silent moments with no reply.

“Andrew, I just wanted to let you know… I didn’t tell anyone. About your, uh, form.”

Androkles huffed. That was a lie.

“If you don’t believe me, you can ask your agent. I called him after all of that happened yesterday because I wanted to know if you were alright. I figured he knew because he kept emphasizing the importance of the secrecy and made me read the contract at least 6 times. I just didn’t know… it would be something like this.”

No one would. But he was thankful that Ryo had him bound to a contract before he told anyone about him being a ghost.

“Not that I’m disappointed in what you truly are! It’s just… surprising, that’s all. I didn’t expect that my favorite author would… literally be a ghostwriter…”

Androkles walked up to the door in his fluffy mint slippers, which were partly stained after he spilled paint to them. After the soft padding of his feet halted, he opened the front entrance and sighed heavily. He was met with the sight of a mossy haired Phanuel, whose eyes were blown wide open at Androkles's appearance.

“What do you want, Phanuel?” he asked in a jaded voice.

Phanuel reached out to Androkles's face, attempting to wipe the tears streaming down his face. “You’ve been… crying…” Once his fingers met with Androkles's cheeks, his hand went through his face, and he pulled back, startled.

Androkles rolled his eyes. “Come inside. I need to discuss this… situation with you.”

Phanuel nodded, and just like yesterday, he stepped past Androkles to enter the house, heading towards the middle of the living room. Androkles closed the door and locked it, double checking if there was anyone outside that saw Phanuel walk in. He shut the curtains, walking back to the room with the fallen shelf in it.

“Sit down on the couch,” Androkles said. Phanuel obeyed, placing himself on the russet couch resting beside the glass coffee table. He fiddled with his thumbs as Androkles sat on the opposite end of the couch.

“So… what do you want to talk about with me?”

“Well, let’s start with the obvious,” he replied. Androkles rubbed his forehead. “Please don’t tell anyone about me. I’d rather not be exposed on the front page of every news portal with headlines saying ‘Andrew Homer, an actual ghostwriter?!’ I want to be able to go outside without having paparazzi stalking my every move and gossip magazines spreading rumors about the type of salad I eat. I’m not really a public person. And then there are… pretty straightforward reasons.”

Phanuel scanned his body, looking at the transparency of his face and hands. “Yeah, I understand.”

“I’m not a… people person like you. Having millions of people know about my life makes me really uncomfortable. Everyone deserves some privacy, even the most famous author of the 21st century, right?” The musician nodded. “So please, I’m begging you to not say a word about me. And if you already have… well, I guess I can’t really stop you from doing so.”

He shook his head. “No, I would never do that. It’s wrong to just give away information about a person’s lifestyle. I don’t really care if you’re a ghost. You’re a nice person to be around. You aren’t just trying to use people for their fame.” At this Phanuel’s eyes glossed over and he looked away. Androkles wondered what the story behind his words was. “But I have one request from you. Not as Phanuel, but as your client.”

“Go on.”

“Can we…” A slight blush spread onto Phanuel’s face as he struggled to find the words. “... keep working on the song, even though I know about all of this? I know it’s really selfish of me to ask since you don’t really want to have anyone around when you’re not hidden, but I—”

“Okay then.”

Phanuel looked up. “Wait, really?”

Androkles smiled weakly at him. ‘As much as I want to keep my identity hidden, I don’t want to leave any unsatisfied clients. I’d be happy to write your song.”

The man’s eyes lit up, like yesterday, when Androkles acknowledged him at the front door. Phanuel went to hug Androkles. “Thank you so much—!” His arms went through the ghost’s intangible body and he blushed. “U-Uh, oops. I keep forgetting about that. Sorry.”

The writer snorted.

“Wait, you laughed! Does this tickle?” Phanuel stuck his hand into Androkles's arm and he snickered. The musician went to fix a lock of light brown hair that was sticking up, but his hand went through the strands. Androkles laughed even harder. His tear sore cheeks were hurting from smiling.

“Phanuel, stop that—”

Androkles leaned forward to lower Phanuel’s hand, but instead, his palm went directly through his head, landing in the area where there should have been a brain in place of nothing. Phanuel screamed, pulling his hand back as if the ghost had hit him. Androkles was cackling, bending over because his stomach hurt.

The musician stared at the ghost who was doubling over in laughter. Then, he started to laugh too, and pretty soon, the living room was filled with the sound of giggling and rasps for breath. Every time silence replaced the happiness in the room, one of them would start laughing again, causing the other to follow. It was a circle of never-ending chortling.

“So does that mean,” Phanuel asked while wiping the tears in the corner of his eyes, “you’ll really continue to write the song with me?”

“Of course, I already said that. But promise me you won’t stick your hand in my skull again.”

“I can’t promise that, Andrew.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

SCENE 8: FAMILIAL FORGIVENESS

(AT RISE: MOM is sitting in a wooden rocking chair inside. She is looking through albums of her son and her having fun in his childhood. The radio is on a low volume in the background. The house is nicely decorated, and a table with flowers sits downstage, and two plates are sitting out on top of it. The house is full of empty picture frames. In the background, there is a calendar with CLARK’S death date marked on it.)

(MOM sighs and closes the album with a forlorn expression. CLARK knocks on the door and she’s visibly shaken. She doesn’t get up to answer it.)

CLARK

Hello? Is anyone home?

(MOM doesn’t answer.)

(cont.) I was hoping… that someone would be in here. I need to tell you what’s been going on my life. I wanted to get some approval. It feels wrong pursuing my dreams without getting permission from my family.

(MOM nods. CLARK sighs.)

(cont.) Mom, I know we’re not on good terms, but please let me in.

(MOM sighs heavily and gets up, walking slowly to the entrance. WILL’s face lights up as she stares at him with a steely expression.)

MOM

What did you come here for, Clark?

CLARK

I wanted to talk about how my life’s been going. I know you don’t want to see my face after I said I was in love with my best friend but… will you let me into our house one last time?

(MOM crosses her arms and looks away.)

MOM

One last time. Then you vanish from this household. I’ll go get some tea.

CLARK

Thank you so much.

(He walks into the house while she puts a kettle on the stove. CLARK sits down on the couch while MOM stands from a distance. The air is tense around them.)

MOM

So… what did you want to tell me?

CLARK

First I wanted to say… I’m sorry for being such a bad son. And I know that being gone for 15 years isn’t going to make forgiving me easier, but I’ve come here to ask… if you’ll accept the actions I’ll take in the future.

MOM

It depends on what they are, Clark.

(CLARK is smiles. His MOM is finally willing to listen to him.)

CLARK

I’m… going to travel the world with Will. In Florence, I’m planning on telling him how I feel. How I’ve cherished every year I’ve spent with him. And even if he rejects me, it’s still an opportunity I can’t let slip away. Life’s too short to not do so, right?

(She glances at the date on top of his head.)

MOM

It really is.

CLARK

Then after I come back with experiences under my belt, I plan on writing a book about them. Then hopefully, I’ll inspire someone to live a full life. Sure, they may not want to trek through rainforests and swim through rapids, but people will eventually find what they love right?

(He plays with his hands.)

(cont.) I want… to tell people that there are so many possibilities in the world. That they don’t have to be confined to the death dates floating above them. We can all live, despite knowing that there will be an end to our existences… do you support my dream, mom?

(Silence.)

MOM

I do.

WILL

And… do you forgive me for running away all of those years ago?

(She walks closer to him, hovering over him. Suddenly, she embraces him, tearing up.)

MOM

I don’t think I can. I don’t want to give you forgiveness for hurting me so much. But the thing that caused me the most pain was not knowing where you were or if you were crying. I’ve failed you as a mother…

CLARK

Don’t say that.

MOM

… but I’m glad you came back to me. I just wish we could’ve spent more time together. You don’t know how much I’m thankful for your return. Clark, I love you so much. My beloved son. My baby. You’re alive and you’re living.

CLARK

I love you, too, Mom.

(The two of them start to cry. In the kitchen, the kettle starts to whistle.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Androkles put his pen down and shook the tension out of his wrist. He heard his joints pop as he stretched his arms, and the man sitting across from him did the same. Looking at the time on the clock mounted on the wall, he internally sighed as the two hands displayed the time 5:56.

“We’ve been working for almost two hours straight,” Androkles announced. “Wanna take a break?”

“Sure,” Phanuel replied, placing the guitar back in the case. The instrument was actually donated to Androkles by Ryo, but he had no use for it. After all, he was a writer, not a musician, so it sat in the back of his closet gathering dust on top of the case. It proved to be useful, though, because in Phanuel’s rush to apologize to Androkles, he forgot to get his guitar.

“I’ll go get us some drinks. Is water fine with you?” Phanuel hummed in agreement, and the ghost walked to the kitchen, returning with two cups of cold water sloshing in his hands. He placed them on the table and Phanuel drank it, his Adam's apple bobbing before he wiped his lips and made a refreshed sound. Androkles took a few sips of his drink.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Phanuel said as he collected the sheets of work they got done, “is eating a necessity for you? I mean, I don’t know if you have a digestive system or…”

“It’s not. I eat for my own enjoyment. Everything a human needs, like sleep or bathing, I do just for the sake of having fun. Life would be kinda boring if I just floated around doing nothing when I could be eating ice cream, right?”

“Ah, I see what you mean. ‘I walk with life because I want to, not because I’m forcing myself to. Though there may be an end, that doesn’t deter me from writing my footsteps into the ground.’” Phanuel’s cheeks turned red, and he brought the glass to his face to hide his redness. “...From A Journey’s Manhunt. Johann’s line.”

Androkles covered his wide grin with his hand. It didn’t take long for him to realize that Phanuel was an avid reader of his. A Journey’s Manhunt wasn’t a recent novel, but still fairly relevant. It was a staple book in many high schools, and a company offered to do an audiobook on it a year after it came out. Androkles, of course, greenlit their decision to do so. He wondered if Phanuel read any of his less known books. “‘Of course, Johann, but why would you want to explore nature’s fortresses when you could stay with us, safe and happy in our bucolic village?’”

Phanuel shot an amused glance at him. “Of course I love our village. It’s warm with my mother and father in our home, and I love my younger brother. But this world lies in the bosom of Abraxas, and through that, I have the striking notion that traveling is meant to free us. The garden of the world is open to all horizons.’ That reminds me…” he pointed at the back door in the kitchen, which was covered in a straw-colored curtain. “Do you have a garden back there? When I came in the other day, I saw some plants through the window.”

The writer smiled. “Do you want to see?”

His eyes widened, so Androkles took that as a yes. He got up from his seat, and Phanuel followed him to the kitchen. His fingers wrapped around the knob and he pushed it open, presenting his backyard.

The yard was surrounded by a barrier of high maroon fences, preventing anyone from climbing up unless they leaned a ladder against it. But the main attraction of the large yard was the plants planted in neat rows. Flowers grew everywhere; tulips were bursting, violets littered the small spaces under the taller flowers, rose bushes were starting to bloom, and buttercups scattered the ground, creating tiny golden dots that seemed to make the garden sparkle. A cobblestone path snaked around the beds, allowing for safe passage. Phanuel gasped.

“Can we… go out there?”

“Sure. Just don’t step on the flowers.”

They walked out of the house, their shoes clacking off the stone path quietly. Phanuel’s jaw hung open as he bent down to observe the flowers, making little oohs and aahs as he explored the color-splashed garden.

Androkles watched him from behind, amused by this wonderstruck man prancing around in his garden. Phanuel pointed at the plants, looking at him.

“Did you plant all of these?”

“No, actually. Ry—my friend did. It was supposed to be a way to make me go outside more. But these plants don’t need to be taken care of. They grow on their own. I just come out here sometimes.”

“They’re beautiful.”

Androkles nodded. He was about to ask Phanuel if one of his hobbies was gardening when the sky rumbled lowly. It was a loud, thundering sound that came from above, causing the two of them to look up. The sky was covered in a blanket of dark grey clouds, blocking out the sun and causing the air to grow frigid. A raindrop fell on Phanuel’s cheek and he wiped it off.

“Oh yeah, I forgot it was supposed to rain this afternoon.” As Androkles said that, the light drizzle of water grew heavier, beginning to make a wet patch on Phanuel’s shoulders. The rain fell through Androkles's skin, phasing through his shirt as well. “Let’s go inside, you must be getting wet.” But Phanuel was still looking up at the sky. Androkles raised an eyebrow. “Phanuel?”

“Not yet. Let’s stay outside for a bit.”

He grabbed the musician’s wrist, attempting to pull him inside. Phanuel’s dark locks were already starting to droop. “Come on, you’ll get sick from being in the rain.”

Phanuel grabbed his arms, finding that they were still intangible. He pretended he was holding onto Androkles, hovering his fingers right above the non-touchable skin. The rain was soaking his checkered shirt. “Let’s dance.”

Before Androkles could protest. Phanuel was jumping around in the garden, laughing despite heavy sheets of rain coming down on his head. He extended a hand to Androkles, and the ghost rolled his eyes, letting only his hand become tangible. Phanuel’s smile widened, and he pulled Androkles closer to him, eliciting a surprised noise from the writer. The man spun Androkles around as if they were in a ballroom and Androkles let his other hand become physical as he placed it behind Phanuel’s neck.

That’s when the real dancing started. Once Phanuel felt Androkles's hand on his skin, he took the other one and started to dance around the garden, avoiding the flowerbeds that were shimmering from the warm, spring fallen water. The musician let his hand float over Androkles's hip as if they were engaged in dance, and they tripped over each other’s feet while they pranced through the garden.

(They weren’t actually stumbling. It was more of Androkles's feet phasing through Phanuel’s feet, causing the both of them to laugh.)

They stopped in the middle of the path, right in front of the blooming rose bushes. The duo was out of breath, having gone in circles halfway across the garden. They laughed loudly, slightly dizzy from the constant spinning. Phanuel was still gripping onto Androkles's hand.

Water was running down the sides of Phanuel’s face, and his dark brown locks were sticking to his forehead. Now that he was up close to the man, he could see why so many people praised him for his looks. His cherry lips were parted slightly, and his eyes were big and sparkly, like a child going to the zoo to see puffins for the very first time. He watched as a droplet fell off Phanuel’s defined jaw.

“Hey, Andrew…” he asked, squinting slightly because of the rain falling into his face. “What’s your real name?”

Androkles lowered his head. “I don’t really want to answer that. You know, to keep my identity hidden.”

“Ah, that’s okay, I understand. Names are a big part of our identity, aren’t they?” They started to sway back and forth in a relaxing manner. The movement was soothing enough to make Androkles close his eyes temporarily. “They give others an image or a way of alerting us. Personally, I think names are stories of who we are. It could be Phanuel, the rising star. Or Andrew Homer, the world famous writer. Or maybe even Phanuel, the best friend, or Andrew, the son.”

Androkles pushed a finger to Phanuel’s lips, silencing him. The singer looked at him with a confused expression. “I don’t really want to think about any other identities at the moment. Right now, let’s just be Phanuel and Andrew, two people dancing in the rain together.”

The man in front of him looked shocked at his words. But the surprised look on his face melted into a smile. Soft laughter came from his mouth. “I think I like that one the best.”

They kept dancing, even after the rain stopped and the sun’s rays shone through the parted clouds. Water droplets ran off leaves and decorated the heads of flowers. There in the garden danced two people, one a completely dry ghost who made the rain fall right through him. Another, a human who was completely drenched in warm rain, smiling brightly. They stopped spinning in circles once a sneeze rang out from behind maroon fences.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ONE IS A THOUSAND

SCENE 10:

(AT RISE: It is Clark’s death day. The scene is dark. Storm clouds roll in as CLARK stands under an umbrella. The stage is empty, with the exception of the main character. He seems to be dripping wet. Thunder sound effects roar in the background. A rusty payphone sits to the side of the stage.)

(The rain continues to fall as CLARK lifts the umbrella, allowing the audience to see his face. It’s upset, unlike the smiling CLARK who is usually around.)

CLARK

(talking to himself) You know, sometimes I think to myself… would people be more positive if death dates weren’t around? If we weren’t in such a constant state of anxiety… would anyone have bothered to live? The greats of the Renaissance did it. The fallen kingdoms of the ancient world managed to survive. And yet, we’re all just waiting for the day we die. We can’t even see the date of the day we’re supposed to die. What are all of us waiting for?

(He looks to the payphone. Fumbling with the change in his pocket, he produces a few coins from his pocket before dialing the number. After a few rings, a light shines from the dark half of the stage, revealing a distraught WILL leaning into his phone.)

WILL

Clark… Clark, where are you?!

CLARK

Will, I’m sorry if I worried you. I slipped onto a train to go visit our hometown. I wanted to see my mom before we left to see the world. Admittedly, I should’ve have told you, but—

WILL

Clark! It doesn’t matter what you did! Just tell me where you are!

CLARK

I’m at a payphone in the middle of the road. The last bus left before I could get on. It’s a good thing I had spare change, or else I wouldn’t have been able to call you. You’re always the one calling me, so this is a nice change, isn’t it?

WILL

Don’t move an inch. I’m coming to get you.

CLARK

Oh, thank you so much. It’s getting cold out here. I’m so glad I have you as a best friend. You’ve always been so protective of me. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I really appreciate everything you do for me. But could you hurry here? The only thing protecting me from the rain is this payphone and it’s not doing a really good job.

(Thunder rumbles once again.)

WILL

Clark, is it… raining there?

CLARK

Yeah, it started a bit after I left my mom’s house. Why?

WILL

Get out of there! There’s—

(There’s a snapping sound, and a wire falls onto CLARK’S side of the stage. CLARK is startled as the line cuts off. The light on WILL’S side shuts off.)

CLARK

Will? Are you there? Darnit, the line’s cut off. But I told him my location, right? Now all I have to do is… wait.

(He sits down, leaning against the payphone. He looks up to the sky, slightly tilting his umbrella.)

(cont.) I wonder how many chances people get in their lifetimes. Maybe to get the opportunity to go on a reality TV show, or sign a record label to become the next idol. Or maybe they get the chance to achieve their dreams. I don’t know, it could be something as small as being able to get a toy. But the thing I really wonder about… is how many of them they take.

(He stretches his arms, choosing to reach a hand toward the sky.)

(cont.) But maybe there are some things that come by chance. Like a ladybug landing in your hair. Or a bird making its nest in the tree outside your window. I wonder how common it is… to meet your own Will? Is it 1 out of every 5 people? Or 1 out of a hundred. Maybe even the statistic of a lightning strike!

(Lights start to flash. CLARK laughs.)

(cont.) So maybe…

(He lowers his umbrella, looking at the sky.)

(cont.) ...we’re 2 people out of 960,000 who will experience the life-changing moment we call lightning strikes. Or maybe just the greatest person you will have in your life.

(Lightning strikes the payphone. An explosion is played, and the lights flare before settling to black in almost an instant.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The second Androkles opened the door, Andrew walked out, brushing against Phanuel’s pant leg, purring. The two of them watched as the feline curled up on the porch.

“I think he likes you.”

“I’m hoping he does.”

They sat down at the wooden table once again, and Androkles produced two fluffy pens out of his pocket. Phanuel raised an eyebrow.

“I like feathered pens,” Androkles confessed. He watched in amusement as Phanuel’s expression grew even more confused and then suddenly, his jaw dropped. He lifted the fluffy blue pen to eye level, gaping.

“It’s not quills…?” Phanuel gasped. “Oh my god, it’s not quills!”

Androkles laughed. The world only knew half of the story, didn’t they?

He laid out the music sheets in front of them. The two had written all of the music, now all that was left to write were the lyrics. Then, Phanuel would leave his house and he would never see him again.

Something about that future made his heart grow heavy. But he couldn’t think about it now, he was working. “So, your theme was petrichor? A metaphor for finding inspiration after a long bout of musician’s block?”

“Yep. I got some inspiration while I was walking here. You know how you have a bunch of plants in your backyard.” Androkles nodded. “Well, what happens when there’s no rain?”

“They dry up. Oh, so you’re going to use plants in the song, too?”

“Uh huh. Listen to these lyrics I came up with. It’s only a few lines, but we can build off of them.” Phanuel cleared his throat and strummed the first chord of the intro. “Under gentle mornings, I’m waking to fading dreams. Little quiet mournings, it’s sunny today, it seems… Can you continue from there?”

Androkles hummed in thought. “Uh, so you wanted plants in the song. Hmmm… I got it! Strawberries and roses are drying under the light. Raincoats and umbrellas are sitting on the sides.” He remembered the other day, where they were dancing in the rain, spinning between the roses bushes and stepping over perennials. The memory of Phanuel erupting in a loud sneeze once the sun shone through made the ghost smile to himself.

Phanuel repeated the words, plucking through the chords while playing it fingerstyle. “The sky is so blue, the world is clear, but there’s no peace in my mind. My breath is taken, flying far away, but when will teardrops fall from the sky?”

Teardrops fell from heaven in the backyard, Androkles was sure of it. Even if they fell through him and left him dry, they still gave life to the grass underneath his feet. But they left Phanuel soaked in spring’s rain. “I long for the day, for cloudy worlds and rainy skies, and sitting under my umbrella is a cat next to my side.”

The memory of Andrew on top of the bookshelf came to his mind. He nearly burst out into laughter. If it weren’t for Andrew, he wouldn’t have a pen name. He wouldn’t be the 21st century’s most famous author. He wouldn’t have shown who he truly was to Phanuel.

Phanuel kept playing the sand colored guitar. “The rain is pouring down, it’s dancing. Smiling strawberries love more. When it passes by, put down your hood and—”

“Smell the petrichor,” they said in unison.

“That’s—That’s it!” Phanuel screamed. “That’s gonna be the first verse and the chorus! We’ve got to write it down!”

“Already ahead of you,” Androkles said, holding up a paper with the words of the song written in ink. “Now we just need the rest and then we’re done.”

“We’ll actually be done… I can’t believe that.”

“Me neither. Now, let’s get to work.”

They ran through the written lyrics once more, making some adjustments. Then they started on the second verse, throwing ideas at each other and refining the words. Before long, there was a full sheet of lyrics, inspired by the past few days of hesitation and dancing. The story, which was observed from a person’s point of view, was weaved through the experiences of sunny weather and joyful plants, accompanied by a cat pressed against the human’s side.

“And… done.” Androkles wrote the final word and dropped the pen, shaking his arm. He had an ache in his wrist today. “Alright, it’s all written. Here.”

He handed the paper to Phanuel, who was looking at the lyrics starstruck. “These are amazing…! You’re such a skilled songwriter.”

Androkles flushed. “I’m just a writer, that’s all.”

“The most popular writer of the 21st century.”

“Andrew Homer would be disappointed in these lyrics.”

“Andrew Homer wrote these lyrics. Be proud of what you’ve created.” Phanuel grinned widely, showing off his teeth. Now that Androkles looked at it, one of his front teeth was a bit crooked. It seemed that the rising star had flaws in his appearance as well. “I know I am.”

He was growing redder by the second. Androkles hid his face behind his hands. “T-Thank you, then.”

Phanuel nodded, causing his hair to bounce up. He looked at the time displayed on the wall. His smile dropped. “It… looks like it’s time for me to go. It’s 7.”

The writer rotated his body around, finding that the time was indeed 7:00. Disappointment rose up in him. He turned back to Phanuel, who had a slightly saddened expression as well. “Oh, I guess it is. Let me help you gather your stuff.”

The two of them were both taking their time cleaning up and they knew it. Phanuel set his guitar back in its case slower than he previously did, and he cleaned the inside thoroughly, cleaning out nonexistent dirt. Androkles gathered the music sheets, pretending to not know the order and gently placing them in numerical order. He took the pens and put them to the side of the table. Phanuel tightened his strap, refastening it even though he knew it fit perfectly on him. Suddenly, after a few minutes of cleaning their workplace in silence, they realized that there was nothing else to reorganize.

Androkles decided to break the silence. “So! I’ll lead you to the door.”

Phanuel nodded, even though the door was only a few feet away from the two of them.

The duo walked to the door and Androkles unlocked it slowly, hesitating before pulling it open. Phanuel stepped onto the porch, taking in the fresh smell of earth. It had rained in the morning once again, leaving the air slightly damp and the pot with the strawberries watered. The musician turned around to face Androkles, who handed the sheets of paper to him.

“Thank you for everything, Andrew. I think my musician’s block is finally going away. It’s all because of you.” Phanuel gave him a bright smile and he shook his head.

“I only gave you the opportunity to be creative. You’re the one who truly overcame it.”

A silence fell over them. They stared at each other, waiting for the other to say goodbye. They both didn’t want to hear those words.

“Hey, Andrew, can I make a request?”

“As what? The client or as Phanuel?’

“As Phanuel.” He stepped forward, their one-inch difference seeming to be a large, unfulfilled gap. “Could you.. make yourself tangible so I can give you a hug?”

Androkles smiled, letting his body become a physical object. “Go ahead. I don’t leave any unsatisfied clients.”

Phanuel embraced him, and Androkles felt his touch on his skin. There was a living being hugging him, radiating warmth from under their fingertips. Androkles’s hair was brushing against Phanuel’s nose, tickling him. There was light, such a bright light inside of him, brighter than the sun. The man pulled away from the ghost, looking at him fondly.

“You know, to the world, you might be Andrew Homer, the world famous author. To your cat, you might be its beloved owner. To your agent, you’re their boss. But to me…” He took Androkles’s tangible hands, finally being able to lift then. “You're my inspiration, my muse, and my coworker. But most of all, you’re my friend.”

Something about the genuine look in Phanuel’s eyes made a tear slip down his face. Or maybe it was the stinging of the warm air around them. Whatever it was, it made him overwhelmed with emotion, inundating him in happiness. Phanuel wiped it away.

“Andrew, don’t cry…”

“It’s Androkles.” Phanuel’s hand paused, lightly touching the skin of Androkles’s cheek. He took it in his own hand. “My real name is Androkles. Andrew Homer is my cat’s name. I used it for my pen name. But keep it a secret, will you?”

There was a moment of nothing. Then, they started to laugh together, their hands still clasped.

“Who gave you that idea?”

“I wanted to have an alias so no one would know who I was. Andrew is the only thing I’ve ever stayed outside for.”

“Brilliant. A cat is the true writer for One is a Thousand.”

Androkles giggled. “It is. Now shoo, it’s getting dark. You should get home before the sun sets.”

Phanuel sighed, pulling away from Androkles. “I really should. Thank you again. I guess this is goodbye, Androkles.”

“I guess it is.” His face fell, but the bubbling happiness inside didn’t fade. “I’ll be waiting for ‘Petrichor’ to hit the top of the Billboards. Goodbye, Phanuel.”

The musician walked down the steps of Androkles’s porch, leaving the ghost alone with the smell of the world after rain.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ONE IS A THOUSAND

(AT RISE: A coffin is set in the middle of the stage. The characters are all dressed in black, and quietly mourn. The group includes WILL, MOM, COWORKERS, and multiple other characters that CLARK has met in his lifetime.)

(A speaker steps onto a podium.)

SPEAKER

We’re gathered here to mourn the loss of Clark Bell. His death was due on the day of May 18, 2016, and has arrived much sooner than we had all hoped. At the age of 26, Clark became an office worker in the city. Although he pushed papers all day, he still kept his dream of traveling the world buried deep in his heart. Clark finally got a step closer to his dream, but it was cut short after a lightning strike hit the payphone he was at. Will, if you would please.

(WILL walks up to the podium with a grief-stricken expression. He clears his throat.)

WILL

I… have no words to express how I feel about Clark’s death. There’s nothing that exists that can convey my grief. Clark had such a defined identity. He was a son. He was a co-worker to some, and he was a bright customer to others. He was the person living above apartment #2 and he was the stranger in the crowd. He was… my best friend. He existed differently in each and every one of our minds. He was a single person, yet he was a thousand different people. But in the end… he was Clark. Just Clark. The guy that wanted to see the world. To chase puffins off beaches. He just wanted… to be free. And I’m so sorry to say I wasn't there when he needed me. That’s all.

(He steps off the podium. The funeral progression plays out and slowly, people start to leave. The only two people remaining are WILL and MOM. The latter approaches WILL.)

MOM

Hello there, Will.

WILL

Hi, Mrs. Bell. I’m sorry. I’m probably the last person you want to see. I… didn’t arrive on time.

MOM

(shaking her head) Never. You’ve always punctual. Always working so hard. Just some of the many qualities Clark admired in you. He loved you so much.

WILL

Loved?

MOM

Yes. My son loved you. He loved many things. He was in love with life. You know that better than anyone. You two spent a lot of time together. He loved you so much, he wanted you to have this.

(She pushes an envelope into his hands.)

(cont.) Inside are two tickets to the Accademia. He talked about it a lot with you, didn’t he? It was his dream to see the art there with you. He talked to me about it right before he left my house. There was a line he would say to you if you said that the place was beautiful. What was it? “Yes, the statues are beautiful. But the real piece of art here is right in front of me.” He left them with me because… he knew his death date all along. It was always circled on our calendar at home. Clark was a brilliant boy, it didn’t take him long to figure it out.

(She laughs quietly.)

(cont.) What he wants you to do is to go and explore the world, Will. He wants you to experience the thrills of life and be able to come back and say, “I’ve changed.” Clark wants you to travel the world. He wants to find someone and get married, settle down and have a family. Make an identity for yourself just as Will. Just live as you are.

(WILL starts to cry. He looks up from the letter and hugs MOM.)

WILL

Thank you so much.

MOM

Don’t thank me. Thank Clark. He is the one who is truly a thousand.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Androkles didn’t think it was necessary to confine himself to these terms. In fact, he preferred to be referred to as Androkles Hemming, not the internationally famous Andrew Homer, or the introverted ghost, just Androkles. He was, in literal terms, a ghostwriter, but he chose not to be part of any world. Phanuel helped him realize that he could just be himself.

Now he was in his kitchen, humming the words to Petrichor, one of the biggest hits to have ever been on the radio. It broke multiple records in its first week, become one of the most listened to songs in history. The music industry had been overturned by the release of Phanuel’s new album, Ghost, and his fame exploded. Androkles was content with listening to talk show hosts rave about the star’s sudden rise to fame.

The album, in Androkles’s opinion, was honest, and that’s why it succeeded. It was an honest, catchy masterpiece that took the hearts of the public and twisted a knife of emotion and life in them, causing millions to fall to their knees. From what Androkles heard, Phanuel’s worldwide tour had just sold out.

“...on the show is one of the world’s most popular idols out there. He's the mastermind behind the hit Petrichor, and one of the youngest artist to have hit the number 1 spot on the Billboards. Introducing... Phanuel!”

A familiar voice came on.“Thank you for having me here. I’m really honored to have the opportunity be on the radio. Oh no, I don’t know what to say. I’m nervous.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Phanuel.”

Laughter broke out. After the wheezing stopped, the host spoke up once again. “So, Phanuel, where exactly did you get the inspiration for writing the songs on Ghost?”

“I got it from just sitting down and observing the world around me. You’d be surprised how much you can learn by just listening to yourself. Also, most of the songs are inspired by stories from my favorite author, Andrew Homer. I’d say that a lot of my music is influenced by him.”

“Wise answer. What would you say is the main message of the album, and what’s the story behind your main track, ‘Petrichor’?”

“I wanted to tell a story about identity. We live in a world where people spend their whole lives trying to find who they are. Some people hide who they are, while others fake it. I wanted to show the world that it’s okay to be yourself. Now, as for the title track, it’s about finding light after going through dark times. It’s actually inspired by my own experiences. I had musician’s block for a long time, and after being taught important lessons from a dear friend of mine, I overcame it. I want to go back to my hometown and tell them thank you, but I have a world tour ahead of me.”

“A busy man you are. That’s all we have for today, make sure if you want tickets…”

Androkles turned down the radio, taking his eggs off the pan and dumping them onto a porcelain plate. He shut the stove off, taking the plate and sitting at the table in the living room, which had a pencil holder filled with fluffy pens in the middle.

The famous was traveling the world, living his dream. The enigmatic was at home. The aliases of ‘friends’ still lingered in the garden, refusing to wash away in the rain.

He pulled out his phone, checking his social media. Androkles laughed happily at the most recent post, stuffing more eggs in his mouth.

yay strawberry

The flowers on the strawberry were blooming.

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