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#when the fray was like.....what if we put a rock song in the middle of our pop album
antisocialantihero · 3 years
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everybody say they love the fray till you put on Little house smh
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Imagine Coming Out to Steve as Bisexual:
A/N: Here’s (hopefully) the first installment of a sort-of series that I like to call the Imagine Pride Series. I don’t know how many I’ll get done this Pride Month since I’m starting it sort of in the middle of the month but if people end up liking it and I get enough ideas/requests for it, I’ll continue it and maybe it’ll become an annual thing until I’ve done a billion characters or get bored of it, lol. Anyway, this first one ended up being very personal for me, which I definitely didn’t intend, but... yeah, lol. Also, this series will be filled to the brim with my personal LGBTQ+ headcanons for Marvel characters, so if that’s not your thing, steer clear. Anyway, enjoy!
Word count: 2,477
Warnings: Coming out anxiety. Use of the Q-slur (reclaiming) and one F-bomb.
Masterlist
Ko-Fi Shoppe
~~~
    You were in your bedroom getting prepared for lounge time before bed—and psyching yourself up—when you thought you heard the front door open through your apartment’s paper-thin walls. You grabbed your phone and turned down the music playing from your Bluetooth speaker; the current song was Janelle Monáe’s “I Like That”, from the Queer Confidence playlist that you’d built for this specific event. Taking a deep breath and giving yourself one more good look in the mirror attached to your closet door, eyeing the to-go bag you had packed with essentials and left ready to grab on the bed, you listened to the jingle of keys as they were dropped onto the table by the door. The sound was quickly followed by a voice.
    “[Y/N]?” Steve half-hollered, and you heard the sounds of movement as he made his way to the hall. His voice got softer as he got closer. “Baby?”
    You gave yourself a shake and patted your face with your hands before answering. “Bedroom!”
    Even though the two of you had been living together for well over a year, he still knocked and waited politely outside until you gave him explicit permission to enter. When he did, he immediately gravitated towards you. He casually looked over you, in your pajama pants and baggy cropped sweatshirt, as he strolled over, and seeing the slightest furrow of his brows made your stomach churn. Steve Rogers wasn’t too bad at reading people but he was always able to read you like a book and you immediately knew that he noticed how tense you were.
    Apparently, he also noticed that you were trying to keep your cool and act normal because he didn’t immediately jump into Worried Eyebrows Rogers. Instead, he decided to give you some time to sort yourself out and opted to simply hug you from behind. Nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, his warm breath gave you goosebumps as he mumbled a soft, “Hi.”
    You almost forgot about your plan as you melted back into his arms. “Hi,” you replied just as softly as you leaned your head to rest on top of his. You allowed yourself to close your eyes and place your hands on his, slowly run your hands up and down his forearms; you tried to take everything in just in case this was the last time you would be held by him. The solidness of the chest you leaned against, the sturdiness of his footing even as you put your full weight against him because, in reality, your body weight was like carrying a loaf of bread to the super-soldier. The curve of veins and muscle across his arms, the dampness of his hair under your cheek that was probably caused by his evening run despite the rain happening at the time. The faded smell of the 2-in-1 shampoo-conditioner that Steve used despite your complaining, the much warmer body heat than any normal person that was like being wrapped in a heated blanket during the wintertime but being suffocated in a sauna during the summer, that currently bled into you and wrapped you into a comforting cocoon.
    You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been standing like that in silence but it was long enough for Steve to decide that it was Worried Eyebrows time. He slowly raised his head again and when you opened your eyes again, he was watching you carefully in the mirror. He wore a dark navy T-shirt that was just tight enough to outline the muscular form underneath—with the help of Thor and Asgardian booze early on in your relationship, you’d gotten a blushing and giggly drunk Steve to admit that he purposely wore clothes like it because he enjoyed the attention, just a smidge—and a pair of black joggers that you got him for Christmas a few months ago.
    “Are you okay?” Worried Rogers finally asked when he realized you weren’t going to speak first. He kept eye contact with you via the mirror, which almost hurt to hold on your end, as he pressed a light kiss against your temple and then a second one to your cheek. “You called me home early. Said it was something that couldn’t wait?”
    And now I don’t want to say it at all, you thought as you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth. After hesitating for a bit longer—a few seconds or a half-hour, you couldn’t tell through your anxious haze—you sighed and said, “We need to talk.”
    “What, it’s not like you’re leaving me or something, are you?” Steve questioned. The quirk of his brows and a brief smile that appeared told you that he was joking but when you didn’t even chuckle or tease him back, that smile quickly reversed into a frown. “That’s not what’s happening here, is it?”
    “Well…” you mumbled, then trailed off. You glanced towards the bed, where your emergency-leave bag sat waiting, and when you looked back at Steve’s reflection, he was staring at the bag with worry lines etched deep into his skin. “That’s up to you.”
    “Hold on.” Steve moved from behind to stand in front of you, although it was only briefly as he took your hands tightly in his and led you to sit on the edge of the bed with him. He glanced at the bag again, the lines on his face grew deeper again, and you were suddenly reminded of his true age. He looked you in the eye again. “[Y/N], talk to me.”
    “Ours” by Taylor Swift played quietly in the background as you tried to untangle your thoughts and make your mouth work again. The song wasn’t a Pride song or by an LGBTQ+ artist but something about it just fit so well. As you tried to recall the speech you’d been practicing all day, then decided to throw it out altogether, Taylor sang, “So don’t you worry your pretty little mind / People throw rocks at things that shine / And life makes love look hard…”
    “Steve, I…” Your tongue seemed to tie itself in a knot whenever you tried to say it. 
    Steve’s worried, borderline scared, look turned soft. The gentle Worried Eyebrows were back and his thumbs caressed the backs of your hands so softly that it felt like he thought you’d shatter at any minute. He pressed another, stronger kiss against your forehead and mumbled, “You know you can tell me anything.”
    Steve was one of the kindest, most welcoming, most understanding people you’ve ever known but there was still something intimidating about telling him. Normally, you couldn’t fathom him reacting poorly to anything that you could have said but now, you couldn’t help remembering the fact that he was a masculine, old-fashioned, soldier—a soldier from the ’40s—who was still the Ideal American Man to a lot of people, especially some rather unsavory people, and to your knowledge, Steve didn’t have any other queer people in his life that were close to him. Maybe he didn’t want any. Maybe he didn’t like them, like many people who idolized him don’t like them. 
    A little spark of anger sparked in the dark void of anxiety that you were feeling. It wasn’t fair that people hated people like you simply for existing and as much as you loved Steve, if he held the same sentiments, you definitely didn’t want to be with him. The spark quickly turned into a raging fire and suddenly you were blurting out what you’d struggled to say all day, all month, ever since you’d discovered yourself.
    “Steve, I’m bi.”
    Steve stared at you for a bit, then blinked. “What?”
    You took a breath and squared your shoulders. It wasn’t any easier to say it a second time, but you managed in what you hoped was a confident voice, “I’m bisexual.”
    Steve blinked again and his head tilted slightly to the side, but otherwise didn’t move much. “Okay.”
    “O… Okay.” You echoed. You felt your cheeks grow warm.
    Slowly, a relieved smile appeared on Steve’s face and you watched as the tension in his entire posture relaxed. “Was that what you wanted to tell me? You wanted to come out as bisexual?”
    Your face grew heated still and you glanced away. You pulled your sweaty hands from Steve’s and wiped them on your pant legs as you stammered, “Y… Yeah, I mean, yes.” You picked at the fraying hem of your shirt for a few moments, then looked back at your boyfriend—to see that he was absolutely glowing. “You don’t care?”
    “No, of course not,” Steve said, only to quickly shake his head and backtrack, “I mean, of course, I do! I care because it’s you and your identity. I just— It’s just not what I was expecting at all.”
    It was your turn to stare at him. Now you just felt a little silly. “What were you expecting?”
    Steve looked past you to the bag sitting on the other side of you and his expression saddened a bit. He took your hand tightly in his own and squeezed them as he looked at you again. “What were you?”
    “Uh…” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze, “Well, I guess… I don’t know…”
    “[Y/N],” Steve said more sternly, “you don’t have to sugarcoat it. I’m a grown man; I can handle it.”
    “A grown man who was America’s Sweetheart in the ‘40s,” you pointed out. “I had a right to be worried.”
    Steve nodded slowly. “No, of course, you did. I understand. You know I’m okay with it, though, right? I’ve made that clear, right? I’m proud of you and I’m grateful that you told me. Glad that you felt safe enough to tell me, even if you were still worried about it. You know that, right?”
    Kesha’s “Raising Hell” played in the background as you scrubbed your eyes with your sweatshirt sleeves, gave Steve a dumb-feeling nod. Of course, you knew Steve wouldn’t care.
    Steve took you in a tight hug as you tried to shake away the tears burning at the corners of your eyes. He ran a hand over your hair and gently rocked the two of back and forth in true, calming, Worried Eyebrows Rogers fashion. After a bit, when he felt you finally relaxing, he murmured against your hair, “I love you, you know? All of you. Because you’re you.”
    You felt your cheeks warm again and you nodded against his chest. “I love you too.”
    The two of you continued to sit like that for a while until Steve suddenly hummed thoughtfully. He slowly released you and you let him go, he sat back on his hands and chewed the inside of his cheek. 
    You watched him curiously as he glanced around the room, thinking. “What?”
    “You know, I…” Now he trailed off, glanced at you before his gaze darted away again and he chewed his cheek again. “I… Now I know this isn’t my information to share but Buck’s always been pretty uncaring about it, I guess.”
    Your brows furrowed. “Buck? Like, Bucky-Buck? Our Bucky.”
    Steve chuckled. “Yeah, our Bucky.”
    “What about Bucky?”
    Steve hesitated again but eventually continued, “I had almost the exact same conversation with him before he left for the war.”
    Your eyes widened. “Wait— Bucky?”
    Steve nodded slowly again and his gaze finally settled on you again. “Bi too. Coincidence, huh? He was lucky, sort of. Says he always knew. Obviously not super open, given the time, but he was never ashamed of it or anything.” He paused and briefly glanced away again before continuing. “I still don’t know.”
    You blinked. “Don’t know what?”
    Steve just stared at you, cheeks tinting pink as he waited for you to put the pieces together.
    “Wait, you’re queer?”
    Steve shook his head quickly. “Or something. But I don’t like that word. Power to anyone who uses it positively but I was around when it wasn’t.”
    “Right,” you said, still dumbfounded, “Sorry. Yeah, I won’t use it for you then. Hang on; you’re not straight then?”
    Steve chewed his lip and gave you the cutest bashful smile that you’d ever seen on such a large man; you could almost see the scrawny, sickly, pre-serum Steve sitting in front of you.
    “I’m offended,” he softly quipped.
    You stared at him a bit longer. Then you burst into laughter. Steve chuckled along with you, watched you with a growing smile as you fell back onto the bed in a giggling fit. Eventually, you calmed down, wiping tears that you weren’t sure were completely from laughing and staring up at the bedroom ceiling. “My gaydar’s fucked, dude.”
    This time Steve laughed and he collapsed back onto the bed with you. Then he grabbed you, wrapping his arms tightly around your back as he rolled over with you so that you were laying on top of him.
    “Well, like I said,” he said, watching you, “I don’t know.”
    “Well, you kind of know, though,” you replied, “right?”
    Steve tilted his head a bit, then nodded. “Kind of.”
    “So… what?”
    “What?”
    You shrugged and grinned. “I don’t know. What are you into? What do you think you are? Like, I uh… I like girls. And guys. And everything in between and outside.”
    “I thought that was pansexual or something?”
    “For some people it is. For some people, bi is only girls and only guys. I tried pan, omni, a few others, but bi was what I always came back to. Bi just… fits.”
    Steve sighed and stared past you at the ceiling again. “See, I just think there’s too much information. I’m too old. Get confused easily.” 
    You snorted and snickered as he flashed a smile at you. “Some people don’t do any of it, you know. Labels and stuff, I mean. They’re just kinda like ‘I like this and all there it is to it.’ No label, just them and love. Couldn’t be me but it works for other people.”
    Steve nodded again and after a minute said, “I just like people.”
    You smiled at him. “Okay.”
    He looked at you. “I really like you.”
    The smile slowly turned into a grin. “Oh yeah?”
    Steve smiled back and held you tighter against him. “I like you a lot.”
    “Well, well, Mr. Rogers—”
    “Captain,” he grumbled under his breath, “but it’s fine.”
    “Captain Rogers,” you corrected as you slinked up to lean over him. You took his face in your hands and leaned so close that your noses bumped together. “I like you a lot too.”
    Steve leaned in the rest of the way to kiss you and you kissed him back. Despite the teasing, the kiss was soft and sweet, and when he pulled away from you, the way he looked at you full of love was just as sweet.
    “Love you,” he said.
    “I love you too.”
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ghstandpucks · 3 years
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Nothin’ Like You ~ Cale Makar
In honor of reaching over 200 followers, here is a song fic based on Dan and Shay’s Nothin’ Like You. I have a few requests in my inbox that I will be working on. If you have any, feel free to send them in using this prompt! Thank you for 200!!!
Master List
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I remember when I first met you Sipping coffee in a corner booth You were twirling your hair And I just had to stare For a minute or two
Cale was with Tyson and J.T. after practice one Wednesday afternoon. The three of them decided to stop and get some coffee as it was a cold winter day outside. They were waiting in line talking about something E.J. had said earlier that day when Cale’s eyes landed on you in the back corner by a window. You had a cup of coffee and were staring at your laptop, completely oblivious to the world around you. He couldn’t help but stare as you wound and un-wound a strand of hair around your finger, every so often stopping to type something. Tyson kept talking as J.T. realized their defenseman was completely distracted by something. Following his line of sight, he chuckled. “See something you like? Or someone?” he chirped his teammate. Cale started to turn red as he looked away from you.
“I thought maybe I knew her,” he muttered. Tyson had stopped his monologue and was paying attention also now. He looked over as you had your head buried in a book, slowly typing something out.
“How did she carry all those books?” he asked with a slight laugh. Cale had noticed the numerous books you had scattered around the table. Didn’t people just do their research online now? “You like studious girls Makar?” Tyson elbowed him.
I was laughing at your stack of books Then you shot me that smile Hey beautiful girl, in your own little world Let me in it
“Man shut up,” Cale said turning on his friend. Unknowingly to them though, you had actually heard all the commotion. It was why you enjoyed doing your research in coffee shops; the garbled noises made it easier for you to concentrate. This doesn’t mean that you had heard what they said exactly, but who could really miss three hockey players walking into a small coffee shop in the middle of the week.
You looked up right as Cale was glancing back over at you. As you locked eyes, you sent him a shy smile and looked back down, trying to focus on your work again. Of course you knew who they were, all of Denver practically did. You were just an overstressed grad student with too many deadlines coming up though; he was probably just looking around the place.
The three of them ordered their coffees, and Cale noticed that you had looked sadly at your cup after taking a sip. He walked up to the counter and got the attention of the barista. “What did that girl in the corner order?” he asked, and was told it was a caramel latte. “I’ll take one of those too,” Cale said, paying for a second coffee. J.T. gave Tyson a look before he could say anything as they watched Cale walk over to you with two coffee cups.
You got all of my attention And you ain't even trying Yeah, you're my kind of different And I never seen nothin'
Nothin' like you
“Um hi. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought you could use this,” Cale said, announcing his presence at your table. You looked up, slightly startled as you had been engrossed in a thought you had while typing out your research. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he chuckled nervously.
“No, you’re fine! Sorry, I had a train of thought going,” you sputtered out just as nervous as him. “Thank you, that’s very kind. What do I owe you?” you asked, instinctively reaching for your wallet. Cale shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said, trying to think of what the guys on the team might say in this situation. “Your number maybe?” he made a face like he couldn’t believe he just said that, and you couldn’t help but giggle.
“Um, sure, yeah,” you squeaked out, writing your number on a piece of notebook paper and ripping it out to give to him. “I’m Y/N,” you introduced yourself.
“Cale,” he said, taking the paper from you. He was about to ask what you were doing when Tyson called out to him.
“Makar, are you coming?” Cale turned toward his friends who had big, goofy grins on their faces watching the interaction. You blushed slightly at the thought of others watching you.
“I’m sorry. I’ll text you,” he stuttered out, putting your number into his pocket. You smiled softly at him and nodded.
“Thanks for the coffee,” you said and he smiled at you.
“My pleasure.”  
Shades on spinning in a summer rain Dancing when there ain’t no music Just the right kind of crazy, baby
           Cale had texted you like he said he would that same evening. You honestly weren’t expecting it, but felt completely giddy when you saw the unknown number and read his message. He explained that he would be gone on a road trip with the Avs for the next week, but would like to take you to dinner when he got back. You accepted and plans were made; the two of you talking regularly throughout the week getting to know each other better.
           The Avs returned home on Thursday, and a few hours later Cale was at your apartment knocking on your door. He had brought you flowers and you couldn’t help but smile at the kind gesture. The two of you made your way to dinner, talking the whole time. He had just finished telling you a funny story from the trip, beaming at the giggle he had enticed from you when your food arrived. As you looked down at your plate, you started moving your head and shoulders in an excited fashion. “Are you dancing?” Cale questioned you with a chuckle. You stopped immediately.
           “Oh my gosh, sorry. I tend to have a happy dance with food. It’s a weird family thing. I don’t even realize I do it until it’s pointed out to me,” you rambled on, face turning red. Cale shook his head.
           “Don’t be sorry. I though it was cute,” he said in a low tone. You smiled and giggled nervously; Cale deciding then and there that he wanted to continue seeing that smile for as long as you would let him.  
Something about you Rocking that rock 'n roll t-shirt Whole party dressed up But you just doin’ your thing Ain't nobody ever seen nothin' like you
           You were working on your research the following Friday night, having the game on in the background. Cale had taken you out to dinner once more since your first date, and the two of you had been nonstop texting. The Avs had won, Cale scoring that night. After the game you were about to text him a ‘congratulations’ when your phone started to ring, the caller ID showing it was him. “Congratulations!” you said as you answered and heard him chuckle on the other end of the line.
           “Thanks Y/N. Hey, what are you doing tonight?” he asked, and you heard a few wolf whistles behind him with muttered ‘shut ups’ coming from the defenseman.
           “I’ve just been working on my research since I got out of class earlier. Why?” you asked, trying not to laugh.
           “Come out with us. We’re all going out to celebrate,” he said in a more hushed tone, and you could imagine him trying to avoid the whole locker room from hearing.
           “Cale, I would love to but I’m not dressed to go out,” you said.
           “Who cares. Please? I would like you to come,” he pleaded with you ever so slightly. You looked down at your outfit, deciding it wouldn’t take much to put on some jeans quickly. Your Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt didn’t look terrible at least.
           “Text me the address,” you said into the phone, and you could hear the excitement in Cale’s voice as he said he would.
When you're wearing them worn out jeans Purple untied shoestrings You're a light in the dark And you're stealing my heart like a gypsy
           Showing up to the bar, you became a little self-conscious. Maybe you should have changed? The second Cale spotted you though, he thought you were the most beautiful girl in the room. The front of your band tee was tucked into your ripped black jeans, your white converse showing years of wear as they were no longer exactly white and the shoelaces were frayed at the ends. Cale knew you were probably stressed with your research, and yet you still had the softest smile and a sparkle in your eyes when you found him in the crowd. “You made it,” he whispered into your hair as he hugged you close. He felt you giggle into his chest.
           “Couldn’t let you down,” you answered simply. Cale smiled at you and took your hand, leading you over to a table where some of the team was sitting.
           “Coffee shop girl!” A slightly tipsy Tyson shouted.
           “Oh my God,” Cale muttered as you giggled. You were introduced to everyone as you took a seat between Cale and someone he called Gravy.
           “So what is your research on?” Gabriel Landeskog asked when you said you were a grad student at the University of Denver.
           “The archaeology of Zoroastrianism,” you said, and caught many blank stares.
           “Zoro what?” Andre asked.
           “It’s an ancient Persian religion. Today’s modern practices of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism all have common ties to it,” you briefly explained.
           “Wait, that was the religion Freddie Mercury practiced,” Sam Girard commented, looking interested. You nodded.
           “That’s how most people have heard of it now,” you responded.
           “What is your research trying to say about it?” he asked.
           “So I’m basically writing a big literature review to make sure it is preserved in the archaeological record. It was the first dualistic religion in a time where civilizations had their pantheons to believe in. It spread with the Persian conquest, but no one they conquered was ever forced to convert to it. Now it’s a rare religion to come across, and their numbers keep getting smaller. With it being one of the oldest organized religions, it needs to be preserved and the traditions documented before we lose it all through modernization attempts.” To you, your explanation was simple and one that you had said many times whenever asked what you were studying. It seemed you had impressed the table though, and you slightly blushed as a few questions started flying your way. You didn’t notice Cale softly smiling at you while you talked about a topic that you loved so much; he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. His teammates noticed though, and boy were they going to give it to him at practice.    
I love the way that you kiss me In front of everybody So baby come and kiss me They ain't ever seen nothin'
Nothin' like you
           The following day at practice, the guys were giving Cale crap for how head over heels he seemed for you. The fact he hadn’t kissed you yet was another source of ridicule. Everyone who had met you ended up adoring you within the time span that you spent with them at the bar; and they could easily see that their defenseman was taken by you as his cheeks would turn red at the mention of your name. They were all happy for him, but that didn’t mean the chirping would stop.
           They had another home game to play the following day, and Gabe convinced Cale to invite you and have you sit with Mel and Linnea. Later that day Cale went to your apartment and handed you his jersey, asking you to be there for the game. You couldn’t say no to him, not that you wanted to anyways. That Sunday you put on the jersey and headed to the stadium. Meeting Mel at the front, you quickly got along and enjoyed the game. The Avs came out victorious again, and you followed the captain’s wife to the locker rooms. You stepped aside as Gabe made his way over to his wife, feeling a little out of place. Luckily for you, Cale wasn’t far behind.
           He didn’t know if it was from the guys comments or seeing you in his jersey, but one second he was smiling widely at you, then the next his lips were on yours and his hands on your waist. Without a second thought, you kissed him back, your hands holding his face to yours. You were both grinning ear to ear as you separated, chirps flying all around but all in good nature. Giggling, you hid your face in Cale’s chest as his face turned bright red.
Shades on spinning in a summer rain Dancing when there ain’t no music Just the right kind of crazy, baby Something about you Rocking that rock 'n roll t-shirt Whole party dressed up But you just doing your thing Ain't nobody ever seen nothin' like you, yeah
           A year had passed and you were at the end of your grad program. You were set to present your research at the graduate fair, having been selected to present your research on behalf of your department. The Avs were scheduled to be flying back home that day, but Cale wasn’t sure if he would be there in time to see you present. You told him that it was fine, that you understood; and you really did. He was hell bent on making it though. You weren’t that surprised when you saw Cale sneaking into the back of the auditorium. What did surprise you was that half the team had followed him in. Having become good friends with them, they wanted to be there to support you too. As your name was announced, you swear you had the loudest applause.
           You calmly presented your research, smiling at Cale when you finished and a few questions were thrown your way. Having worked so hard, the questions were simple to answer. Finding Cale afterward, he took your poster from you and the two of you made your way to his apartment so he could unpack from the trip. Changing into some leggings and one of his shirts, you showed him the bound copy of your 105 page thesis. He was so proud of you and couldn’t help but share the cover on his Insta story. The two of you cuddle and slept better that night then you had in a while. For him it was being back home with you, and you finally had the stress of your research gone since the first time you met him.  
Nothin' like you Shades on spinning in a summer rain Dancing in the rain no music Nothin' like you Rocking that rock 'n roll t-shirt Whole party dressed up But you just doing your thing Ain't nobody ever seen nothin' like you, yeah
           Once you graduated, Cale asked you to move in with him. You had secured a job at a museum as a curator in their Antient History section. Setting up an exhibit all morning, you met up with Cale at the same coffee shop you had met at two years prior later that day. “Sorry I’m late” you muttered to Cale as you found him. He smiled and gave you a quick kiss.
           “You have nothing to be sorry about. I already put your order in,” he said as you sat across from him, taking a sip of the coffee he got you.
           “You know me so well,” you hummed with a giggle, the caramel latte tasting sweet. Cale grinned at you.
           “Technically, your coffee order was the first thing I learned about you, so I better get that right,” he chuckled. “That and you seemed like a huge nerd.” You faked offense, but laughed anyway.
           “It was all those books that got you. I knew my tactic of sitting in a coffee shop would work for me one day,” you winked at him.
           “It did. I’d never seen nothing like you,” he grinned, reaching into his pocket to take out a small velvet jewelry box.
Never seen, never seen nothin' like you Ain't never seen anything like you Mmm Never seen nothin' like you
Tagging: @yeahcalesy @avsfans95  @tysojost​ 
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chaoticspacefam · 3 years
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Kiss With A Fist
A/N:
quite literally heeheheh ok I’ll see myself out LMAO the rest of this song doesn’t literally apply to these two, they love each other very much and rest assured they’d never actually, deliberately hurt each other. it’s more the general Vibe(tm) of the song that fits their courting process + I really liked the poetic irony of this line used as the quote & the last line of the fic XD Also bear in mind this is from D’leah’s POV and yes, it is semi-ironic on purpose because...it’s D’leah. Any regulars on the blog should be very familiar with mama Sith’s propsensity to be a bully with an overinflated ego at this point *shrugs* XD
OKAY, with that out of the way, here we go! A little oneshot. I haven’t sat down to properly write or edit for a good long while, but this is still one of my favourite oneshots that I’ve ever written tbh, so...enjoy! 😄😄 I’ll leave it up to reader interpretation as to whether they actually finished the mission her brother & dad sent them out on or got sidetracked(tm) 👀😉
I don’t think it needs a particular warning since it’s literally one sentence but there is a mention of killing an assassin in the middle of this (under the cut) so ig be aware of that. It’s not horribly graphic so should be fine but uhhh, just in case?
                                ----------------------------
“A kick in the teeth is good for some, but a kiss with a fist is better than none!” ~Florence & the Machine
Of all the Royal Guards that could have possibly been assigned to accompany her on this mission, it had to be this one. The heiress would be lying if she said she wasn't a tad bitter by the Emperor's insistence on that arrangement; she'd attempted to change his mind in a moment of desperation in the past, but her father would hear nothing of it, patting her on the shoulder and claiming that none of the others had the skill level for this sort of task, or to keep up with her during it. So, once more, she was resigned to the company of the fool who, despite her snapping, always seemed to turn up when he was least wanted and needed. 
(This was, of course, not the case and given that his entire purpose was to protect the heiress from threats, perhaps she should have been more tolerant of his presence, or perhaps her protests stemmed less from annoyance and more from something else than she was willing to admit…)
 And he had been fraying D'leah's nerves ever since they'd landed on Tatooine this morning. Kissai had enough arrogance for the both of them, and he seemed to have gotten the idea into his head that she couldn't take care of herself without him needing to jump in to "rescue" her at the most inopportune moment. It was infuriating. She did not need him charging in to help, she could handle herself just fine.
Everything about this man irritated her to no end: the way he stomped around with his great big feet and woke half the karkin’ planet, his habit of always being right behind her whenever she turned around, the way he kept grabbing her by the shoulder to pull her back and insist he, of all people, went first; his stupid face and that annoying, oaf-ish smile of his…
She’d been so busy internally cursing her Guard that she’d failed to notice the man who had been tailing them since the spaceport; in fact, she only noticed him in the first place when she heard his spine crack as Kissai lifted him into the air with the Force, then flung the body down in front of her almost pointedly.
D’leah let out an agitated hiss as her amber eyes flicked from the corpse at her feet, to his face as he raised both browstalks at her as if to say "I told you so", then back again, and sputtered.
“He wasn’t going to shoot me.” 
“I think you’ll find he was, princess.” Kissai retorted smoothly, plucking the man’s blaster pistol off the ground and waving it at her as he added, “You’re welcome, by the way.” She bristled faintly at the word ‘princess’. Sometimes when she was in a good mood, she’d slip up and let it slide without correcting him. Today, after the morning she’d had, D’leah was in no mood to put up with it.
“I don’t need you following me around like a lost Tuk’ata pup!” she snapped at him, trudging onwards and praying he’d catch his stomping feet in a sinkhole when he tried to follow her.
“Your father seems to think otherwise.” The man simply laughed the comment off, pulling his hood up to protect his face from the sand that whipped into a vortex around them. His voice dropped an octave, to become a more serious growl. “Are you forgetting that my entire job is to protect you?” 
The Ahaszaai High Lady snarled under her breath, checking the locator beacon Duuma had given her as she ducked into the alcove it indicated. The lost artifact should be around here somewhere…
“I don’t need protecting, I can take care of myself just fine!” 
“Mm, of course, D’leahane, because Sith who can take care of themselves usually almost get decapitated by assassins.” Kissai snorted, though she could practically hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, “I think your father’s right to ask me to accompany you. You’d have died three times today if I hadn’t.”
“GO JUMP IN A SARLACC PIT!” she shouted back at him. 
“And there are the creative insults your brother warned me about.” 
D’leah paused in her search to turn her head and give him a dirty look over her shoulder, intoning menacingly. “I’ll kill him when I see him next.” 
Kissai’s expression moulded into one of concern this time, the red-eyed Pureblood blinking at her uncertainly as he reminded her. “...You don’t know which one it was.”
Now it was her turn to grin at him.
“Don’t need to, I have a fifty-fifty shot.”
“No wonder they’re both afraid of you.” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Truthfully, the High Lady was doing her best to ignore his obvious needling as she ducked through another archway and moved further into the cave system, the words she threw over her shoulder echoing back to him off the empty passageway’s walls.
“You should be afraid of me, too. I could end you.”
She was surprised he was still behind her, he could move rather fast despite his large frame, it would seem. D’leah tried not to be too impressed by that fact, but if she was being honest...
“Does it bother you that I’m not, princess?” 
He wasn’t going to drop this, was he? She’d been about to levitate a pile of rocks out of their path, but stopped and spun around to glare at him instead.
“Don’t you “princess” me, you...you…” just when she needed it the most, her ability to think of an appropriate insult failed her, and instead she trailed off into awkward silence. Kissai took that as an invitation to make her even more irritated that his wit was quicker than hers, and added, grinning the whole while: “If you’re trying to think of something you haven’t called me yet, we’ll be here for a good century or so.”
“Fool.” she hissed in frustration. He had her on the ropes, now, and that wasn’t somewhere the Ahaszaai heiress was used to being.  “Is that the best one you have? Did I wear you out, my Lord~?” he crooned back at her, and that was when D’leah put her foot down. She flung a few bolts of lightning in his direction for good measure. As she had suspected, his reflexes were as good as his saber skills and he easily deflected them off his palm before the electricity did any damage, swatting them aside into the wall as if he were brushing dust off his cloak.
“I knew you were going to do that, too...do you really think I can’t handle you?” he teased fondly. 
“I’ve no time for oafs the likes of you.” D’leah growled.
"Then tell me to leave you alone." he stared back at her seriously, browstalks furrowing as his gaze slid from hers to focus on the rest of her face, as if searching her expression for a nonverbal cue he might have missed. "At your word, my Lord, you'll not hear another thing from me beyond those necessary for my duty." 
Looking into his eyes in that moment, she was forced to admit the reality that perhaps she didn’t want him to leave her alone. He’d figured out she was testing him, and now he was calling her bluff, the kriffing, good-looking bastard.  Her jaw spurs rattled in annoyance, but D'leah's lips remained sealed. He waited a full minute, still studying her carefully, to give her plenty of opportunity to voice her thoughts. 
She didn't. The corners of Kissai's mouth turned upwards into a faint smile. 
"That's what I thought." he stepped away from her again, but not before slipping up and forgetting his station for long enough to murmur fondly, "Your nose scrunches up when you're sulking, you know. It’s cute."
D'leah could let "princess" slide on a good day, as far as his pet names went it was among those she considered tolerable, but she drew the line at "cute"! Annoyed and frustrated in more ways than one, she strode after him to reach up and grab the taller Pureblood's shoulder to stop him in his tracks. The Guard turned towards her again, a small, confused noise rumbling in his throat.
First she punched him in the jaw, then she kissed him. Hard. And that was the end of that.
#swtor#swtor fanfiction#elven's writing#subterfugeverse#swtor oc: d'leah ahaszaai#sith heiress#swtor oc: kissai ahaszaai#d'leah/kissai#d'leahssai#is this classified as a meet cute; a meet-ugly; or some sort of weird in-between version of *BOTH*? you guys decide hahahaha#this *is* a prequel of sorts ;) i'm finally trying to sort out my askbox and clear it so i can open it again in a few months' time#so that oneshot will go out next week; if fanfic/writing gods are with me and i can finally finish writing it 🙏#d'leah: stop saving me all the time; i can save myself!!!#also d'leah: constantly walks her ass into danger with alarming regularity#emperor ahaszaai: uh; yeah; hey....izreni do you....do you think you could; maybe; stop her from doing that. great; thanks#d'leah likes to blame kissai for saarai's knack of throwing herself into danger like some sort of damage/blaster bolt sponge#but the truth is it's actually *BOTH* their faults; d'leah's just as bad at wandering into dangerous situations#it's just that kissai's whole ass job is to jump in the way before something bad happens *to* her#i really enjoy writing their dynamic it's so much fun#it's a blend of bodyguard/royalty; ''only i get to make fun of/beat them up''#and later on once they're married: well-meaning idiot/''oh fuck that's *MY* idiot!!''#it's great XD#i need to find a better title/''name'' for the Royal Guard(s) but atm i'm drawing a blank so generic filler fantasy moniker(tm) it is !#(for now)#also yes the jaw spurs *are* bone and they *do* emote with them; bioware are cowards and no i will not stop with that headcanon LMAO#i could write a whole ass essay on that point alone#maybe one day when i actually manage to draw the examples like i keep saying i will XD
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vanchlo · 4 years
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Blurb Synopsis: During your break, instead of going to the stuffy staff break room, you wander outside into the cool air by the waterpark. Unbeknownst to you, there you meet a bubbly stranger in the hot tub, and never again is your life the same. 
Genre: 2015 Harry, fluff, and romance.  
Word Count: 4.6k words
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Music Inspo: Champagne Supernova by Oasis (click to listen bc I love this song and it fits the theme I think?)
P.S. - Funny story, I found this in my Notes and I had started writing this in 2016. Crazy. I liked rereading it and figured I’d finish it, so don’t be too hard on me, please. Enjoy! ;) 
It was the dead of winter, but you couldn’t spend any more time inside, or in that lousy closet of a break room with your coworkers for another minute. They were well past getting on your last nerve, and you weren’t going to let them ruin your one slice of ‘me time’ today. 
Squeaky children’s voices and the sound of water hits your ears as you take a shortcut. The door opens with a little punch! when you press on the horizontal bar. Cold air meets your clammy skin quickly, refreshing you. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as your sweaty back meets the cold surface of the glass door. Pebbles grind beneath your feet and birds caw in the distance. When you turn to look around like any regular human being, you almost run right back into the door when you see the head of brown hair a few feet away, bobbing out of the water. 
“Didn’ mean t’ scare ya, love, ‘m sorry,” the mannish-boy says, pushing his long wet hair off of his face with his ringed fingers. 
“N-No it’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude, I’ll just-.”
“No, ’s okay. Ya gonna have a smoke or sumthin’?” he questions. Your head goes from side to side in answer. Meanwhile, he nods as steam rises from around him out of the round bubbling hot tub he sits alone in. His tattooed arms float on the surface, moving with the water slowly. 
“I was just getting some air on my break. I couldn’t stand to be in the break room not getting a minute to myself alone.”
“Ah, I can’ blame ya. I hate people like that when ‘m not in tha mood, they’re bloody annoying. Neva shut up, it seems,” he quips, his long pink lips spreading into his flawless white smile. 
“Yeah, you have no idea.”
He continues to smile at you, and the nagging thoughts poking at your mind all day are gone for a moment. “Why dontcha come over here? Gimme some company, how ‘bout?” he suggests, trying to wave you over. Water falls fast and long from his tall round bicep. Yeah, nope.
“I don’t think I should,” you respond, but those words couldn’t be further from the truth. 
“Ah c’mon, love, ‘m bored as fook by meself out ‘ere. Come talk t’ me, will you?” he says, moving slowly. Part by small part, you see more of his tan chest as he sits on the underwater bench with his back against the dark tiles. Black swallows fly under his collarbones, and a gleaming silver necklace surrounding his throat dangles down his chest. 
“I don’t want to get in trouble, or something.”
“Yer not gonna cuz yer not botherin’ me. Even if somebody said anythin’, why would I have any reason t’ back ‘em up, huh? Yer not causin’ me any harm, and I wann’ talk t’ ya,” he continues, and it’s hard to refuse. He’s a good negotiator, and you’re slowly becoming an icicle second by second. 
“Aren’t you here with anybody?” you ask as your feet slowly pad on the gray cement over to him. He leans forward absentmindedly playing with the bubbles, while still keeping eye contact. 
“No,” he answers softly with a helpful shake of his head. Your eyes follow his hands that cup some of the bubbly foam in his long fingers. 
You sink to your knees and then your butt when he gives you a look. His green eyes hold a question as his thick brown eyebrows furrow along with his rose lips. Wincing when your butt touches the cold cement, you cross your legs as your arms go around your tall legs. 
“Here,” he mumbles out of nowhere. A fluffy white hotel towel lands at your side in a blink. “Don’ wantcha t’ freeze yer bum off.”
Your lips drop a short ‘thanks’ as you awkwardly place it under your bottom to ward off the cold. You make the mistake of meeting his eyes and you giggle a rosy cheeked laugh. 
“Wha’?” 
“Nothing,” you sigh with the laugh beginning to wear off, cheeks pinched with red and warmth. 
“Ya got a pretty smile, ya know that?”
“You’re so cliche, do you know that?” you reply and he scoffs, with a held out ‘ruuuude’ leaving his happy lips. “But thank you.”
The hot water bubbles against the side only inches away, so close and yet so far away. Your sweaty Converses and gross socks covering your clammy feet itch to join him. A black polo shirt and khaki skinnies don the rest of your shivering body. A tinge of awkwardness hangs in the air between you and this stranger. Frequent shared glances holding tiny smiles and questions you know the both of you want to ask float between you. 
“How long have ya worked here?” 
“Too long,” you quip, and his lips turn up again. You realize that you really like it when you make him smile, no matter how little. He has a pretty smile, and it goes past the chill and warms you up to the bone. 
Water droplets cling to his skin every place and everywhere. The heat in the water flushes his skin, especially his cheeks which remain a soft pink. It doesn’t compare to the warm pink of his lips that he plays with, with both his tongue and his fingers. Please never wake me up from this dream. 
You play with the frayed laces on your black low tops, the muffled screams from inside tickling your ears along with the somewhat calming sound of the bubbling water. It invites you in, more and more. 
“C’mon, you,” he mumbles. You look up, startled to find him sitting before you, floating in the water. His wet hands wrap around the tan ankles of your pants, and you nearly yelp. 
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Get yer shoes off already, at least dip yer toes in. Makin’ me feel all bad, cuz ya look like yer freezin’ yer bits off sittin’ there. I wish ya could  come in with me,” he replies. By now, he’s already worked one of your shoes off. 
“No, please. You don’t want to do that.”
“Yesssss, I do. They’re jus’ feet, darlin’, we all have ‘em,” he titters, flinging the shoe to the side and then the other one. That leaves you in a mismatched pair of ankle socks; blue and red stripes on the left and a Batman one donning your other foot. 
He makes a grinning comment about ‘your cute socks’ as his warm fingers tickle the sliver of skin between your pant leg and socks. 
“Alright, buddy,” you tell him, trying to pull your legs away. His hands encircle both of your ankles and he looks back at you, grinning with his tongue poking out between his teeth. 
“No, jus’ dip yer feet in, pleaseeee.”
“Okay fine, just let me take them off myself. I don’t need a stranger getting comfy feeling up my nasty feet,” you joke, looking up briefly to catch his reaction. The cute as fuck dimples in the middle of his cheeks are beginning to fall and grow deeper before a laugh rumbles through his chest. 
How cute can he get?
“Suit yerself. I woulda taken up tha offer, but tha’s jus’ me.”
“That’s because you’re a weirdo,” you answer, voice breaking into a laugh as you roll up the socks into one ball and set them to the side. You thank your past self for getting that cheap ass manicure the other day. 
“Takes one t’ know one,” he comments, holding his hands up like you’d do when you say ‘I don’t know’ as his wet hair begins to curl at the end. It’s long and almost touches his broad shoulders, and you continue to have a hard time believing this shit is real. That he’s real, and talking to you. 
It takes a second to get used to the water when you dive in, well the few inches that swallows up your feet, give or take. You admit it feels good, but you wouldn’t admit it out loud to him, because it’d only fuel his witty fire. 
He splashes water at you, but you get him back quickly. He even blows bubbles with his mouth and then spits the water at you. You retaliate by jabbing him in the side with your feet under the water. Uncalled for jokes fly from him, and sometimes good comebacks from you. These float into aloud thoughts about favorite foods, ranging from cold ice cream, to slushies, and to chocolate cake. Begging comes from his side about you ditching the rest of work and joining him for real. 
It all sounded so good, and it was so good. 
He’s humming some song you know but can’t put a name to, making little noises with his lips. His fingers tickle the bottom of your feet, every now and then. When you rarely take your eyes off him, you notice more about him. His skin remains flushed, and when your eyes fall to your watch, you feel yours flush too. You sense your heart drop inside your chest, which makes you feel dramatic and lame, but you can feel it there hanging heavily a little lower. 
You look back to him, sitting close to you with his head leaned back on the edge of the fake rock surface. His eyes are closed and lips humming a song again. With a quiet sigh, you draw your feet back and out, drying them with the towel, trying to leave it still usable for him. Slipping your socks back on is a sticky process with grunting. At the sound of the second or third one, his swimming green eyes open and dart to you questioningly.
“What, where’re you goin’?” he asks, sitting up and turning towards me.
“I have to go back to work, my break is up.”
“What, no,” he frowns and you giggle. He’s funny, but you know he doesn’t mean it. You hardly know him, and he doesn’t even know you. It was fun while it lasted, a nice little distraction, but now you have to go back to reality. 
“I’m sorry.”
“’s okay,” he replies, looking away from you and down, playing with the foamy bubbles with his pruney fingers. 
“Thanks for . . I don’t know what to thank you for really.”
“Don’ worry ‘bout it. Thank ya, too,” he smiles at you as you stand up. Maneuvering your heel into your right shoe, that’s always the tricky one, it slips in after a few seconds of trying as he stares up at you. Although an understatement, it pains you to leave. 
“Bye, love.”
“Bye,” you mumble quietly, walking to the door and stealing one last look at him as you open it and step inside. You’re granted to never see him again - the cute and sweet hot tub guy. No, don’t go making up nicknames for him now. 
You wish that you could thank him, but you don’t even know his name. 
*
The day dragged on, turning up rooms and putting them back together. You cleaned this and that, and everything in between. At times, you were sweating like a whore in church, and your back and feet ached constantly. 
By the time your shift ended, it had grown dark and the stars were peeking out from the black of the sky. Getting off the elevator, you walk down the hall and find the lobby. Suddenly, your feet bring you somewhere else, through the emptying water park and to the fogged up door. Your fingers wrap around the cold metal bar and you prepare yourself, or try to.  
What will you say? What will you do?
Slowly opening the door, you realize those few seconds talking yourself up were futile because the hot water is still. The lights in the water shine clear against the dark night with no disturbance. Because he's gone.
Turning around and walking back inside, you try to hide your frown as you go to clock out and leave. Disappointment floods your veins, making you feel stupid and pathetic. With a sigh, you walk out the doors into the cold trying to remember his laugh, and his smile. 
Ones that you’ll never see again, and you hate how awful knowing that makes you feel.
*
The next day when you showed up for another exhausting day of work, a light shown at the end of the tunnel. Although your shift was tiring, the only good thing about getting up early was to get off early. That fact kept you sane throughout most of the day, despite the thoughts that have been nagging at you to quit this lousy housekeeping job that you’ve stuck with for far too long. Sure, it paid alright, but it was hard on your body and some of the things you had to endure were ridiculous, you thought. 
Before you knew it, you were bypassing the employee break room and walking through the lobby. The keys on your lanyard jangled and only were silent when you used them to open your car. Now with a jacket around your shoulders, your steps were covered in snow on the way back to the sliding doors, that is until you heard a voice. A voice calling your name. It took you a second to realize where it was coming from, but when your eyes ventured to the left side of the building, it all clicked when you saw the steam rising into the air. 
“‘s you, innit? I thought so! Hey, two days inn’a row. Come say hi, love. ‘m here all in me lonesome ‘gain,” the stranger calls to you from across the parking lot. 
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, but your words leak of lies as a smile curls among your lips. “I guess, but I don’t want you touching my feet again!” 
“Deal, but ya gotta take off yer shoes yerself then, or else ya can’t come!” 
Luckily, the hotel doesn’t have a fence or barricade around the outside hot tub like most do. Instead, a low rock wall shields it from view, but you’ve always found it tacky and worthless. 
“On our break again, are we?” he hums from the confines of the hot tub as you approach him, glad for your jacket this time. You nod a reply as you grab the plastic chair somebody had dragged out here and left, both things they weren’t supposed to do. “Noooo, don’t sit so far away from me. Come dip yer toes in again, please,” he whines, waving a wet hand at you. 
You relent and begin to toe off your shoes as he giggles from his spot across from you, leaning against the edge of the tub. The sight makes you feel warmer than you actually are in the December air. More tattoos peek out amongst the glistening skin of his arms spread out on the lip of the tub, resting there. 
“Do you do anything besides sit in here?” you question, rolling your two socks into a ball before he hits you in the chest with a towel. 
“Not really. ‘s too bloody loud inside with all tha kids, and my hotel room ‘s too quiet.”
“Wow, it sounds like you have such a rough life,” you joke, the temperature of the water surprising you when you dip a foot in. His revelation does as well, although you’re not sure why. Regardless, it still causes you to wonder if you’ve been into his room recently if only to deliver towels. 
“Oh, so rough,” he confesses dramatically, arms falling into the water when he sinks down into it. You laugh at how he becomes a noodle in the water, and soon the sound is stolen away when he drifts over to you. His warm hand comes around your ankle and tickles along the bottom of your foot. 
“That’s whatcha get fer bein’ mean, make me sound all shallow and that rubbish,” he teases while loud laughs and protests jump from your lips. 
“Stop!” you repeat again and again until he relents, but your right foot remains in his hand as he seemingly kneels on the bottom of the hot tub. 
“Hmmmm, blue toes. That’s a new one,” he hums, running a finger over one of your painted toenails that you painted teal last night. 
“I said I didn’t want you touching my feet, you weirdo. Do you have a foot fetish or something?” 
“No, don’t be bloody rude. I can’t comprehend how people get that kinda satisfaction from feet, sumthin’ must be wrong with ‘em,” he tsks, shaking his head of drying curls as he releases your foot. Your agreeing smile is replaced with a sad one when he disappears under the water with a groan, appearing seconds later with a tense face. “Sumtimes wish I could spend forevea unda there.”
“You must be a water bug, like me,” you note aloud, savoring the sight of his thick arms reaching to his head, pushing back his long wet hair back. Now, it touches his shoulders with the help of the balmy water. 
“Think so, always loved swimmin’ since I was a kid. ‘d be in tha pool if a dozen kids weren’t hoggin’ it, and if tha winter didn’t make me feel so damn cold all tha time,” he remarks with a smile as you slip your other foot in, letting the water reach to the middle of your lower legs. “Yer a water bug too, huh?”
“Yeah, I swam competitively all throughout high school. I feel at home in it.”
“Hmmm, sounds like some kinda psychology theory t’ me. ‘m sure it’d say somethin’ happened in yer brain through all o’ that, y’know ya been in tha water so much ya feel at home in it, blah blah,” he says, bringing his golden arms to the edge of the hot tub to your right where he lays them. His stubbly chin comes to rest on them as you accidentally touch his ribs with your foot, but he doesn’t even notice, it seems. 
“Thank you for the lecture, professor, it was really fascinating,” you respond, fake dramatics shining in your voice as you clap your hands. He rolls his eyes before splashing warm water at you. “Hey, I have to go back to work in these clothes, so you better not get them as wet as you did last night.”
“Ya? What’re ya gonna do ‘bout it, love?” 
You reply with a tight-lipped sigh that elicits sing-song laughter from his rose-colored lips that await below you. Your eyes trail to his long torso and legs blurry under the water, short yellow swim trunks donning his waist. 
The thoughts that bloom inside of your mind, like wondering how tall he is and what the rest of him looks like out of the water, escape you when you see the time. 
“Noooo, don’ leave ‘gain, we jus’ got talkin’,” he whimpers when you tell him, sticking his bottom lip out at you. 
“I can’t not go back to work,” you explain, drawing your feet from the warmth only to return to the chill. 
A sad noise sounds behind his frowning lips, and a matching expression paints his flushed face. You wish you knew his name when he won’t let go of your leg, making you suddenly glad you had shaved them again last night after your run-in with him. 
“When d’ya get off?”
“Eight,” you respond, earning a nod from him. 
“Alrighty, well stop by again, I might be here.”
“Okay,” you answer simply as you slip your shoes back on, a feeling growing in your gut unpleasantly. 
“Have a good day,” he smiles at you as you walk away. “And smile, cuz ya have a pretty one!” 
*
The hallways were quiet with few guests remaining outside of their rooms, and the parties occupying the waterpark now over. The big slides and arcade were closed by the time you slipped back into the emptying cavernous room. You forced smiles at lifeguards and the coworker behind the food bar on your way to the door leading outside. The entire way there after clocking out, you seethed with regret from forgetting a swimsuit earlier today. When your feet take you outside to the fluorescent lights playing along the chlorinated water, you’re unsure which you regret worse - forgetting to bring a swimsuit, or getting your hopes up only to find his messy head of brown hair to be missing from the hot tub. Again. 
*
You had the next day off from work, which had you thanking the high heavens to be free from that prison. You were brimming with thankfulness, and yet you found yourself standing in the hotel lobby the next morning, a bag over your shoulder holding a swimsuit and towel. Once you had gotten a day pass from a coworker, although not free as you had hoped, you wandered into the deafening waterpark. The foggy door across the large room called your name, and soon you found your palm pressed to the warm metal pushbar once again. The brisk winter air is a shock when you enter it, and you find your mission to be fruitless when the bubbling water is empty.
Your tennis shoes squeak on the slippery cement as you turn to leave. Thoughts muddle your mind, and your day depressingly empty of any plans pulls you back to the singing water. After sliding off your shoes and stepping out of your clothes, the water welcomes you in your bathing suit. At first, you’re grateful that you’re alone and no noisy kids are interrupting your peace and quiet, but it doesn’t last long. You spend the time playing on your phone and replying to text messages, even playing a game or watching a YouTube video. 
Half an hour or so had passed already, and by then you had moved around the large space. This included sitting on the varying height of steps when you grew too warm, perched on the ledge with only your legs in, or sometimes almost sitting on the bottom of the tub. 
Tucked in the corner near the little opening to swim in from the inside hot tub, you hear the outside door open. The first smile of your day tickles at your lips when you watch who the door spits out. He doesn’t notice you at first surprisingly, consumed by his phone in his hands. The same couldn’t be said for you as you marvel at the sight of him, and how normal of one it is. The water seems to grow hotter by the second while you watch him peel off his Fleetwood Mac shirt to leave him in those same banana colored shorts. A shotty whistle leaves your lips before a giggle follows it, and you’re graced with the arrival of his smile when he turns around to find you there. 
“Hey, stranger, funny meeting you here,” you mumble, a jet of water pounding against your spine. Dimples collapse into his cheeks as his smile grows, his long chestnut hair tickling his face. 
“Hullo, love. Looks like I finally got me wish,” he says, setting down his phone on the nearby glass table, right across from your own. 
“Really, what’s that?”
“This,” he answers, nodding at you as he turns to face you. He sure is a sight for sore eyes, you wonder as your eyes run over his long body painted with black ink. “I can splash you all I want now,” he finishes, kicking a foot towards you as he saunters down the stairs, a spray of water hitting you square in the face. 
“Hey!” you exclaim, dragging your hand through the water to hit him in the chest with it. 
“So ‘s gonna be that way, huh?” he argues, dipping both hands into the rolling bubbles to drench the rest of your dry hair. 
You groan loudly, and it doesn’t end when your arms go around his toned waist to yank him into the water. He falls but catches himself too late, getting dunked into the water. The chuckle leaves your lips that very second and grows louder when he emerges from the water, a disappointed look on his face as he moves his hair off his face. 
“Yer a feisty one, arentcha?” he quips, wagging a finger at you, receiving your nod. “Silly me.”
The giggle dies down when nerves overcome you as he sits down beside you on the underwater concrete bench, his leg brushing yours. 
“You never told me your name,” you mutter quietly, crossing and then uncrossing your legs anxiously. 
“Dunno why I should afta all that,” he responds lightheartedly, still fixing his hair that refuses to cooperate much to your amusement. “‘s Harry, if ya must know.”
“Harry, hmm, that fits you,” you hum, finding the dark and light speckles in his green irises that sit so close to yours. Dark stubble lines his cheeks all over, you notice, as well as the tiny tattoos that hide amongst the larger ones claiming his body. 
Your name flows from your lips and he mocks you, saying something about how you look like your name. The sound of the rolling bubbles and jets fills your absence of conversation as you lean your head back. 
“How many days are you here for, Harry?” you inquire, admiring the tiny snowflakes that begin to fall, immediately melting when they hit the water. 
“A couple mo’.”
A few greasy pepperoni pizzas, cherry slushies, stale tortilla chips with goopy nacho cheese, and over buttered popcorn fill the rest of your day. A few appearances on the waterslides and in the pool occupy your time, as well as him throwing you in more than once. The laughs never seemed to be shy to either of your lips, whether on the tube slide or in the corner of the hot tub. 
The sun had set long ago, and your skin had grown pruney far before then. You were both exhausted after your day spent in the waterpark and in the hot tub you had returned to, the chlorinated water always seeming to get the best of you no matter your age, like now. Harry’s eyes were closed beside you, and they didn’t open when you tapped his nose with your finger. A raspy question escapes his smirking lips, and when you don’t answer them, you find tiredness adorning his greens. 
“The waterpark closes soon,” you murmur, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He nods as his long fingers card through his dark locks. He lifts a finger and inches it towards himself, calling you to him. “What?” you ask, feigning annoyance. 
“Wanna tell ya sumthin,” he whispers, the sugary smell of his second cherry slushie tickling your nose. You relent and scooch closer to him, until your thigh is flush against his. “Think we could do this again t’morrow, and tha day afta that, and afta that?” he asks, a smile transforming his blushing face only inches from yours. A nod shakes the wet tendrils of your hair automatically, and quickly the prickly nervousness that had disappeared hours before, returns. 
“Good, I can’t wait. Wanna go sumwhere t’ get dinna, ‘m starvin’?” 
“Yeah, we should go then, the attendants will be shutting off stuff in a few minutes,” you insist, but all thoughts fleet you when his hand settles on your arm. 
“That’s okay, I only need a few minutes t’ do one last thing,” he murmurs, and your eyebrows raise in question. 
They remain stuck there as he nears you, and only do they relax a few seconds into the kiss he plants on your lips. The sickeningly sweet taste of artificial cherries graces your lips as yours move with his. Your cheek tingles when his hand brushes against it, drawing you nearer to him when it finds a place there. He giggles into your mouth as he knocks a foot against yours while his fingers explore your hair. His taut arm is slick under your touch and yet it feels better than you could have imagined, eliciting another titter from him when he flexes it on purpose. When he begins to pull away, your hand drifts to his sloping back. Your fingers press against his warm skin there until the taste of cherries consumes your lips once again, drowning out his name. 
Maybe this job isn’t too bad, after all. 
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1dffchallenges · 4 years
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It’s All Happening
Written By: @luminescencefics
Characters: Frankie/Harry 
Summary: If Frankie Goodhart had one secret in her life, it would be that she spent her summer writing album reviews to Rolling Stone, hoping one day they’d give her a shot. If she had a second secret in her life, it would be that she was constantly chasing love, never knowing what it felt like to be truly immersed in another person. She blames this on her ever-growing record collection filled with love songs. 
Harry Styles had a lot of secrets in his life, but if he had to share one, it would be that he was trying his hardest to balance his life while being on the road with his band. Just as he’s starting to feel like he’s begun to balance the ever-shifting scales of his life, Frankie shows up, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep his secrets hidden any longer. 
Well, except one. 
Inspired by Almost Famous, a 70s au about a girl whose job required her to ask the hard-hitting questions and a boy who did everything he could to avoid them.
March 1973 - entry no. 1
Most mornings in the Goodhart household typically started with some sort of screaming match between Frankie’s mother and her older sister, Mary. You see, Mary had a penchant for rebellious behavior, or so their mother believed. She liked listening to rock music and kissing her boyfriend Greg outside in his Chevrolet Nova past curfew. Mary graduated high school four years before Frankie did, and her mother had begged her to go to college. But instead, Mary took that time to “find herself,” and put off enrolling into schools on the west coast in favor of finding her own place in the world.
Cynthia Goodhart had a lot of rules in their household, but two that stood out the most (and practically ruined Mary’s life) were: no rock music and no popular culture influences. Cynthia believed that her children did not need those things to rot their brain, and instead played classical music and watched films that she had seen numerous times before to ensure they were censored appropriately and recently introduced soy to their diets.
“This is why dad left you!” Mary would say whenever their mother would find a hidden record that went against her arbitrary rules.
“You’re so ungrateful, I didn’t raise you to be so cruel!” Her mother would respond, and Frankie would sit on the top of the carpeted stairs and watch it all unravel below her.
Truth is, Frankie didn’t know why their dad left. She was too young to remember what life was like with him around, but Mary always told her that it was their mother who drove him away with her incessant rules and authoritative outlook on life.
“I’m never going to end up like her, Frankie,” Mary would say after their fight, squeezed beside her little sister in her twin bed. Frankie would just hold her hand tightly and agree, even though she didn’t really think her mother was all that bad.
A few weeks later when Mary announces that she’s leaving Santa Monica and going to San Francisco to become a stewardess, Frankie isn’t all that surprised. It was only a matter of time until Mary left. Their mother didn’t take this well, of course. She wanted Mary to go to college and find a nice boy to start a family with. She didn’t want her running off to San Francisco with Greg to travel a world so far from what she had known.
Before the Chevrolet Nova skids out of the driveway and Frankie never sees her sister again, Mary runs up to her and gives her the tightest hug she could muster. Frankie holds her with all of her grip, wishing that she didn’t feel that she had to run away in order to be her own person. But it was out of Frankie’s control, so she could only wish the best for her older sister.
“Frankie,” Mary whispers in her ear, “look under my bed. That suitcase is yours. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know, every question you have, the answers are there. I love you. I always have.”
After Mary is long gone and her mother has cried out all of her tears, Frankie slips into her sister’s room and lifts up the ruffled bedskirt to find an old brown leather suitcase. She opens it and inside is Mary’s secret cache of rock albums spanning decades. Frankie heaves it into her room and plucks Tommy by The Who on her record player and plays it softly, and in that moment she feels as if her life is finally starting.
***
May 1973 - entry no. 2
Frankie was sitting in her bedroom listening to
Exile on Main St.
by the Rolling Stones trying to clear her head. She was suffering from a bit of writer’s block, and she was feeling a bit uninspired at the moment.
During the middle of “Torn and Frayed,” Frankie hears the landline start ringing from the kitchen downstairs. Her mother was currently in the shower, and deeming the call to be rather important as it was after dinner time, Frankie trudges downstairs to answer before the ringing has ceased.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Lester Bangs here. Is this Frankie Goodhart?” A deep voice says on the other line.
Frankie pauses, scrolling through the rolodex in her brain trying to remember if she knew anybody with that name. Suddenly, Frankie sucks in a breath, realization dawning on her.
“Hello? Do I have the wrong number or something?” The voice repeated, clearly losing patience. Frankie was currently speaking to the Lester Bangs, top music editor at Rolling Stone magazine. Also known as, the name she had scribbled on the past fifteen manilla envelopes she sent out to the magazine up in San Francisco.
“Er, yes. Hi, this is she,” Frankie mutters, trying to sound sophisticated.
“Awesome. I work at Rolling Stone and we just came across your review for Bowie’s Aladdin Sane record. Ace work,” Lester says quickly, and Frankie can feel her heartbeat in her throat.
“Oh cool. Thank you,” Frankie replies, quietly jumping up and down on the tile flooring of her kitchen.
“Are you currently writing for any other publication? Please don’t tell me those bastards over at Creem snatched you up,” Lester asks.
“No, uh, nothing like that. Just freelancing, at the, er, current moment,” Frankie says. She lowers her voice an octave so she doesn’t sound like the eighteen year old high school graduate she clearly was. She was sure that Rolling Stone would want nothing to do with her if they knew the truth.
“Good to hear. On the envelope in front of me it says you're based out in Santa Monica. Tonight there’s a show at The Troubadour. The Nocturnals are performing and if you’re up for it, we’ll give you fifty dollars to write a review on it. Eight hundred words.” Lester spoke so quickly that Frankie couldn’t even discern what he was actually saying to her.
The Troubadour. A live show. The Nocturnals. Fifty dollars.
The words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. She had no idea that this could even happen to her. Before she could reply, Lester spoke again.
“Fine. Seventy dollars, but I can’t go any higher,” he sounded exasperated with a hint of desperation laced in between.
Just as Frankie was about to respond with a resonant yes, she hears her mother’s voice on the other telephone from her bedroom through the tinny speakers.
“Francine? Who on earth are you speaking to at this time?”
Frankie’s heart drops.
“Uh… Hello?” Lester asks, completely confused as to why there were two voices on the line. Before her mother could blow her cover, Frankie drops the receiver onto the kitchen counter and sprints upstairs to her mother’s bedroom, slamming her fingers on the lever to end the call.
“It’s a friend from school. Sorry it’s a late call, I’ll get off the phone in a minute,” Frankie rushes out, before turning back on her heel and grabbing the other telephone in the kitchen.
“Hi Lester, sorry, that was my, uh, assistant. Yeah. She’s sort of new at answering the phones and such,” Frankie shoots out quickly, lying straight through her teeth.
She needed this phone call to end immediately.
“No worries. I’ll expect a review mailed over by tomorrow so it’s on my desk by Monday morning. Any questions?” Lester asks in a way that sounded like he really didn’t have the time to answer.
“Nope. Sounds good,” Frankie says sounding completely out of breath.
“Expect to hear from me on Monday. Good luck,” Lester says, hanging up before Frankie could even consider responding.
Frankie’s first reaction was to start squealing in excitement. The second was, shit, what am I supposed to say to my mother?
***
Somehow, Frankie convinces her mother to drive her down Sunset Strip towards The Troubadour for the live show. If there’s one thing Frankie Goodhart could never do in this world, it would be to hurt her mother. Granted, she knows her rules are a bit obscene and that she can be a bit overbearing at times, but at the end of the day, she was her mother. And that was the main difference between Frankie and Mary—Mary thought running away was the answer to everything whereas Frankie believed honesty was most important.
Which is why Frankie was currently sitting in the front seat of her mother’s baby blue Lincoln Continental parked illegally across the street from the concert venue. She had spilled the beans about her writing cohorts to Rolling Stone, and even though her mother didn’t like the idea of it, she appreciated the fact that Frankie was trying to make something of herself. And there’s no denying that seventy dollars was a lot of money for any eighteen-year-old.
“Please make good choices. I’ll be here to pick you up at ten on the dot,” her mother says, staring at Frankie sharply.
“I will, mom.” Frankie makes a move for the door handle, watching as the crowd of teenagers and twenty-somethings huddle towards the front entrance. It’s loud and she can smell cigarette smoke and marijuana in the air. She knows her mother can too, and she knows that she’s about two minutes away from a full-blown heart attack, so before she can escape the confines of the car, she gives her mother a gentle reassuring squeeze.
With her tape recorder in one hand and her pocket-sized notebook in the other, Frankie starts walking towards the front entrance. Before she can get too far, she hears her mother bark out one last order.
“And Francine? NO DRUGS!”
Frankie feels her cheeks burn up as the people in front of her turn around and snicker at her mother’s frame hanging out of the Continental. They jokingly repeat her mother’s warning, with some even holding up a lit joint at her, cackling away.
If there was a hole in the pavement, Frankie would admittedly jump into it.
She makes her way to the front entrance with no luck. The show was sold out, and she didn’t have a ticket. Before Frankie can start to panic, she reassess the venue and sees that around the back there was some sort of loading dock. She turns the corner and is situated at the top of a ramp, with a group of three girls at the bottom giggling to themselves near a steel door.
“Are you new?” Frankie hears a voice from behind her.
She turns and is face to face with one of the most beautiful girls she’s ever seen in her life. Her blonde hair is long and curly, cascading over her shoulders and down her back effortlessly, ending just above two hollow dimples. The girl towers over Frankie, and when she looks down at her glittery go-go boots she understands why. Her long legs are toned and smooth underneath her leather mini skirt. She’s wearing a silver halter top that is so sheer Frankie can see her nipples through the thin layer of material. Over top is a pink velvet trench coat with frills on the lining, a garment completely inappropriate for the California heat in the beginning of summer.
That doesn’t matter though, because this girl emits confidence that is almost palpable. Frankie compares her own outfit to this girl’s, her long ivory legs and knobby knees hidden beneath her flared denim bell bottoms, her pointed boots with the small heel making her seem taller than she actually was. Her white cropped t-shirt is almost childlike compared to this girl’s daring choice, and when Frankie looks up she’s a bit embarrassed to be seen with her.
“Uh, I guess. I’m supposed to be writing an article about The Nocturnals for Rolling Stone, but I found out a bit late and I don’t have a ticket,” Frankie explains, holding up her tape recorder lamely. She really wishes she thought this entire thing through.
“Ooh, a journalist,” the girl echoes, reaching into her translucent plastic purse to grab a cigarette. She’s effortlessly cool in a way that should be intimidating to Frankie, but for some unknown reason she emits warmth.
“Cherry!” Frankie hears from down below the ramp. Suddenly the squealing trio starts running up the pavement and Frankie watches as the curly blonde skips down to meet them in a group hug. They’re all wearing some sort of sequinned ensemble, and Frankie can only assume that they’re groupies.
“Who’s this, Cherry?” A girl with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes asks, pointing at Frankie. Her long fingers are covered in jeweled rings and she has a fair amount of kohl liner surrounding her eyes. She’s wearing leather and is not as warm as the blonde girl.
“I’m not sure. I think she’s new, girls,” the blonde girl, presumably Cherry, says. She sounds much older than she looks and it’s almost obvious that she’s the ring leader of this troupe of glittery girls.
“I’m a journalist. I’m not a, uh, grou…” the words fall out of Frankie’s lips before she can finish the sentence. The girls in front of her hang their mouths open in shock, and Frankie feels as if she has said the wrong thing. The blonde girl has a hint of a smile on her face, as if the whole interaction is amusing to her.
“Don’t you dare say groupie!” The black-haired girl shrieks, practically jumping out of her skin.
Frankie feels bad, suddenly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I just—”
“—Assumed?” Cherry finishes for her.
Frankie shrugs her shoulders because she isn’t sure what to say. She feels bad for assuming the worst out of these girls, but she really couldn’t blame herself considering they were standing at a back entrance wearing far too much eye makeup than they should be. Frankie hated to judge people, because she didn’t deem it fair. But, she genuinely didn’t know any better. And she really didn’t think that these girls would be offended.
“You’re talking to Cherry Bomb here. She changed the groupie way of life forever. Before Cherry, girls were just throwing themselves at rockstars and sleeping with them just for the hell of it. Cherry here inspires people, man. They write songs about her! It’s much deeper than just sex, honey,” the girl with black hair says, pointing at Cherry as if she was a fine painting in a museum that you weren’t allowed to touch.
In some ways, she sort of was like that.
Cherry just smiles. “It’s about the connection. You’ll see,” she says.
Before Frankie could apologize again and leave, the large steel door opens and another pretty girl with brown hair and shiny pants comes out, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cluster of backstage passes in the other. The girls all start running towards the door, and Frankie is about to turn around in defeat before she feels a small hand latch onto her forearm.
“Aren’t you coming?” Cherry asks with a grin.
Before she could respond, Cherry tugs on her arm and the two girls are running through the steel door into the large venue. The other four girls start walking ahead, sharing sips from the large bottle of champagne, but Cherry hangs back, slowing her strides so she’s matching Frankie’s slow gait.
“So, what do I call you?” Cherry asks as they continue walking down a long hallway.
“Frankie,” she responds, looking up into Cherry’s silver eyes. “What do I call you?”
Cherry laughs. “Cherry should be fine,” she says, her words twisting as if they were a riddle.
Before Frankie could respond, they’re suddenly being thrust into a much smaller room. The air is stale with cigarette smoke and the effervescent scent of boy. Inside the makeshift dressing room, Frankie recognizes the girls from outside lounging around men of different ages. They’re laughing and drinking straight liquor from the bottle and Frankie tries her hardest to conceal her uneasiness.
Because in front of her were The Nocturnals, and she had a job to do.
She notices the drummer and the bassist, Jett and Rod, sitting on a torn up leather couch sharing a joint between the two all while entertaining Cherry’s friends. A girl with hair as dark as coals sits in front of a mirror applying red lipstick and Frankie recognizes her as the keyboardist and backing vocalist, Veronica—the only female in the band. A man with dark green eyes and long brown hair looks up and smiles when Cherry walks into the room, and Frankie realizes that he is Eddie, the lead guitarist.
Frankie did her research.
Before she could start conducting her interviews, a husky voice from the other side of the room calls out, stopping Frankie dead in her tracks.
“Cher, who’s your friend?” he asks.
Frankie’s head snaps up and immediately her blue eyes latch onto a pair of green. They’re much lighter than Eddie’s, and if Frankie was standing closer, she would be able to see the turquoise ring that outlined his pupil. His hair is shorter than the rest of the men in the band, albeit still curling around the tops of his ears. He’s the only member of The Nocturnals with a bare face, sans facial hair, and Frankie is taken aback by his youthful features. He’s wearing white wide-legged trousers and a bright pink shirt tucked under the waistband, barely buttoned up, showcasing his toned stomach and chest. His sleeves are rolled up and Frankie can almost make out the shapes of his tattoos, but before she can inspect them further, she’s completely aware that she’s been staring at him far too long.
Him, also known as Harry Styles, the lead singer of The Nocturnals.
Cherry hasn’t said anything, but with one look in her silver eyes, she’s said an entire string of words to Frankie without even opening her mouth.
Frankie suddenly feels a fire start to grow in her stomach.
“Harry, this is my friend Frankie. She’s a journalist,” Cherry announces loud enough for the rest of the room to hear over the beginning riffs of the opening band’s first song.
“A journalist?! Who let her in? She’s the enemy!” Eddie yells over from the couch. It’s clear that the rest of the band feel the same way about having a reporter around, and Frankie’s confidence suddenly starts wavering.
“Oi, calm down Eddie. She looks harmless enough,” Harry says slowly, suddenly appearing right in front of her. His voice is low and his eyes have a twinkle to them and Frankie’s throat has become increasingly dry.
“Hi Frankie, I’m Harry. Nice to meet you,” he says, towering above her from his stance.
Frankie shoots her arm out for a handshake. “Hi Harry. Nice to meet you, too.” His hands feel warm in her grasp and she’s shaking his so hard that the bangles on her wrists clang together like tambourines.
“If you have the time, I’d love to ask you a few questions before you—”
“—Five minutes!” A voice interrupts. Instantly, the band starts standing up and running around the room, grabbing various instruments and beginning to tune them accordingly. Roadies come in to grab amplifiers and microphone stands, and everything starts twirling together like a whirlwind and Frankie is losing grasp on what she’s supposed to be doing here in the first place.
The band starts walking towards the stage and Cherry grabs Frankie’s arm again, giggling a bit to herself. They catch up to Jett, and Frankie can see through his red-rimmed eyes and his glazed over stare that he’s stoned out of his mind, but he smiles at her and gives her a small nod, and Frankie feels a bit more welcomed.
“So who do you write for?” he asks, grabbing his drumsticks from the back pocket of his blue jeans and running his fingers over the shiny wood.
“Rolling Stone,” Frankie replies quickly.
He stops walking for a moment and looks up with wide eyes. “No shit? I’ll come find you after the show. Give ya a real interview,” he says excitedly, before giving her one last parting nod and approaching the rest of the band.
Frankie feels a bit out of sorts, but Cherry is still standing by her side and she feels an odd sense of comfort in that. The band is doing some sort of pre-show ritual and Frankie starts scribbling it all down in her notebook because it seems like the right thing to do. She watches the huddle break apart in front of her, and the band starts walking out onto the dimly lit stage.
She can hear the roars of the crowd, can practically feel them vibrating through the thick leather of her boots. And just before Harry steps on stage, he looks over his shoulder and gives her a wink, and the fire inside Frankie’s stomach turns into a full-blown blaze.
***
The show is everything and more. Frankie started by lingering in the background, letting the rest of the friends of the band stand closer to the side stage viewing area. After their first song was over and the crowd was cheering louder than anything Frankie had ever heard before, she feels Cherry drag her towards the front where she can get a better view of the band.
“How are you supposed to write an article standing all the way back there?” Cherry asks with a grin. They’re standing so close together that Frankie can feel the frills on her jacket tickling her cheekbones, but she doesn’t mind.
“Good evening, everybody,” Harry says after they’ve finished their first song of the night. He’s nothing but confident up there, a true frontman, and Frankie is a little bit in awe of him. “We’re The Nocturnals. I hope you like this next one,” he says and the crowd cheers. He looks over towards Eddie with a nod and he starts picking at the fret, playing a loud solo before the drums crash in and the second song starts.
It’s the third single off of their album and Frankie isn’t ashamed that she knows all the words. She would be lying if she didn’t think it was a good album. She remembers running to the other end of the boulevard into Tower Records before they closed to purchase it. Frankie must have played it for a week straight on the record player in her room.
Frankie starts scribbling in her journal, balancing on one foot while her knee is raised in a ninety degree angle acting as a makeshift desk. Her head is darting up, down, making sure not to miss a moment, but also making sure she’s capturing it all for the article.
“Enough of that, Frankie. Just watch,” Cherry says, whispering in her ear. Her small hands put pressure on the notebook over Frankie’s thigh, pressing down so her boot-clad feet touch the ground again.
“But I have to—”
“—Just watch. It’s the best way to experience the music.”
And Frankie does just that.
***
The show finishes with an encore of their number one hit single, “Too Much.” It’s electrifying and Frankie is glad that she listened to Cherry’s advice and watched the entire thing with wide eyes, remembering every moment of it. She could feel everything—the thumping of the bass, the rattling of the cymbals, the zing of the keyboards. But Harry’s voice—that was something she couldn’t wait to write about.
Frankie’s raking through the thesaurus in her mind trying to think of other words to describe his voice. She scribbles down guttural and gravelly, grating and gruff, throaty and raspy before she’s hearing it right in front of her.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, and Frankie is trying her best not to stare at the sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead, past his cheekbone, and pooling at his deep collarbones.
She blinks.
“It was amazing. Perfect, almost,” she replies.
“Almost?” Harry repeats, tilting his head downwards. Frankie watches as a bead of sweat travels down the bridge of his nose and she feels the warmest she’s ever felt this entire night.
Frankie reaches out to grab her tape recorder. Just as her finger is hovering over the record button, Harry shakes his head, tutting in disapproval.
“Not now.” And with that he walks away.
Frankie searches around for Jett, remembering that he promised her an interview after the show. Surprisingly, it goes a lot better than her attempt with Harry, and not long after, Rod decides to pitch in and add some remarks about the performance. Reapplying her makeup from the vanity behind the group, Veronica agrees to speak to Frankie and somehow she’s surprised that this group of people who once called her the enemy suddenly have an inkling to speak to her.
Harry reemerges suddenly, swapping out his pink dress shirt for a black one. It still isn’t buttoned appropriately, and he’s still looking at her with a twinkle in his emerald eyes that Frankie has never seen before. She watches as one of Cherry’s friends tries to give him attention, but his eyes are locked on Frankie’s, and she knows that this is the moment she needs to get his interview before the clock strikes ten.
“Do you have time to talk?” Frankie asks, approaching the pair cautiously.
The auburn haired girl rolls her eyes, but Harry just nods, shooing her away. Frankie feels bad.
They sit in the farthest corner of the room, her notepad and pen at the ready, her finger hovering over the record button. Harry’s watching her intently, inspecting her close enough that he can see the nervous shake of her hand, the small quiver of her lip.
“So, what has inspired you to make music?” Frankie asks, wasting no time.
Harry blows out a breath. “That’s the first question you ask me?” He reaches his hand out for the bottle of whiskey on the table, slugging it without pouring it into a glass.
“Well, on your debut album your song ‘1969’ clearly comes from personal—”
“—What inspired you to write?” Harry asks, completely ignoring Frankie’s question.
“Excuse me?” She says, completely thrown off guard.
Harry just shrugs his shoulders, smirking at her from his position on the leather seat. He takes another swig from the bottle and Frankie tries not to stare at his bottom lip that has become shinier from the liquor.
“I’m the one meant to be interviewing you, Harry,” Frankie says shyly.
“What if I want to know more about you, Franks?” His gaze is unwavering and Frankie is sure he can see the flush working its way up her neck, before settling over her freckled cheeks.
Before she could respond or even begin to pry into the mysterious mind of the frontman of The Nocturnals, Frankie chances a glance over at the clock and sees that it’s 9:58.
Shit. Her mother.
“What?” Harry asks with a chuckle.
Shit. Frankie said that outloud.
“Nothing. I just have to go,” she says quickly, closing her notebook and tucking her pencil behind her right ear. She presses the pause button on her tape recorder, holding it tightly in her hand until her knuckles turn white.
“You have to leave? Already?” Harry’s eyes are wide at Frankie’s fumbling, and for once he’s actually confused that a girl who looks like her isn’t throwing herself at him.
“Yeah. Thanks for the interview, even though I can probably only quote a few words,” Frankie says offhandedly. She stands up and Harry follows suit. She’s not sure what type of parting she should give him, so she settles with an awkward wave, before running out of the dressing room and back through the steel door.
She can hear the honking of the Continental from the same illegal parking spot, and Frankie sighs as she starts picking up her speed on the loading dock, knowing that the longer she takes to reach her mother, the more frantic the honking will become.
“Frankie! Wait up!”
Frankie turns around and sees that Cherry and her wild blonde hair are running up to her. Frankie looks at Cherry’s hands, wondering if she had left something backstage. But when she’s standing in front of her, she is empty handed. Cherry reaches a small hand out and grabs the pencil behind Frankie’s ear, before stealing her notebook from her hand and flipping open to an empty page.
“You need to call me,” Cherry announces once she’s done scribbling her phone number down. She returns all of Frankie’s items back to their original place.
“Really?” Frankie asks, completely shocked. She couldn’t picture a world where a girl like Cherry would ever even consider being her friend.
“I need a new crowd,” Cherry says with a shrug.
Frankie just smiles, nodding her head with a promise to call her. She hears the Continental honking again but chooses to ignore it. Instead she watches Cherry walk backwards down the loading dock, giving Frankie the most infectious smile she’s ever seen.
“Can’t you feel it, Frankie?! It’s all happening!” Cherry’s arms are outstretched and she starts twirling around, before giving one last wink and walking through the steel door once again.
Frankie can feel it. It’s all happening.
***
June 1973 - entry no. 3
On Monday morning Frankie receives a call from Lester Bangs praising her for her review about The Nocturnals show. It went so well that Lester and the other music editors at Rolling Stone wanted to send Frankie on their West Coast tour for a month. They wanted her to follow the band on the road and write a featured article piece about the mysterious new British rock band that was taking over the industry by storm. It was scheduled to be printed in the middle of the magazine, spanning over three pages.
And they wanted Frankie to write it.
“How are you going to pay for it? Who will you stay with? Is it even safe?” Her mother asks after Frankie gets off the phone with Lester. He still didn’t know that she was an eighteen-year-old girl living with her mother. And her mother didn’t know that Lester offered to pay an eighteen-year-old girl still living with her mother a lot of money to write this piece.
It was just easier that way.
“The magazine will cover my hotel expenses. I’d obviously stay with the band, but in my own room. It’ll be safe, you know me—I stay out of trouble,” Frankie says, answering each of her mother’s questions one by one.
“But, Francine, how will you—”
“—It’s my dream, mom.” Cynthia Goodhart purses her lips. She’s thinking so hard that Frankie can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. After a few moments, her mother walks over and hugs her tight.
“You better call me every night. I want to know where you are and know that you’re safe. And for the love of god please—”
“—No drugs,” Frankie finishes for her mother. She hugs her back even tighter.
Three days later, Frankie’s mother has just dropped her off at Long Beach Arena in Los Angeles. Her duffle bag is swung over her shoulder, and for the first time in her eighteen years of living, Frankie Goodhart is alone.
And she’s shocked at how excited she is.
The Nocturnals are scheduled to play a gig at the arena tonight, and Frankie remembers her instructions. She’s meant to seek out their manager, Bryan Greenberg, and retrieve her all access pass for the next month. Then, he’ll show her the hotel accommodations, give her a room key, and she’s off to start her assignment.
The band has been informed of her role. She remembers Lester telling her that a few of them were not keen on the idea of having a journalist follow them around for a month, but after hearing that they were going to be featured in the next publication of the magazine, their outlook immediately changed.
“Rockstars,” Lester said over the phone, “They’ll do anything for some decent fuckin’ press.”
On her way into the arena, Frankie bypasses a behemoth of a vehicle. It’s monstrous and gunmetal grey and looks like it’s about to fall apart at any moment, and when she squints she can make out the lettering spelling BERNIE on the side near the door. It reeks of marijuana and booze and she can only assume that this is their tour bus.
Before she can continue to walk by, she hears her voice.
“Frankie!” It’s Cherry and Frankie is surprised that she’s actually happy to see the tall blonde girl. She’s wearing another outrageous assortment of clothing, full of frilly layers and white patent leather. Her lips are stained red and she’s wearing opaque pink sunglasses and when she wraps her thin arms around Frankie’s neck, she instantly hugs her back.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Cherry says, and Frankie’s glad too.
When they untangle themselves, Cherry grabs onto Frankie’s arm and drags her towards the arena, mumbling something about the lingering smell of sex inside of Bernie. Frankie doesn’t bother to ask her what she means, instead allows Cherry to drag her inside the venue.
Frankie tells her that she has to find Bryan and Cherry just shakes her head, explaining to her that Bryan isn’t any fun before five o’clock. Frankie takes her word for it, and not long after have the two entered a backstage area filled with tables and chairs and an assortment of food. Various crew members lounge about eating craft services, and as her eyes sweep over the room, she sees the band in the far corner.
“The enemy is approaching,” Frankie hears Eddie call out ominously from the table. Veronica and Rod snicker beside him, and Frankie tries not to let their words affect her.
She has a job to do.
Cherry shushes them before sitting next to Rod, running her fingers through his long blonde hair that falls past his shoulders. Frankie watches them, fully aware that the only reason Cherry is here is because she’s sleeping with the bassist. But then she remembers her conversation with Cherry’s friends outside of The Troubadour, and she pushes those feelings deep down, only hoping for Cherry’s sake that Rod cares about her the same way she cares about him, even though he has a rumored fiancée back home.
Frankie is trying not to judge.
Before she can say anything, she hears shuffling behind her. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up because in front of her is four-fifths of the band, so that only leaves Harry, who has suddenly appeared behind her. Frankie hates that she can feel his presence before she can actually see him, and when he gives her a throaty hello, she can practically see the goosebumps prickling her skin.
“Heard you were comin’. Glad you’re here, Franks.” Frankie is fully aware that Cherry’s eyes are on her, and all she can do is stare at her new friend, completely out of her own element.
“Hi, Harry,” Frankie offers shyly, finally allowing him to enter her frame.
Before she could examine him fully, another man approaches the table. He’s shorter than Harry, a stocky little man with a permanent frown etched onto his face. His hair is thinning, practically balding in some spots, and he looks utterly exhausted.
“You the journalist?” He asks Frankie. His accent is high-pitched and squeaky, and Frankie blinks once, twice, before realizing that he’s actually addressing her.
“Yeah, hi. Frankie Goodhart.” She extends her arm even though he makes no effort to try and shake it. Frankie suddenly feels small, even though she’s taller than the man in front of her. His eyes are raking up and down her body, and Frankie squirms under his gaze.
“Christ, Rolling Stone hires kids now?” He chuckles to himself and Frankie really wishes the ground would swallow her up right then and there.
“Enough Bryan. They wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t good, right?” Harry comments, finally taking the spotlight off of Frankie. She’s grateful that the attention is off of her now. All she wants to do is start gathering quotes for her piece.
If only things could be that easy.
***
The show was once again incredible. Frankie watched from backstage, standing on Cherry’s side. She followed her advice again, only jotting down pivotal moments in her notebook. Most of the show, she spent mouthing along to the lyrics.
She didn’t want to admit that she was a fan.
“You can’t let them know you’re into their stuff,” Lester told her on the phone three days earlier. “They’re gonna want to buy you shit, be your friend. All of that. You can’t let that happen. Once they’ve got you, you’re fucked.”
After the show is over, the backstage area of the arena is buzzing with people. Cherry’s friends showed up right after the opening act was finished, and currently they were traipsing around the green room as if they owned the place. Jett sat sandwiched between two of them, sharing a joint and sips of champagne right from the bottle. Frankie had just finished talking to Veronica, who surprisingly was a vessel of knowledge. Before she could finish making her rounds, Rod storms in angrily, with an annoyed Harry trailing behind him.
“You really had to stay out on stage the longest when we were giving our bows, Harry?” Rod asks, and suddenly the entire room begins to grow quiet.
“What’s going on?” Bryan asks.
“Fuckin’ Harry’s out here craving all the attention, that’s what’s going on! And you’re so far up his ass you can’t even see it!” Rod’s full on screaming now, and all Frankie can do is just sit and watch.
“Everybody says ‘oh look, it’s Harry’s band! Look how talented Harry’s band is! As if we’re not a fuckin’ unit!” Frankie watches as Harry’s eyes grow darker. Bryan is trying to calm Rod down, but it’s no use. He’s completely uncaged.
Before he can say anything else, his eyes suddenly fall onto Frankie’s.
“I’m not sayin’ anything else with the enemy around.” It’s final, absolute. The words resonate in her brain and for the first time since arriving, Frankie’s second-guessing taking this job in the first place.
Rod storms out after that, and Frankie tries to ignore the green eyes trying to search for hers. She doesn't want the attention right now. What she wants is to retreat back into her hotel room and reevaluate how the next month of her life will go.
While everybody else heads back to the hotel, Frankie notices that Harry stays back, choosing to spend the night in the bus.
***
June 1973 - entry no. 4
The entire bus ride to Tempe, Arizona is uncomfortable.
Tensions are still high from Rod and Harry’s fight after the show in Long Beach last night, and Frankie watches as they sit on opposite sides of the bus, eyes covered in sunglasses facing the windows.
Eddie sits close to Harry, automatically taking his side because he’s his older brother. It makes sense, and Frankie watches it all unravel in her seat beside Cherry. She’s thankful that the blonde girl has decided to sit with her instead of Rod, because Frankie is still struggling with fitting in. This whole enemy ordeal is really starting to make things difficult for her.
Once they hit a rest stop, Jett offers Frankie some of his potato chips and for the rest of the ride he talks to her about music and the process of recording their first album. Veronica joins in, recounting the story of how she joined the band after watching them play a show in Phoenix.
“They were decent,” she tells Frankie, her American accent standing out.
“She makes us better,” Jett says, nodding at Veronica appreciatively.
In the dressing room before the Tempe show, battle lines are drawn up. Harry and Eddie stand on one side, chain-smoking cigarettes and keeping to themselves. Rod and Cherry sit on the other side, and Frankie watches as Cherry soothes Rod’s anger by running her small fingers down his back. Veronica and Jett play the roles of peacemakers, alternating between each side, trying to get everybody in the mindset for a great show.
And as Frankie watches from the sidelines, she’s shocked that it is in fact a great show.
During their last song, Frankie watches Harry grab the water bottle resting on the riser where Jett’s drum set was. She almost misses the dramatic eye roll Rod gives him, seemingly annoyed at whatever Harry was planning on doing. As the lights are dimmed low and Eddie starts playing a riff, Frankie watches Harry fill his cheeks with water.
He can feel her gaze on him. As soon as Jett starts hitting the kick drum, Harry’s green eyes meet Frankie’s. He gives her a quick wink before turning over towards the crowd, leaning back on his legs and spitting the water up into the air as the instruments all clash together.
Frankie tries to ignore the tingling beneath her skin.
After the post-show adrenaline rush has worn off, The Nocturnals retreat back to their pre-show state. Eddie tries to entertain Harry while the rest of the band keep Rod as far away from him as possible. Frankie just observes, scribbling notes down in her journal, before Cherry approaches her cautiously.
“Do you think you could do me a favor, Frankie?” Cherry asks. Her voice is soft and her eyes show a little bit of apprehension, and Frankie immediately snaps her journal shut.
“Of course. Everything okay, Cherry?” Frankie is concerned because for the first time since being introduced to Cherry, she’s asking Frankie for help.
“Could you talk to Harry, maybe? He seems to be fond of you. Maybe you can get through to him about the whole Rod situation.” Frankie suddenly understands that the only reason Cherry is concerned about Harry is because Rod is involved.
“Uh, I don’t know if I’m really the best person—”
“—The thing is, they’re both alphas. Harry takes control and Rod doesn’t know how to function without it. They need each other, Frankie. The band needs them. Sometimes it’s tough getting through to Harry, but do you think you could try it just this time? For me?”
Frankie doesn’t know how to say no to people. Which is why she finds herself approaching Harry outside of the hotel while the rest of the band grab beers from Bryan’s cooler and stretch out around the pool outside of the building.
“I don’t want to do the interview right now, Franks,” Harry says quietly once he realizes that Frankie has stayed back to chat with him.
“We can just talk. Completely off the record,” Frankie says, throwing her journal and tape recorder deep into the depths of her messenger bag around her body.
Harry looks at her with his eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? So what, we’re just gonna talk as friends?” He’s teasing her now and Frankie just rolls her eyes.
“If that’s what you’d like, sure. Friends,” Frankie agrees, surprisingly meaning every word.
“Alright. Come with me.” Harry leads them to a quieter area away from the pool. It’s a makeshift smoking area, and when Harry reaches into his denim pocket for his pack of Winstons and offers one to Frankie, she shakes her head no. Harry gives her another long look before shrugging his shoulders and lighting the stick between his cherry lips.
“Are you here to try and make me feel better?” Harry asks smugly.
Frankie shakes her head, growing annoyed. “No. Cherry just asked if I could—”
“—Oh so Cher put you up to this?” Harry interrupts, and Frankie has decided that this is just something she has to get used to around him. The constant interrupting, constant avoidance of questions, constant staring.
Frankie just sighs. She’s not quite sure why Cherry thinks Harry is fond of her, considering they can barely get through a conversation without him ignoring her questions and directing them towards Frankie instead.
They’re quiet for a few minutes. Harry finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out with the sole of his boots before Frankie opens her mouth.
“Why do you put up with it?” It’s quiet and she’s not sure if she should have even asked him that in the first place, but she’s curious.
“I thought this wasn’t an interview?”
“It’s not. Off the record, strictly.”
Harry stands up straighter, no longer leaning on the fence surrounding the smoking area. His shoulders turn so he’s standing directly in front of Frankie, eyes falling past her uncovered shoulders to her thin yellow tank top, before falling down the lengths of her ivory legs under her jean shorts. She screams of innocence and Harry suddenly feels like he can drop his rockstar façade and finally be truthful for once in his life.
“I do it because I have to,” Harry says slowly.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Harry,” Frankie replies, blue eyes staring deep into green.
Harry just laughs to himself quietly, shaking his head.
“Sometimes you have to do things because they’re expected of you. Like love, for instance.” He’s speaking as if he has all of the answers in the world and Frankie can’t quite fathom how that could possibly be true.
”What do you mean?”
“Well. You’re expected to love your boyfriend, right?” Harry’s asking her in a way that doesn’t come across as fishing for information. Frankie suddenly wonders if he thought she was the type of girl that would have a boyfriend. That she was capable of enthralling the other sex.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Frankie’s suddenly shy, and Harry looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time.
“Well, any of your boyfriends. You were expected to love them.” Harry doesn’t need Frankie to tell her that she actually has never had a boyfriend in her entire life. Her silence tells him more than he needs to know, and Frankie hopes he can’t see her fidgeting under the moonlight.
“I wouldn’t know.” Frankie says it so quietly that Harry almost missed the words leaving her lips. He suddenly feels his age for the first time—twenty-three and hyperaware of the pretty girl with freckles on her face who has never been in love before.
“You’ve never been in love?” He sounds shocked, and Frankie starts wondering if there’s something wrong with that. Sure, she’s had a few opportunities to try and fall in love, and sure, she was almost close to it with her prom date a few months prior, but the truth still stands. It’s a feeling that Frankie’s heard endless times play over in the songs on her record player.
It’s the one question that she’s never found the answer to in Mary’s collection.
“Not truly, no. I mean, every song I’ve ever heard has talked about love as if it’s supposed to be this monumental explosion of feelings. It’s supposed to be all-encompassing. We’re supposed to crave it, chase after it, live for it. So when you say that you’re expected to love another person, I don’t know what you mean. Because you shouldn’t be expected to do something that’s supposed to consume you.”
Frankie chances a look over towards Harry and finds that his eyes aren’t set on hers. Instead, they’re looking over her head, fixated on the trees behind her. He has a distant look in his eyes as if he understands exactly what Frankie is telling him.
Suddenly, his eyes lock back on hers. But this time, the glint is gone. Instead he looks sad almost, nodding absently at whatever Frankie had just said.
Frankie has another sleepless night.
***
June 1973 - entry no. 5
Frankie began to grow quite fond of Bernie on the drive from Tempe to Las Vegas.
Somehow, The Nocturnals had a strong affinity for the nearly broken down grey touring bus they’ve been sequestered to for the past few months. Jett proclaimed that Bernadette had magical powers, and they preferred to travel to each venue by bus because they performed much better after sitting in the bristling heat for hours on end.
Frankie thinks that Jett needs to lay off the weed.
Each band member had their own little corner of the bus. Eddie always preferred the middle so he could jump from conversation to conversation wherever he was needed. He didn’t like feeling left out. Veronica was happy towards the front as long as she always had a window. She always said her lack of a penis allowed her prime window seating. Nobody disagreed.
Rod liked the back of the bus because that was where he could sneak off and make out with Cherry without anybody else watching. Sometimes he would sneak his hand down her skirt and Cherry would giggle as if he was telling her the funniest joke in the world. Harry on the other hand always chose to sit in the front seat behind Bryan who was always driving. It was an unwritten rule that nobody else could sit there. It was also an unwritten rule that Harry always needed to be close to Bryan.
That is where Frankie finds him when they’re about twenty minutes away from the Las Vegas Convention Center. His long body is taking up two seats with his head leaning against the glass window. He has his black sunglasses on but Frankie can see that his eyes are open through the tinted frames.
“Starin’ is impolite, Franks,” Harry says after a few moments.
Frankie blushes, looking down at the floor. “I’m still waiting for your interview, Harry.”
He shuffles a bit while he’s mulling this over. In the two week span of Frankie’s time on tour with the band, she’s gotten one on one interviews with everybody but Harry. Whenever she attempts to reach out to him, he always wanders off. Lately, he’s been switching the roles and asking her questions instead.
She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable around him.
And with her deadline approaching soon and the final three shows looming in the distance, Frankie was starting to grow impatient.
“After the show. I promise,” Harry says, before turning his attention back out towards the window.
Frankie ignores Cherry’s gaze as she slinks into the seat in the back left of the bus. But Cherry is anything but adamant, and not even ten seconds later, Frankie can feel the tips of her blonde curly hair grazing Frankie’s exposed shoulders.
“He’s making this extremely difficult,” Frankie admits, slumping down further into the seat.
Cherry nods. “Give him time, Frankie. He’ll come around eventually.”
Frankie only wishes that were true.
***
The show in Vegas is nothing short of a disaster.
Frankie notices the mistakes more so than the audience members mainly because she’s been watching The Nocturnals perform the same show for two weeks now. From the second they walked onto the stage, there was a disconnect amongst the band members. Jett and Veronica did the best they could trying to appease both Harry and Rod, but it began to crumble halfway through their set. Rod began to overdue his solos, throwing the timing off for Harry. The worst part was when he started oversinging the backing vocals, almost making Harry sing the wrong lyrics.
The dressing room was quiet after the show. And for the first time since touring with the band, Frankie had no desire to ask anybody questions.
“Well guys, that was—”
“—A fuckin’ shitshow,” Harry says, interrupting Bryan.
Eddie stands closer to Harry, trying to calm his little brother down. Everybody knows that it was bound to happen, because Eddie always puts Harry first. But this seemed to spur Rod on, because immediately after Eddie puts an arm around Harry, Rod flies out of his seat and points an accusatory finger at the both of them.
“I’m so fuckin’ sick of you two. Every time there’s a disagreement, Harry is never at fault in your eyes, Ed. It’s about fuckin’ time you realize that your brother is singlehandedly ruining this band.” Rod’s words are venomous and Frankie practically flinches with each syllable.
“Well, maybe if you stopped being so jealous of H, we wouldn’t have this problem!” Eddie retorts, stepping in front of Harry and squaring his shoulders towards Rod.
“Jealous?! Of that prick? That’s fuckin’ rich.”
The rest of the argument seems to blow up in front of Frankie, but for some unknown reason, she chooses not to stare at Rod and Eddie yelling at each other in the middle of the room. Instead, her blue eyes fall onto Harry, who hasn’t said a word throughout this entire exchange. He looks as if he wants to be anywhere but here, and as if he can feel the heat of Frankie’s gaze on him, he tilts his head towards her and stares right back.
“If you don’t get your ego in line, Harry, I’m fuckin’ walking,” Rod says. Frankie watches Harry’s eyes snap back towards the bassist, and instead of responding, he just shakes his head slowly. Suddenly, Harry starts careening towards the exit, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and Frankie in the other.
“Harry…” Frankie says, but it’s useless. He’s walking so quickly and swallowing back whiskey so fiercely that Frankie has no choice but to hold onto his hand tighter and allow him to lead her out of the arena, past Bernie, and down a few roads until the flashing lights are fading into the distance and the honking of vehicles has practically ceased.
Frankie isn’t sure what to say because up until this point she hadn’t really considered her and Harry friends. Their conversation in Tempe only made Frankie more confused, and every time Cherry tells her of Harry’s fondness of her, she thinks that her friend is seeing things.
But now, standing hand in hand with him, Frankie begins to think differently.
His hands are shaking when he drops hers, and instead of speaking, he just takes another swig of the bottle. His cheeks are flushed and Frankie isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or something else, and then before she can dissect him any further, he stops abruptly and turns to face her.
“Do you ever feel like you need to get away? Like things are just happenin’ too quickly?” He’s back to asking her questions again, and Frankie isn’t sure how to respond.
“Shit, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you any of this.” He suddenly runs the hand that used to hold hers through his curly hair out of frustration. Harry starts pacing back and forth in front of Frankie, and she’s very aware that they are far from the venue.
“It’s fine, I won’t—” Frankie cuts herself off because she isn’t quite sure what she’s trying to tell him. She already promised to talk to him off the record back in Tempe, and deep down she really wants to tell him this again. But she’s losing focus on her assignment, and she’s doing everything that Lester Bangs told her not to do.
Harry’s green eyes are back on hers and he’s suddenly a lot closer to her than he was previously. But before he could say anything, a car pulls up and his eyes shift from blue to the approaching vehicle.
“Whoa, you’re Harry Styles!” A boy with straight blonde hair says. He’s driving a car and looks to be a few years younger than Frankie, and the rest of his friends seem to be as shell-shocked as the driver.
“Just Harry, s’fine,” Harry replies, stepping away from Frankie and smiling at the group of boys.
“Would you wanna come to a party? My parents are out of town and my house is down the street,” the blonde kid offers. Immediately, Frankie starts to shake her head, expecting Harry to follow suit. Instead, she bafflingly watches as Harry grins at the group before jumping into the backseat of the car.
“Harry!” Frankie shoots out, beginning to chastise him.
“C’mon Franks, let’s have some fun,” Harry says, grabbing her from the sidewalk and pulling her into the van. The group of boys cheer and begin asking Harry a million questions, but it might as well be white noise because Frankie’s eyes are looking into green and she finds herself agreeing to this ridiculous plan because she’s found that she can’t say no to Harry no matter how hard she tries.
And when he hands her the whiskey bottle and promises that she’ll like it, she drinks it without even thinking, smiling back at Harry when his eyes go wide.
***
A few hours later, Frankie finds that Harry is impossibly drunk. He’s stumbling throughout a high school party, fluttering from the living room to the kitchen and back. The teenagers are handing him plastic cups filled with a concoction of various liquors, and while Frankie has only had one cup, it was enough to make her feel warm and light, so she stopped after that.
She has just walked out of the bathroom when she realizes that Harry is not where she had left him. Nervously, Frankie begins checking each room in the house, praying that she didn’t just lose the frontman of The Nocturnals at a high school party in Las Vegas. Once she rounds the stairs, she hears his laugh from the first door to her left, and when she walks in she finds him sitting on a desk chair surrounded by a group of kids with glazed eyes and a bong sitting in the middle of a circle.
“And that is why you shouldn’t mix acid with vodka. It’s just—Franks! There you are! Thought I lost ya.” Harry blindly reaches out for Frankie’s hand, pulling her towards the group. She stumbles until she’s sitting right beside him, and he’s grinning at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.
“I made new friends,” he says softly, gesturing towards the group of stoned teenagers on the floor below him.
“I can see that,” Frankie responds, seemingly unaware of their close proximity. Harry’s arm is resting lightly around her shoulders, and if she leans in just an inch more, she could smell the whiskey on his lips.
“Maybe I’ll start a band with them. What d’ya think? They’d probably be more fun, anyways,” he mumbles, his slurred words meshing together.
Frankie isn’t sure what to say, so instead she just drunkenly laughs, standing up when Harry grabs her arm and leads her out of the room and into the backyard.
They walk further until they’re sitting at the top of a hill under a mesquite tree. The party is barrelling on below them, and when Frankie looks up at the sky and notices that the inky night has turned into a deep blue, she can assume that it’s the early morning.
Harry sighs contentedly beside her, sitting down close enough that their sides are touching. Frankie can feel his hip rest with hers, her shoulder pressed against his bicep, their thighs touching. The warmth from the alcohol flowing through her body suddenly becomes warmer, and Frankie can feel the flush on her neck begin to creep upwards.
“I never get to do this,” Harry says after a few minutes of silence.
“Do what?” Frankie asks.
“Act like a kid. Drink with my mates in our parents house. Be young, I guess.” Frankie cocks her head to the side and acknowledges the sadness on his features. She’s suddenly aware of the fact that Harry is the youngest in the band but never gets to feel like it because he’s constantly on the road, working with people much older than him, arguing about ridiculous things that shouldn’t matter in the long run.
She begins to feel bad for the rockstar who she believed had everything.
“You really didn’t miss much,” Frankie says, nodding her head towards the group of high school students surrounding a keg.
“No? Isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of your life or summat?” Harry asks, genuine curiosity dripping from his mouth.
Frankie just shrugs. “I sure hope not.”
Harry shifts his position and Frankie misses the warmth when she can no longer feel his body pressed against hers. His big hands reach out towards her forearms and pull so that she twists to the side, their knees knocking together. Harry’s sitting in front of her and his eyes are twinkling brighter than the stars and Frankie isn’t sure where else to look.
“Why are you so different from every other girl I’ve met?” Harry asks. Frankie tilts her head down, trying to hide the blush forming on her cheeks. She feels Harry squeeze her forearms, and she’s suddenly aware that his hands haven’t left hers.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” Frankie says shyly.
His hand reaches out towards her chin, tilting it up so that she’s no longer hiding from him. Frankie watches his heels dig into the grass, allowing him to heave himself forward so that their legs are slotting, his knees surrounding hers. They’re much closer now, and she can see the glint in his eyes has turned into adoration and she suddenly feels frozen.
“Frankie Goodhart,” he whispers, “That would make for a good song.”
His fingers drop from her chin and Frankie can feel him getting closer. He’s angling his torso towards her and his shiny lips are getting closer to hers and she’s instantly panicking because shit, she thinks, this shouldn’t be happening.
And just before his mouth can close around hers, she backs away, and the look in Harry’s eyes fades. Instead, he’s staring at her, dull green eyes and all, and she suddenly feels empty inside. He stands up abruptly and begins walking down the hill back towards the street. Even in his drunken stupor, Harry somehow remembers how to get back to the carpark where Bernie is waiting with the rest of the band. They’re silent as they walk into the bus, the yellows and purples of sunrise filtering through the windows.
Harry chooses to sit near Rod, a sign of a truce. Frankie sits in the back, ignoring the looks Cherry gives her. For once, she just wants to be alone.
***
July 1973 - entry no. 6
Everybody besides Frankie seemed to be in high spirits on the journey to the San Jose Civic Center. The feud between Harry and Rod seemed to be an anecdote, something they could joke about during the long drive. Frankie watches from the back of the bus, a permanent scowl on her face, completely confused at the last ten hours of her life.
She was confused by the almost kiss, for starters. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss Harry, because of course she wanted to. But when his mouth was inching closer towards hers and his irises were so wide all she could see was mossy green, the only thing running through her mind were Lester’s warnings.
“Don’t get lost in the madness of it all. They’re gonna eat you alive if they know that you’re a fan. They’re gonna want to be your friend, lure you into their world. Stand your ground. The second they hear you write for Rolling Stone they’re gonna shit their pants. Don’t let us down.”
So she panicked. And when Frankie saw the frown on his face, she could feel her heart fall towards her feet inside her body. Frankie was never the type of girl that boys chased after, especially boys that have the world at their fingertips with blonde/auburn/black haired beauties throwing themselves at him. What would Harry want with a freckled-face eighteen year old high school graduate who had little to no experience with the opposite sex? It would be utterly laughable for the two of them to end up together.
But she would be lying if she hadn’t been kicking herself the entire journey to San Jose, regretting ever pulling away from him.
“Why are you so pouty?” Cherry asks from beside her. She opted to sit with Frankie mainly because Rod and Harry were rekindling their friendship with inside jokes and bottles of beer, and Frankie wasn’t all that mad that she was a second option.
“I’m not,” Frankie lies, sinking her head against the cool window. She needed her brain to stop replaying this morning's events over and over whenever her eyelids closed.
Cherry just hums beside her, knowing fully well that Frankie is lying. “I’m assuming it has something to do with Harry. He’s been looking at you like a lost puppy ever since we turned onto the freeway hours ago.”
Frankie ignores her friend the same way she’s been ignoring the warm heat of Harry’s gaze from the front of the bus.
She needs the silence to remember why she was even here in the first place. But there’s no denying that she’s so close to losing the point in the first place—feet dangling at the edge of the mountain, practically about to freefall below.
***
The San Jose show was the best one Frankie had seen yet, even better than the first night at The Troubadour three weeks earlier. The energy radiating from the stage was tangible, a thrumming of excitement Frankie could feel from the tips of her toes all the way up to the roots of her light brown hair. If she reached out to touch the handle of the steel door leading to the green room, she was convinced she would feel a zap of electricity from what The Nocturnals left out on the stage.
Harry was the best she had seen him yet. His voice was unmatchable, a perfect concoction of rasp and grit with a beautiful falsetto. Frankie was in awe, to be fair. Normally she takes turns watching each member of the band, but tonight, her blue eyes refused to move from his body.
Harry could feel her gaze. With Frankie’s eyes locked on him, he knew that he had to put on the best show of his life. He made sure to interact with the crowd, singing in a different octave so he could hear the gasps from the audience, leaning against Rod and Eddie with his head thrown back, shaking his hips to the pounding of Jett’s kick drum. Frankie’s hot gaze on Harry gave him a newfound sense of confidence, and it was palpable throughout the entire arena.
“What a fuckin’ show!” Bryan hollers from the doorway of the green room. Frankie watches as he interacts with each member of the band, even offering to take a hit of the joint Jett extends towards him. Rod even gives him a hug, and Frankie is just as confused as ever.
“Let’s celebrate!” Rod agrees, grabbing Cherry by her hips and bringing her towards his front. He drowns her giggles with a bottle of whiskey.
The band convenes in the middle of the green room, passing around a whiskey bottle and planning on throwing an after party in their hotel rooms. Eddie asks Bryan to upgrade their rooms so they can fit more people, and Jett agrees, telling Cherry’s friends to invite anybody in the area they know. Frankie ultimately feels like an outsider, having no desire to go out and drink with people who barely even wanted her around in the first place.
As she begins to gather her belongings and throw them into her tattered messenger bag to retreat to her own hotel room for the night, Frankie sees the tips of black leather shoes touch her white sneakers. She looks up slowly, her breath practically catching in her throat when she notices Harry peering down at her, a faint trace of a smile on his lips.
“Fancy that interview, Franks?” Harry says softly, and Frankie suddenly is at a loss for words. She’s unsure if it’s from his close proximity to her face, or the fact that he actually is ready to allow her to interview him, but she just nods slowly.
“You don’t want to party? I think you earned it,” Frankie mutters back, offering him an out.
Harry doesn’t take it though. “Nah, let’s get out of here,” and with that, he loops her messenger bag around his broad shoulder and places a large hand at the small of her back, tracing her out the door.
Frankie offers to conduct the interview inside Bernie, but Harry just shakes his head, “I’m sick of sittin’ on the bus.” When she mentions her hotel room being on a different floor than the rest of the band’s, Harry just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “Tryin’ to take me to bed already?” Frankie just rolls her eyes, wishing her skin was a darker shade so her blush wasn’t so prominent. Harry smiles, enamored that he can get her riled up so quickly, and drags her towards a small staircase on the top floor, a sign reading NO ENTRY in bright red letters.
Frankie pauses and Harry just laughs, opening the door with his hip and grabbing her wrists with his long fingers. “Live a little, Franks,” he whispers, dragging her up the staircase and onto the roof of the hotel.
The dark sky looks so vast from the roof, and Frankie cranes her neck back to take in all of the glittering stars above. She never gets to see the constellations through the LA smog, so from this vantage point, Frankie doesn’t hesitate to take it all in, her hair shining in the moonlight.
Harry doesn’t hesitate to take Frankie in, either.
“Ready, Franks?” Harry’s voice bursts Frankie’s imaginary bubble, and she fumbles around trying to grab her notebook and recorder before sitting across from Harry over a skylight. She doesn’t meet his eyes because she’s scared that if she does, she’ll forget everything she wanted to ask him.
“So, Harry. Why music?”
And it’s as if a dam has broken, split completely in half, and Harry’s words are the water that flows from the cracks. He tells Frankie that he started the band with his brother in small town Manchester, England, and they were shit at first. Tells her how the idea of a band came from the 1961 Ice Blue Fender Musicmaster their dad left behind when he left his mother when Harry was a boy. How the first few songs he wrote were about his fear of abandonment, and when he lost his virginity, all he could write about were girls and hearts and lips and feelings. He tells her things that Frankie didn’t even need to pry from him, instead, he willingly tells her how he was nervous to have five members in a band, nervous to leave England, nervous to be the frontman of a group when he was the youngest one. And when they were sat on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise building with walls of windows in New York City, signing their recording contracts, Harry never felt more out of control in his life.
“You seem to be so confident on stage though, so in control. I mean, you just look so cool up there,” Frankie mumbles, realizing that she isn’t asking a question anymore. Instead she’s prodding for more information that she isn’t sure Harry feels comfortable doting out to her.
“I promise you, I’m entirely uncool. It’s all an act. I’m far too in my head most of the time,” Harry says with a chuckle, shifting his body closer to Frankie’s. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only person in this world who’s seen me properly. I’m just as uncool as you.”
Frankie feels herself shifting closer, too. Her finger unknowingly hovering over the STOP button on her tape recorder.
Harry notices just like he notices everything about her. He can feel the shift in their conversation, and he turns his body closer towards Frankie, asking her the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue the entire day.
“Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”
His voice is uncharacteristically shy. Frankie’s never seen this version of him—so quiet, so unsure. It startles her.
“Um,” she pauses, pressing her finger down on the button, her mind suddenly confuddled. “I’m technically not supposed to.”
“Franks,” Harry shakes his head, his mouth practically inches from hers. “When are you gonna realize life is more fun when you do the things you aren’t supposed to?”
With his mouth so close to hers, Frankie feels like she can’t breathe. His eyes are sincere and she can feel her heart beating so loudly she’s sure her ribs are bruised. And for the first time in forever, Frankie doesn’t want to follow the rules anymore.
She wants to break them.
Specifically, she wants to break them with Harry.
Frankie brazenly drops the tape recorder into her messenger bag at her feet and wraps her hands around Harry’s neck, bringing his lips to hers. He stills at first, not entirely sure if this is actually happening or he’s just imagining her kissing him. But then she starts to nibble at his lower lip and he finally reacts, wrapping one hand into her brown hair and another around her stomach, fingers spread over the ivory skin uncovered by her cropped shirt.
Frankie shudders when Harry whines at the contact, and when he feels like he needs more more more, he drags her legs and hoists them over his thighs so she’s straddling his lap. Their teeth knock together hungrily and it’s literally better than anything Harry’s ever had, and he’s had almost everything there is. Harry feels dehydrated, and Frankie’s lips are the only thing quenching his thirst. He’s never been so enraptured by another person before, and just having her body wrapped around his is practically careening him towards the edge.
When Harry’s hand in her hair pulls back exposing her neck towards him, she moans when his lips lick a thick strip from her sternum towards her chin. She tries to think of love songs that explain how she’s feeling, and when her mind becomes blank, she figures that they can write their own song, fuelled by pink lips and hungry bites and satisfied breaths.
“Jesus, Franks. You’re everything,” Harry mumbles against her lips. Frankie just nods, her hands pushing open his unbuttoned shirt and fanning against his chest. When his head falls back in a blissful sigh, Frankie marks the part of his skin where his shoulder meets his neck, and she can feel it too. That this is everything.
When Harry tries to take her shirt off and lower his hands into the waistband of her jeans, she stops, fully aware that this is her first time ever having somebody this close to her. Of having somebody want to get this close to her, to feel her, to have her in every sense of the word. And she’s terrified.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Franks. I blacked out, I forgot. You’re just—fuck. Can’t fuckin’ think straight when you’re lookin’ at me like that with your mouth all pouty and your hair all messed up. I’m losin’ it,” Harry says hurriedly, his forehead falling against her clavicle. He’s completely breathless and Frankie is in awe that she brought him to this point.
When she feels his hands running a comforting line down her back, she’s fully aware that she wants nothing more than to feel closer to Harry. It’s inevitable at this point—all of the lingering gazes, the interrupting questions, the way he can feel her gaze on him when he’s performing, the way she doesn’t want to look anywhere else. He wants to tell her his secrets. And she wants to keep them, hidden away from the world, just for her to hold.
So she reaches down and places her hand over Harry’s, dragging it down her chest and stomach, over her stomach, against the button of her pants. Harry sucks in a breath and Frankie can feel it against her neck, his lips pursing in shock.
“Frankie, it’s okay, we don’t—”
He’s silenced by her popping the button open and unzipping her jeans. His head shoots up, eyes latched onto hers, arms wrapped around her hips protectively.
Frankie shushes him with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay. You’re everything.”
And with that, Harry reaches inside of her pants, and the both of them fall apart, seeing stars that rival the constellations twinkling above them.
***
July 1973 - entry no. 7
Frankie spends the next day trying to quell the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
After her night with Harry on the rooftop, she feels as if she’s floating through thin air. She can’t stop the grin growing on her face whenever Harry is in a five foot radius of her, and she can practically feel his smirk from a distance. When they leave San Jose and travel to Palo Alto, Frankie practically forces her body to the back of the bus, trying to put as much space between them as possible.
Because if he was any closer, she wasn’t sure if she could keep her hands to herself.
Frankie has never felt like this. She feels as if Harry is her newest addiction, and no matter how hard she tries, she just can’t fucking stop thinking about him. It’s infuriating and infatuating at the same time, incredible and unknown and so new that she’s practically shaking in her seat from the excitement whenever his green eyes find hers.
Harry feels like he’s sixteen again. He feels so light and bubbly and giggly and the whole thing is reminiscent of a first crush, that he doesn’t even recognize who he is anymore. The most surprising aspect of it all is that he actually likes it. He feels his heart swell with every longing gaze, every secret smile, every phantom touch. He can’t get enough of her. Just one taste of Frankie wasn’t enough to soothe his ever-growing appetite, and he’s not sure if he can contain himself any longer.
After an entire day of almost touching her skin, Harry feels like he’s about to burst. Twenty minutes before the show, while the rest of the band is warming up, Harry finds himself sneaking off to find Frankie. She’s on her way back from the bathroom and when he sees her he practically jumps out of his skin, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her into a utility closet across the hallway.
Harry quiets her shrieks with a mouth-watering kiss, and he practically implodes at the feeling of it. He’s been waiting for this moment all day, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it was the best kiss of his life.
His hands are everywhere and Frankie feels overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. She’s breathing him in and feeling every inch of his skin on hers and it’s crazy to think that in her eighteen years of life she waited this long to experience this feeling.
She’s just so happy she’s experiencing it with Harry.
When they hear Bryan give the five minute call, Frankie breaks away breathlessly, laughing when Harry whines at the loss of her lips on his.
“Just one more kiss please Franks,” Harry begs, wrapping his hands through her hair and pulling her closer to his mouth.
She obliges but only momentarily, before pushing him back towards the door.
“Go,” she whispers, biting her lower lip to conceal her giggles.
Harry just groans, holding onto her for dear life. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Franks.”
She watches him walk away, blowing him a kiss and laughing when he catches it and tucks it into the pocket of his trousers.
When Frankie goes to claim her spot sidestage, she’s interrupted by Cherry grabbing onto her shoulders. She can see the band rustling around in the background, grabbing their instruments and getting mic'd up, but Frankie can’t focus. Because Cherry’s eyes are blown out and she’s holding onto her so tightly and Frankie knows that whatever is about to come out of Cherry’s lips next is either going to be monumental or devastating.
“Frankie! I need to tell you something,” Cherry whispers through her brightening grin.
“What is it Cherry? Are you okay?” Frankie is worried.
“I’m amazing. Better than amazing, actually. I’m gonna tell Rod that I love him after the show. I’m gonna jump into his arms, tell him that he’s the only one for me, and that I’m so far in love with him that I can’t even breathe.”
Frankie sighs. It’s devastating.
“But… Cherry. What about his fiancée? Kids? Did you think this through?” Frankie asks, watching as her friend’s eyes fall and her mouth form a straight line. Frankie hasn’t seen this look on Cherry’s face since the night she almost called her a groupie. Immediately, Frankie feels the twisting feeling of guilt in her gut.
“He’s leaving them for me. He told me last night.” Cherry’s voice is so low that Frankie isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince her, or herself.
Frankie just shakes her head. “Cherry, you can’t think like that. How could he promise you something like that? You can’t just—”
“—I can’t just what, Frankie? What are you even trying to say? I love him! That should be enough! It’s always been enough!” Before Frankie could even get another word in, Cherry just shakes her head, stepping away from her. “I don’t even know why I bothered telling you. You wouldn’t even know what love is if it slapped you right in the face.”
Frankie pauses, mouth falling slack. “What are you even talking about?”
Cherry laughs, and for the first time, Frankie hates the sound of it. “Because you don’t even give it a chance. I see the way Harry looks at you, and all you do is keep your head down, ignoring the entire thing. All you care about is your stupid article. Well ya know what? At least I let Rod close enough to give love a chance.”
Frankie isn’t sure what to say. Part of her wants to tell Cherry about the night she had with Harry on the rooftop, or the words he spoke to her, or the way he grabbed her no less than five minutes ago. But she doesn’t. Because saying them in an argument makes it less genuine.
“Cherry, I’m just trying to help. You deserve better than Rod,” Frankie says, reaching for Cherry’s hands to squeeze in reassurance.
But Cherry just jumps back as if Frankie’s hands are scorching. “You know what, maybe you and Harry are perfect for each other. Both lonely and selfish.”
And with that, Cherry walks away, and Frankie hangs behind the crowd sidestage, feeling her chest constrict in anger. Cherry couldn’t be more wrong about Harry. He let her in, he told her things he promised he would never tell anybody else. Frankie would never let him near her if he acted the way Cherry just described.
So when the show is over and Frankie feels herself retreating back into the hotel without a word to anybody else, she practically combusts when Harry shows up at her room. His eyes are blown wide and he has concern written all across his face, because all he wanted to see after the show was her. Just as he’s about to ask if she was okay, Frankie grabs him by the back of his neck and drags him through the doorway, crashing her lips onto his.
“Franks, wait, babe, what’s goin’ on?” Harry asks between kisses, and Frankie just sighs, noticing the way her head clears and her heart feels lighter whenever he is close to her.
“I just don’t want to think right now. I need you,” Frankie says, and Harry practically drops through the floor when she utters those last three words.
I need you is the closest thing to I love you Harry has ever felt. Love to him always felt compulsory, a feeling that was expected between two people. He never had to work for it, and whenever he said the words, they never meant anything to him before.
So when he hears I need you fall from Frankie’s chapped lips, he’s floored at the way those words feel inside his chest. If words were tangible, they would be pumping the blood through his chest cavity, propelling his heart up up up until it was lodged into his throat.
He never thought I need you would mean more to him than I love you.
Not until now.
“I need you all the time,” Harry responds, grabbing Frankie and pulling her onto the bed. They kiss until they’re both only wearing their undergarments, Harry clad in tight white boxer briefs and Frankie wearing a boring nude bra and matching cheeky panties. They make her feel childlike, and she wishes that she owned something black and lacy and sexy.
But Harry could care less what she’s wearing. Just the fact that she’s laying next to him, completely opening him up until he could feel like he was properly breathing for the first time in three years is enough for him. And when they kiss until their lips feel bruised, Frankie just lays her head on his chest, revelling in the feeling of his warmth.
“Thank you,” Frankie whispers against his skin.
“For what?” Harry asks, running a finger absentmindedly through her hair. Just one touch is never enough for him.
“Being here. Being you.” It’s trivial and shouldn’t really mean much, but to Harry it means everything, and he sighs blissfully at the thought that just being himself was more than enough for this beautiful girl.
“God, Franks,” Harry says slowly, resting his chin against the top of Frankie’s head. “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”
And when she’s wrapped around Harry in every sense of the word, she can’t help but think that if this is how she were to spend the rest of her nights, she wouldn’t want it any other way.
***
July 1973 - entry no. 8
The term bittersweet comes to mind when Bernie rolls into the Fillmore in San Francisco.
Bitter because it’s her last show with The Nocturnals. Bitter because Cherry hasn’t looked at her in two hours, and she doesn’t want to leave with her friendship falling to pieces in front of her. Bitter because she feels like she’s truly found herself, and she doesn’t want this feeling to escape when she arrives back in Santa Monica. Bitter because she won’t be spending her nights wrapped with Harry anymore.
The sweet part is all Harry, Frankie hates to admit. His sweet smile, the taste of his sweet lips, the way his hands feel sweetly wrapped around Frankie’s middle, the way she won’t hear him say her sweet nickname Franks.
Frankie looks over towards her right and smiles at his sleeping frame tucked next to hers. Her heart practically stilled when he chose to sit near her in the back of the bus instead of his usual spot behind Bryan in the front. If anybody felt a certain way about it, nobody mentioned it, which made Frankie relax into the ripped leather seat. When Harry’s warm hand latched onto her thigh, Frankie’s heart almost stopped beating.
“Franks, ‘m tired. Can I use you as a pillow?” Harry asks, his voice thick with sleep.
Before Frankie could reply, Harry’s head was already resting in the crook of her neck, his chestnut curls ticking the underside of her chin. Frankie just smiles, knowing that this would probably be the last spare moment they have together before she has to leave after the show to write her piece for Rolling Stone.
“So soft. You’re the sweetest, Franks,” Harry mumbles before drifting off into sleep.
The hotel is conveniently across the street from the Fillmore, so while the band unloads their instruments, Frankie slinks into her hotel room to deposit her duffle bag and sort through the endless notes she had taken during her summer with the band. Most of them are scribbled in her notebook that was practically ripping from overuse, but the most important tidbits, the ones that Frankie didn’t want to forget, were written on bar napkins and setlist pages. On room service menus and gas station receipts. Frankie makes sure to stuff those into her folder, making sure they stay with her forever.
On her way back to the concert venue, Frankie hears screaming from the room Cherry and Rod share. Part of her wants to knock and make sure that her friend is okay, but after their last conversation, Frankie’s convinced that she’s probably the last person Cherry wants to see anyways. So she saunters back to the Fillmore, rushing to try and find Harry to lift her spirits once again.
But what she sees does the complete opposite.
Bleach blonde hair. Pretty red dress. Deep hazel eyes. Brand new patent leather pumps. A handbag that definitely cost more than the entire ensemble. Matching red lips.
Red lips that were attached to Harry’s.
Frankie freezes. She can feel her heart burst, but not in the way that it has been used to doing the past few days. Instead, it’s a painful burst. She can feel shards slice through her beating flesh, ripping her open and spluttering on the concrete flooring.
Suddenly green eyes are latched onto hers.
And suddenly, they’re the last thing she wants to see.
“Oh, hello! You must be the reporter everybody has been telling me about. Frankie, right? It’s so great to meet you! This is such a great opportunity for everybody,” the pretty girl is saying, but Frankie isn’t registering anything.
All she’s registering is Harry’s hands jumping away from the girl’s waist. His green eyes wide and pleading. His uncomfortable shuffling behind her.
Frankie snaps her mouth shut, trying her hardest to pull herself together. “Hi, yes. I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you, er��”
“Roslyn. I’m Harry’s girlfriend.”
Frankie tries her hardest to keep a straight face, but she’s practically breaking at the seams. She doesn’t even register two sets of feet stopping short behind her, doesn’t even acknowledge her shaky hand slipping into Roslyn’s, doesn’t even feel the heat of Harry’s eyes on hers, of everybody’s eyes on hers.
She feels like the biggest idiot in the world.
Before she could sink into the floor, Frankie feels a small hand settle on her back, blonde ringlets falling onto her bare shoulder. She shuffles back, feeling the warmth of Cherry’s embrace behind her. She knows that Cherry’s heard everything, and with one look into Frankie’s eyes, Cherry can see her reflection through the tears that threaten to fall.
“Frankie, did you bring the necklace you borrowed from me last night?” Cherry asks. It’s an out, an excuse to drag her away from the absolute nightmare unfolding in front of her. Frankie can barely shake her head back, instead she’s gripping onto her friend for dear life, feeling that if she wasn’t anchoring her into the cement flooring she’d be sinking.
“Wait, Cher! Franks, I—”
“—Don’t. We’ll see you after the show,” Cherry says. And for the first time since knowing her, Frankie shivers at the coldness dripping from her mouth.
The two girls don’t bother to hear a response. Instead, Cherry whips through the exit door of the venue and drags Frankie back into the comfort of her hotel room. Once she’s sitting on her flimsy mattress and the door is deadbolted, Frankie finally cries, painful sobs ripping through her chest. She hunches over, feeling her chest constrict at the lack of oxygen rushing through her respiratory system. But she doesn’t care. The hurt she felt watching Harry kiss another girl feels worse than this.
“Frankie, shush, it’s going to be okay,” Cherry says sadly, wrapping a thin arm around Frankie’s shoulders.
“It’s not going to be okay. Cherry, I can’t breathe. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Wait, I should be apologizing, Cherry I—” Frankie’s rambles are cut off by Cherry kneeling in front of her, holding her glistening face in the small palms of her hands. Cherry smiles, and when Frankie looks hard enough, she can see that it doesn’t meet her eyes. And she instantly knows that something is wrong.
“Wait, Cherry what’s wrong. Did something happen?” Frankie whimpers, holding her hands on top of Cherry’s, trying to squeeze the truth out of her friend.
“I think we should get out of here. What do you think? Let’s get away from it all,” Cherry says, gesturing at the front door where Frankie’s duffle lays untouched. Frankie feels herself nodding, grabbing Cherry in one hand and her bag in the other, walking outside of the hotel with a shattered heart.
Before they can get too far, she hears his voice. And that’s all it takes for her to feel the shards rip through her skin again.
“Franks! Please you’ve got to listen to me, please!” He’s pleading and Frankie feels disgusted that he’s calling out for her when his beautiful blonde-haired girlfriend is waiting for him inside just as she’s been waiting for him at home while he’s been wasting his time with Frankie.
“Cher, please let me talk to her, I’ve gotta—”
“—Goodbye Harry,” Frankie says softly. It’s final. Absolute.
She’s not sure who’s heart is breaking more, and honestly, she can’t bring herself to care. All she knows is that she feels as if Harry had shown her a world unlike any other—bright and unknowing and enticing and full of new wonders and surprises. But at the same time, he introduced her to heartbreak and pain and suffering and emptiness.
Frankie doesn’t look back as Cherry drags her towards the street, hailing a taxi and shoving them both into it. She doesn’t look out the window when the tires peel from the pavement, falling into traffic on the motorway. If she did, she would see Harry’s heart crumpling into the ground, his chest heaving in pain, his eyes watering.
Because they were both the closest to love they had ever felt in their lives. And Harry had ruined it. And the worst part of it all?
Frankie should have known better.
***
Inside the departures terminal in San Francisco Airport, Frankie finally wipes all of the water from her eyes. She’s pretty convinced that she’s cried all of the tears her body could produce, so with one last shaky inhale, she lifts her head from the crook of Cherry’s neck, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“Thank you, Cherry,” Frankie whispers to a girl she never thought she would ever call a friend.
“I should be the one thanking you, Frankie,” Cherry admits, laughing softly to herself. It isn’t genuine, and Frankie can see the pain hidden behind her silver eyes.
“What happened?”
“You were right.” Cherry doesn’t need to explain more, but Frankie feels her heart aching for her friend. She feels horrible about their fight, but she feels even worse at the fact that Rod hurt Cherry.
“Why doesn’t he love me?” Cherry asks, and Frankie wonders how the two of them had gotten to this point. Both broken and scarred over two men who couldn’t love them the way that they needed to.
“I don’t know the answer to that, Cherry. But I do know that you never needed his love. Because love doesn’t feel like this. Love is supposed to be the thing that people write songs about, and you’ll find it one day. We’ll both find it one day.”
Cherry just nods at her brown-haired friend she’s grown to love in the span of three weeks. She hugs her tightly, hoping that this embrace will help heal their shattered hearts. Because even though they didn’t find love with Rod and Harry, they found love between each other. And that’s something worth remembering.
“Thank you,” Cherry mumbles against Frankie’s hair.
“Of course. I’ll always be here for you, Cherry,” Frankie replies, squeezing her friend a little tighter.
“I know that, and I will too.” Cherry stands up, grabbing Frankie’s hand one last time. Her suitcase is in the other, and she has a distant look in her silver eyes. “I just can’t do it here.”
Frankie smiles, knowing all along that Cherry was too good for this place. “I know. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says with a promise.
Before Cherry runs off to purchase a one-way ticket to a city far away from California, she turns back around, her eyes glistening. She reaches down to grab Frankie’s hand one last time.
“Aubrey Lennox,” she whispers.
“What?”
“My name,” Cherry replies with her infamous grin. “Is Aubrey Lennox. I’ll call you when I’ve found a place.” And with that, Aubrey walks off, giving Frankie one last parting glance.
An hour later when the hollowness inside Frankie seems to slowly start dissipating, she sees Mary in her stewardess outfit, a million questions at the tip of her tongue. With one look at her little sister, Mary knows something is wrong, and when she tells her that she’ll take her anywhere she wants to go, Frankie only has one place in mind.
She wants to go home.
***
August 1973 - entry no. 9
Frankie writes the Rolling Stone article the night Mary finds her in the airport in San Francisco. After promising her little sister that she’ll bring her home after she checks in with Greg and feeds their cat, Frankie stays up all night, clacking away on her sister’s old Smith Corona Classic 12 typewriter, writing three thousand words about her time with The Nocturnals.
She writes about their origin. She writes about their dazzling stage presence, the way they build off of each other, the way they trust each other wholeheartedly throughout each show. She writes about their growing tension. She writes about their poor management. She writes about how they’re debut album was incredible, chart-stopping, and the main reason why they’ve been successful. She writes about the promise of their second album being better than the first, and how she couldn’t imagine them breaking up any time soon, and how their music is for all the uncool people in the world.
It’s amazing and honest and truthful, void of spite or hatred or bias. She tells their story the way it should be told—open and honest and real. When she delivers it to Rolling Stone, they tell Frankie it’s going to be on the front page. They love the way she portrays The Nocturnals as normal people, chasing the high they provide for those who pay to watch their show.
But when they make out the call to fact check her piece, they deny everything.
“Did you talk to Harry Styles?” Frankie asks, growing frantic. She figured the least he owed her was to be honest and allow her to write their story.
“He was the one who denied everything.”
After that phone call, Frankie returns home with Mary. Once she’s opened the door and said hello to her mother, she locks herself in her room for three days and doesn’t leave.
Frankie didn’t think her heart could withstand any more pain, but she was wrong. She feels a bone-aching tiredness shiver through her body, the hollowness making her feel as if she was just barely there on most days. She can’t sleep because her pillow isn’t the rising and falling of Harry’s bare chest, the soft snoring from his mouth, the gentle caress of his hands over her arms.
Her anger overrides her feeling of emptiness in regards to her heart. She’s crushed at the fact that Harry lied to her about Roslyn, but even more so, he continued to lie when he denied her story from Rolling Stone. She hates him in these days, wishing she could tell him how much of a coward he was to his face.
And when she can’t sleep at night, she hears Lester’s words reverberating through her brain, don’t get too close, don’t get too close, don’t get too close.
Frankie wishes she just fucking listened.
***
The next morning, Frankie is lathering a thin layer of butter over her charred toast when the doorbell rings. She doesn’t make a move to answer it, and when Mary approaches the kitchen with a twinkle in her eyes, Frankie knows that whoever is at the door is waiting for her.
“Mary, no—”
“—Go answer it, Frankie.”
Frankie gulps her dry toast down her throat, letting it fall onto a paper towel with a soft thud. She walks slowly to the front door, hoping that whoever it is could see the state of disarray she was in and would presumptively leave her alone.
Once she reaches the foyer, she hears a gruff laugh, a noise she’s never heard before.
“Holy shit, you’re a fuckin’ kid.”
When she looks up, it’s no other than Lester Bangs in the doorway. His long hair is parted to one side, brown eyes covered in black wayfarer sunglasses. His brown leather jacket hangs off his arms, and she’s shocked that he would come all the way from San Francisco to talk to her.
“Cat’s out the bag,” Frankie shrugs, realizing that she’s too tired and too hurt to keep up her adult façade. She’s fully aware that her plaid pajama bottoms and high school t-shirt give away the fact that she is actually eighteen years old.
But somehow, Lester doesn’t seem to mind.
“Had a feeling. You write like you’re experiencing shit for the first time in your life.” Frankie tries to ignore the truthfulness to his words.
“Yeah, well… What are you exactly doing here, Lester?” Frankie asks.
Lester holds up his left hand and clutched inside is the August edition of Rolling Stone’s magazine. On the front cover is a picture of The Nocturnals: Harry, Eddie, Veronica, Jett, and Rod, posing in front of a red backdrop. On the left hand column reads THE NOCTURNALS: Sex, Drugs, and Life on the Road. And right under that, in glossy red print, reads Written by: Frankie Goodhart.
Frankie starts to feel the hollowness inside of her fill up.
“Harry Styles called and told us that everything you said was true. And that he’s sorry, for some reason,” Lester says, holding out the publication for her to keep. She runs her fingers over the words, smiling for the first time in a week.
“Wow, uh, I don’t know what to say,” Frankie says, floored.
Lester laughs and produces a second copy, holding out a Sharpie in the other. “Mind if you sign mine? Figured it’ll be worth a lot once you make it big, kid.”
Frankie laughs, before shakily reaching out and signing her name in big swoopy letters. Before Lester leaves, he tells her to keep sending him her album reviews, and that whenever she figures out what she wants to do with her life, he’ll always be waiting for her call.
A few days later, the hollowness doesn’t feel as painful anymore. Frankie distracts herself by hanging out with her sister, spending time with her mother, listening to new records, telling Mary the in’s and out’s of her time on the road. She leaves out a certain curly-haired boy with green eyes that broke her heart, but Mary knows that Frankie will tell her over time, once she’s finished mending the scars he left her with.
When Mary announces that she’s heading back to San Francisco, her departure isn’t as sad as the first time. Cynthia and her daughter seemed to have found common ground with Mary’s outlook on life, and with a promise to be back for Thanksgiving, Frankie starts to feel like the ground isn’t as shaky as it was a month earlier.
“Want to go to Tower Records with me? One last time before I go, for old time’s sake,” Mary whispers in her sister’s ear when their mother is busy making lunch.
Frankie nods, and the two girls set off across the boardwalk.
The sun warms Frankie to her core, and she suddenly starts to feel the weight being lifted from her shoulders. She feels more in control of her life now than ever before, and walking side by side with her sister, she no longer feels hollow. Instead, she feels excited. Excited for her future. Excited for the idea of endless possibilities and newness.
“You should come with me to San Francisco, Frankie! I can get you a stewardess position and we can travel the world together. Live like we never have before. What do you say, kiddo?” Mary asks, rifling through the “M” section of the new releases in the record store.
Before, Frankie would have done anything to be closer to her sister. But now, in the after, she feels a new sense of home in Santa Monica.
“I think I’m gonna stay here. Go to college at UCLA. Probably study English, if they’ll let me,” Frankie announces. And for once, she actually means what she’s saying.
Mary smiles at her sister, her thumbs crossing over towards the “N” category.
“Whatever you end up doing Frankie, just remember that you’re doing it for yourself. And that no matter what, I’m in your corner. Always have, always will.”
Frankie reaches an arm around her sister, holding her close. She hopes that Mary can feel the love she has for her through her embrace, and when Mary smiles, she knows she can feel it.
“Oh, I haven’t seen this before,” Mary says, coming to a stop on a record in the middle of the “N” bin.
Frankie watches as her sister pulls out a black vinyl wrapped in a pink and blue sleeve. The band she spent weeks on the road with is written on the top, with the picture from the Rolling Stone cover in the middle. When Frankie’s eyes scroll towards the bottom of the record, she can feel her breath catch in her throat when she reads the name of the title.
GOOD HEART.
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A Song to Forget All Trouble
Kiane Week Day Four: Reign/Daily Life
With each sunrise, another problem awaited Diane. Or, for the sake of accuracy, a mountain of problems. Ruling an entire clan was one thing, but the management of two clans who had spent to majority of three millennia with scornful looks and cold shoulders had more in common with a wrestling match against a Tyrant Dragon. With arms tied behind the back. Giants and Fairies alike always found one little annoyance to blow out of proportion and add to the list of matters Diane needed to discuss and solve with the parties involved.
The quarrel for a resting spot on one of the Fairy King’s Forest’s countless clearings took her half a day to settle because both the Giant and the opposing group of Fairies claimed to have arrived there first. Around noon, Diane ordered the squabblers to find other places to sleep and opened the clearing to a horde of Giant children. At the end of their play session, a rugged crater disfigured the landscape, and smashed golem heads roasted in the sun. No one wanted to rest there anymore.
Every trampled flowerbed and every earth-made pillar became a file on Diane’s metaphorical desk. Fairies liked to boast about their inability to understand concepts like possession and greed, but when someone asked them to share their precious forest with outsiders, they crossed their arms and jutted their chins faster than one could turn over a leaf.
Even if their king asked them.
But the Giants didn’t cover themselves in glory with their behavior either. Their daily fighting tournaments, these days held for sport rather than war training, flattened entire areas on a regular basis. And while the Giants toasted to their displays of power, the present Fairies had little to laugh about. To them, a tree was a lifeform in the same way as a deer or a chaffinch. To a Giant, a tree was a resource for weapons and sometimes a javelin in their ego games.
Drole had assured that Diane would make for the ideal queen to their people. If only he had mentioned the massif of hurdles on the road of leadership.
Daylight was fading, and Diane more stumbled than walked towards the Great Tree. She hawked, but the lump in her throat sat on her voice like a fat, ugly toad. The avalanche of irritated ‘what?’ the near-deaf Giant had spat in her direction continued to ring in her ears. He had built a stone damn to turn the southern river into his private bathing lake. The shrubs and flowers he had put underwater by proxy had concerned him no more than a change in the clouds above. Diane had repeated and rerepeated herself in explaining the problem he had created, but more than another ‘what?’ hadn’t come out of him. A wonder the old man still lived – with the philosophy of the Giants in mind, a useless member of the pack went to bed each night in expectation of a slit throat.
Diane rolled her shoulders to shake away these gloomy thoughts. The merger had its upsides too. She just needed to remind herself of them once in a while.
The stench of fire, mingled with the alluring but precarious aromas of roasted boar hit her before the massive shape of the Great Tree came into view. Not again. Diane darted into the bushes, a string of curses she had picked up from Ban on her lips.
In most cases, even the most traditionalist of Fairies looked past the campfires the Giants gathered around to exchange war stories. But when these parties involved hunted wildlife – deer, boars, or the sinfully delicious cranes found in the western lake district of the forest –, a war declaration already waved between the trees by the time King or Diane could intervene.
Along with the cackling of the fire, the sound of laughter and, strangest of all, music reached Diane’s ear as she zigzagged through the pine trunks. The out of place sound almost made her stumble. Had the wind solely carried the beat of drums, she would have continued her race without a second thought. But a small orchestra of pipes and flutes gave the rhythmic pounding a melody unlike anything she had ever heard in Megadoza. If any Giant knew how to craft and play a flute, Matrona had to have hid them in the catacombs underneath the rock city during Diane’s two hundred years of training there.
A final sprint brought Diane to the clearing from where the smell of meat and the sound of music originated. But instead of a pack of drunk and bellowing Giants, the last sunrays reflected from the faces of Fairies and Giants alike. And instead of accusations hurled at the other clan, laughter tied both sides together.
Above the open fire, spits laden with meat turned while a soup happily bubbled in an oversized iron cauldron. A handful of lanterns in the shape of tulips adorned the trees around. While not as golden or luxurious as the festivities Diane had visited in Liones, the clearing showed all the makings of a celebration, complete with a colorful assembly of guests.
King hovered in the middle of the illusive scenery and conversed with Matrona and Ritho, an older Giant whose passion lay with war before any other activity. All three of them were smiling.
Diane maltreated her temple with her knuckles, but the illusion refused to collapse and return to the dust of her imagination. What had happened in her absence that all conflicts between Giants and Fairies had smoothened into a pretty party with a pretty ribbon to complete the present? Had Bartra Liones foreseen the end of the world for tomorrow? Another explanation failed to arise out of the muddle of her thoughts.
She stared, and she stood, unable to move or comprehend what was playing out before her eyes.
King noticed Diane, nodded to Matrona and Ritho, and floated towards her with two minimalistic flaps of his wings.
He lifted the paralyzed fingers of her right hand with visible effort, and beamed at her. “I’m glad you made it. Gerheade was almost on her way to catch you at the Great Tree. I wasn’t sure when you would return, but I guess everything worked out better than expected.”
“I don’t understand. Did I miss something?”
A shade of pink darkened his cheeks. The orange hues of the fire emphasized the effect. “Didn’t I tell you? We want to celebrate the merger between the Fairy and Giant Clan. We got lucky with the weather tonight, otherwise the open fire might have given us some headaches. Oh, and Happy Anniversary!”
Diane blinked. “It’s… been a year already?! I thought… two weeks, a month at most…”
“If Gerheade hadn’t reminded me, I would have said the same, but here we are. A year later. I’m so proud of what we’ve built here. What you started when you told me about your idea with the merger – no one other than you could have even considered to bridge the cleft between our two clans. All because no one sees the good in others like you do.” King inhaled, and his tiny hands increased their grip around Diane’s fingers. “I love you so much. None of this would have been possible without you.”
His touch and the warmth of his smile melted all troubles and anxiousness of the day away. Nothing else mattered, and if Diane had to put up with a thousand near-deaf Giants to earn this one moment with the one she loved, she would jump into the fray without hesitation.
She dragged him closer, intoxicated by the flowery scent of his skin, lost in his amber eyes, and cradled by all the compliments he showered her with, too generous to be true, but oh, so earnest. The cleft disappeared, and Diane covered King’s face with a kiss.
Before he could pass out from a lack of oxygen, Diane pulled back. She smiled at his expression, a perfect replica of the dazzled Fairy boy before he had grown his wings.
“I love you too, King. And thank you for the party. It’s perfect. When did you have time to organize all this anyway?”
“Oh, that? I really didn’t do much in terms of setting up the location or preparing the meat. The others deserve all your thanks for the hard work. I just flew around a little to find some special ingredients for the stew.”
Diane laughed. “Still a delivery boy at heart, I see. The Captain must have drilled this chore especially deep into your head.”
“I guess he discovered this hidden talent of mine before even I could see it.”
More and more Giants and Fairies followed the sound of the flutes, and soon the clearing disappeared in a crowd of feet and wings. Bowls of two different sizes wandered through the guests, a stew of turnips and roots and chanterelle. While nothing between Purgatory and the Sky Temple could match Ban’s carrot soup, Diane gulped down three helpings in record time, mesmerized by the earthy taste. And she would have asked for an additional portion, if King hadn’t handed her a spit with her favorite type of roasted pork.
The smell of fat made her mouth watery. “Can I marry you a second time?”
“I would marry you every single day, every single year ahead of us, if I could,” King said.
Diane grinned and for the next few minutes, she was too occupied with chewing to talk. The chatter of the people around her blurred into a pleasant carpet of sound. This was what she had always envisioned: Giants and Fairies united in spite of their stupid differences and their arguments, an exchange of words and food to the soft crackle of a campfire. And her and King in the middle of it all, finally side by side after all this time.
The stars stood high up in the sky, a million more than humans could ever spot in Liones or Camelot. From time to time, they winked as if to congratulate King and Diane on what they had accomplished. He leaned against her knee while she stroked the filigree ornamentations of his wings. A shudder rocked him whenever Diane found a new nerve to stimulate.
Neither of them felt the need to disturb the moment with words.
Then a single flute raised its voice above the conversations, a new tune, almost melancholic at first. A panpipe picked up where its companion had left of and gave the melody a merry spin. The flautist enticed a few more notes out of his instrument, and for a moment it and the panpipe seemed to fight a musical battle for the tone of their sonata. But then they fell into harmony, drums and chimes and a fiddle joined in, and soon the entire orchestra played a tarantella to invite the crowd to a dance.
King jerked up. After he had risen into the air, he bowed and extended a hand towards Diane. Sparks from the campfire reflected in his eyes.  “May I have this dance?”
Diane took his hand with a smile. “You may.”
One with the music and the rhythm of nature, King and Diane spun around the fire. Her feet bopped and arched, and he mimicked her moves midair. One moment she pulled him so close their noses almost touched, the next he guided her into another twirl and their fingers parted to finish a sequence with two claps. Other pairs skipped onto the dance floor; Matrona and Zalpa, Ende and Gerheade, and ever so rarely a Giant and Fairy together.
Although her steps lead her astray sometimes, Diane always found King’s eyes in the crowd. Never more than a pirouette away, still in sync with her. The music chased them in circles, two claps of the hands, and another sequence of hops and taps and spins. The odors of cooking fat and sweat from a multitude of dancers got to Diane’s head. Dizziness hijacked her senses until nothing but the next step filled her mind.
With two final claps, the dance ended. King hovered mere inches away from her, guided there by his own doing or a by a smile of fortune. His chest heaved up and down and the many turns had tousled his hair. But his grin was the incarnation of pure joy, brighter than the fire and the firmament.
Their kiss held more force this time, driven by the passion of the dance and heated by the blood rushing into both their heads. The touch of his skin and the flowery taste of his lips replaced the world around Diane, and they were one.
Yes, the merger caused them trouble every day, and Giants and Fairies alike strained their patience with a hellish desire to convince them to give up.
But King and Diane proved time and time again that beauty lay in the union between their clans. They fought for what they believed in, and they continued to push the boundaries of what Chaos’ creations were meant to achieve.
For moments like this.
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Brian Mansfield shared on Twitter that he found a thumb drive with data showing music Taylor was listening back in the day when he worked and interviewed her for USA Today. Article in question can still be accessed with the help of Wayback Machine, if Flash is enabled in your browser. Alternatively, you can check out the whole list, with around 500 song, HERE.
You can also check out playlist on Spotify that Brian made with the songs that 18-year-old Taylor listened to the most on her iPod, or you can check them out below the cut.
Taylor Swift's iPod When She Was 18
Family Force 5 - Love Addict
Damien Rice - The Blower's Daughter
Patty Griffin - Christina
Better Than Ezra - Breathless
Metro Station - Now That We're Done
Gwen Stefani - Hollaback Girl
Trace Adkins - Every Light in the House
Gorillaz - Feel Good Inc.
Jem - 24
Damien Rice - 9 Crimes
Yung Joc feat. Nitti Explicit - It's Goin' Down
Savage Garden - I Want You
The Cardigans - I Need Some Fine Wine and You, You Need to Be Nicer
Ingrid Michaelson - The Way I Am
Mat Kearney - All I Need
Aslyn - Be The Girl
John Mayer - Comfortable (EP Version)
Patty Griffin - Heavenly Day
The Corrs - Breathless
Brandi Carlile - What Can I Say
Coldplay - Sparks
Corinne Bailey Rae - Put Your Records On
Josh Rouse - It's The Nighttime
The Wreckers - Cigarettes
Chantal Kreviazuk - In This Life
The Veronicas - When It All Falls Apart
Hellogoodbye - Here In Your Arms
Coheed and Cambria - The Suffering
Gwen Stefani ft. Akon - The Sweet Escape
Dixie Chicks - Top Of The World
Dixie Chicks - Easy Silence
Mat Kearney - Where We Gonna Go From Here
Rachael Yamagata - Worn Me Down
Tyler Hilton - Kiss On (Revised)
Gavin DeGraw - Follow Through
Ben Jelen - Come On
Colbie Caillat - Feelings Show
Emerson Drive - Fall Into Me
James Blunt - Goodbye My Lover
Liz Phair - Why Can't I?
Paris Hilton - Nothing In This World
Dashboard Confessional - Vindicated
Jimmy Eat World - The Middle
Lenny Kravitz - Again
Diana Anaid - Last Thing
Maroon 5 - Harder To Breathe
Metro Station - Shake It
LFO - Every Other Time (Radio Edit & Album Version)
Mindy Smith - Come To Jesus
Patty Griffin - Burgundy Shoes
Patty Griffin - Peter Pan
Plumb - Stranded
Better Than Ezra - Our Last Night
Def Leppard - Pour Some Sugar On Me
Fort Minor feat. Holly Brook & Jonah Matranga - Where'd You Go
Lil Scrappy - No Problem
Patty Griffin - When It Don't Come Easy
Ryan Adams - Come Pick Me Up
Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers - American Girl
Dem Franchize Boyz - Ridin' Rims
Unkle Bob - Swans
Jann Arden - Insensitive
Rilo Kiley - Portions For Foxes
Landon Pigg - Can't Let Go
LeAnn Rimes - The Right Kind Of Wrong
The Fray - Look After You
The Wallflowers - Closer To You
Matt Wertz - Red Meets Blue
The Veronicas - 4ever
Beyoncé - Irreplaceable
David Mead - Nashville
Something Corporate - Ruthless
Blu Sanders - Like the Movies
Britney Spears - Do Somethin'
Fefe Dobson - 8 x 10
Frankie J featuring Baby Bash - Obsesion (No Es Amor)
Gavin DeGraw - Belief
Kelly Clarkson - Some Kind of Miracle
Miranda Lambert - Kerosene
Pat Benatar - Wuthering Heights
Shakira - Don't Bother
SHeDAISY - In Terms Of Love
Tori Amos - A Sorta Fairytale
The Fray - How to Save a Life
A Fine Frenzy - Almost Lover
Coldplay - Yellow
Dixie Chicks - Cold Day In July
Gary Allan - Promise Broken
Kelly Clarkson - Low
Sheryl Crow - It's So Easy
Dixie Chicks - Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)
Fefe Dobson - Revolution Song
Jet - Look What You've Done
John Mayer - Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
Michelle Branch - Goodbye To You
Plain White T's - Hate (I Really Don't Like You)
T.I. - What You Know
The Corrs - Summer Sunshine
Divinyls - I Touch Myself
Goo Goo Dolls - Here Is Gone
Pitbull ft. Lil Jon - Culo
Jake Owen - Ghosts
Lil Scrappy ft. Young Buck - Money In The Bank
BarlowGirl - Never Alone (Radio Remix)
Coldplay - The Scientist
Dem Franchize Boyz, Peanut, Charlay - Lean Wit It, Rock Wit It
Hope Partlow - Don't Go
Matchbox Twenty - Long Day
Semisonic - Closing Time
U2 - One
Brandi Carlile - Turpentine
Brandi Carlile - Throw It All Away
Mr. Big - To Be With You
Gabrielle - Out Of Reach
Colbie Caillat - One Fine Wire
Anna Nalick - Catalyst
Dashboard Confessional - Hands Down
Dixie Chicks - Not Ready to Make Nice
Fefe Dobson - Take Me Away
Staind - Everything Changes
Del Amitri - Roll To Me
Jake Owen - Eight Second Ride
Anna Nalick - Breathe (2 AM)
Bruce Robison - Virginia
Dixie Chicks - Lullaby
Dwight Yoakam - The Back of Your Hand
Maroon 5 - She Will Be Loved
The Veronicas - Everything I'm Not
Three 6 Mafia - Side 2 Side
Vertical Horizon - You're a God
Jason Mraz - I'm Yours
Joanna - Screaming Infidelities
David Gray - This Year's Love
Rachael Yamagata - Be Be Your Love
Sarah McLachlan - Fallen (Album Mix)
Backstreet Boys - Crawling Back to You
Pat Benatar - Hit Me With Your Best Shot
The All-American Rejects - Dirty Little Secret
Avril Lavigne - Fall To Pieces
Pat Benatar - Heartbreaker
Def Leppard - Photograph
Vanessa Carlton - Who's To Say
Mannie Fresh - Real Big
Alanis Morissette - Hands Clean
Ben Lee - Catch My Disease
Beyoncé, Bun B, Slim Thug ft. Bun B and Slim Thug - Check On It
Fefe Dobson - Don't Let It Go To Your Head
Grace Potter & The Nocturnals - Apologies
Jack Johnson - Taylor
James Blunt - You're Beautiful
Katie Herzig - Fools Gold
Matchbox Twenty - If You're Gone
The All-American Rejects - Swing, Swing
Third Eye Blind - Semi-Charmed Life
Jonas Brothers - Tonight
Acceptance - Different
Alison Krauss & Union Station - New Favorite
Ben Folds Five - Brick
Brandi Carlile - Fall Apart Again
Courtney Jaye - Can You Sleep
Dashboard Confessional - Ghost Of A Good Thing
Fefe Dobson - Bye Bye Boyfriend
Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah
John Mayer - Your Body Is a Wonderland
Mozella - You Wanted It
Oasis - Wonderwall
Shop Boyz - Party Like A Rock Star
Wheat - I Met A Girl
John Mayer - Waiting On the World to Change
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imagine-loki · 4 years
Text
Atlas: Space, Mercury
TITLE: Atlas: Space
CHAPTER NO./ONE-SHOT: 2/12
AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump
ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine narrating episodes of Loki’s life with the Avengers based on the songs from Sleeping At Last’s “Atlas: Space” album. 
RATING: T-M
NOTES/WARNINGS: Welcome to my Sleeping At Last’s Atlas: Space challenge, aka Another writing project I do not have time for, but my brain insisted on doing.
This series will be less like a multichapter fic and more of a one-shot compendium, but that they all interconnect in one way or another. It will revolve around Loki and Becca’s relationship (Taking Turns, Glow, Helmet Heists–don’t worry, more Loki-Charlie stuff will be along) and I will use those one-shots as reference to the timeline. Each chapter will be one song, used as inspiration for the story.
Warnings include: language, maybe, and morally grey debates about killing bad guys, angst (so much angst), and a thoroughly confused Loki.
Chapter 2: Mercury
Summary: Becca did not expect to feel this way after her first official mission. Loki did not expect to care how she felt, one way or another. Takes place after Helmet Heists.
=
“Heya, Lokes. How’s it going?”
Loki looked up, brow furrowed in a calculating expression. Tony Stark was not one to casually strike up a conversation with him unless it was of the utmost importance and he had no other choice. Therefore, the almost cheery way he had plopped himself down beside him on the couch was a matter of extreme curiousness.
Loki was having none of it.
“What is this?”
“I only asked how you were?” Tony sounded unsure, put looked all around innocent until he let out a long puff of air that made his cheeks inflate. “OK, I wanted to ask you how Becks was.”
Loki rolled his eyes and turned the page on his book, his attention now on the tight script before him. “I daresay she’s your employee, Stark, not mine. Why would I know?”
“Maybe because she’s the only person you talk to, and you’d be able to tell if she were OK. And the fact that you’ve been sticking to her like glue since we got back from the Hellhole. I don’t know, it gives me the inkling that you do, indeed, know.”
Stark wasn’t wrong.
Rebecca was the only human that Loki seemed to find bearable most of the time. She wasn’t loud or brash or mindless. Her taste in literature wasn’t half bad, either.
But she was human. And mortal. And beneath him.
For the longest time, he had tried not to get too attached, but this last mission certainly became a turning point in their relationship. It wasn’t bad, per se. They understood each other’s body language in a way that only two introverts could, and they worked together well as a team, but… she was so soft and innocent and everything he was most certainly not. Loki tended to scoff and ridicule humans such as this, not attempt to ensure their safety and their ongoing wellbeing, even after the fact.
Those eyes, though…
“Lokes?” Apparently Loki had been silent for much longer than was considered normal. He tended to do that a lot, as of late, always in relation to that dreary mortal.
Loki shifted uncomfortably at the memory of Becca’s eyes on the jet ride back. “I would say she takes issue with the moral ambiguity of killing an enemy. Regardless of whether or not they deserved it.”
Rows of houses Sound asleep Only streetlights Notice me
He nearly wanted to laugh at himself. Taking issue was probably the understatement of the year.
More than once, while he was doing his nightly walks, he would find Becca on the roof, staring at the world below–at the forests, the darkness, at the nothingness. She would stand, shivering in the night air, as she tried to make out shapes in the inky black abyss. It would take him two or three mentions of her name to rouse her from contemplative stupor. And, even then, Loki could tell she was not all there.
She always smiled, pushing through the oppressive chaos in her head and ask him about his day. As if she had not been fixing to fall apart a second before.
Damn her and her empathy.
I am desperate If nothing else In a holding pattern To find myself
I talk in circles I talk in circles I watch for signals For a clue
More than once he had swallowed whatever irritation would bubble to the surface in an effort to get her talking. Instead of his usually acidic demands for her to get on with it, he simply nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging manner and waited for her to spill her thoughts, as repetitive as they were. Not that he could blame her.
He remembered the first time he had killed something. He was seven. It had been a rabbit while on a hunt. He cried for three days, afterwards, until an Einherjar had scoffed and told him that was how life worked and he needed to accept it. Loki hadn’t cried when that particular soldier did not come home from a siege in Vanaheim a hundred years later. Nor for the hundreds that had been lost in battles, since. What was the point? Creatures lived and died, sometimes by his blade. That was life.
How to feel different How to feel new Like science fiction Bending truth
“Why do you keep asking that, Loki?” She had whined, pulling the edges of his cloak, which he had laid over her bare shoulders to shield her against the wind. He had asked if she was doing alright. “You know I’m physically fine. You made sure of that.”
He had not meant to inquire after her physical well-being, and Becca very well knew that. She also knew that he would die a fiery death before insisting “but, how do you feel?” Loki had made an annoyed noise and stormed off with the intention to hide in his room. He had doubled back, halfway there, only to watch her wipe away tears from the corners of her eyes when she thought herself alone. He still went back to his room, but he felt like a rock was lodged in his stomach all the way there.
“Could you do me a favor and keep an eye on her? She’s been really jumpy and anxious at work, but she keeps telling me she’s fine.” Tony sighed. “I just worry about her, man.”
Loki offered a sympathetic look, despite his initial reaction to sneer back at the Iron Man. Breaking old habits was hard. “I know. I will.”
No one can unring this bell Unsound this alarm, unbreak my heart new God knows I am dissonance Waiting to be swiftly pulled into tune
The Asgardian prince had found his friend in a hidden corner of the library. It looked like she had started to read one of the many tomes on Asgardian technology he had lent her, before her mind betrayed her. Becca was staring straight in front of her, brown eyes empty of any emotion yet full of doubts and insecurities.
“Rebecca.” His whisper clapped like thunder in the eerie silence of the library.
She snapped out of her trance and offered him a smile. “Sorry, did you say something, Lo?”
Gods above, help me.
Loki sighed, pulling a chair beside her and sinking down. Even seated, he was still significantly taller than her, but she found that she felt a little less nervous when he tried to get on her level. It was a kindness, she knew, but the concern buried deep in his gaze did little to make her feel better. If anything, she felt worse. If she had stayed in the jet, if she had followed directions, who would she be today? Could she be able to sleep? Could she stop waking up in cold sweats at all hours of the morning?
“Dearest, talk to me.” The use of pet names were few and far between with Loki. He much preferred calling anyone “hey, you” or “imbecile come here”. So the use of a term of endearment…
Did she really look in that dire a state?
“Tony sent you, huh?” Becca thought she might as well deflect until he felt uncomfortable. That usually worked.
“No, I sent myself,” he assured, frowning. The expression he received in exchange screamed you’ve gotta be kidding me. “Though Tony expressed interest in also knowing how you were,” he admitted and Becca rolled her eyes. Swallowing whatever shard of emotion that was attempting to convince him to let the whole thing go, he craned his neck until his gaze  could easily fix on hers. “You cannot go on like this, you know it. You cannot keep replaying scenarios in hopes of finding a loophole to villainize yourself with.”
I know the further I go The harder I try, only keeps my eyes closed And somehow I’ve fallen in love With this middle ground at the cost of my soul
Becca groaned, the sincerity in his voice making the pit in her stomach grow larger. The edges of her perfectly crafted calmness began to fray and she was sure that the god could easily feel it unraveling under his stare. “It can’t be this simple, Loki.” She couldn’t live her life without feeling guilty, she meant. Surely, she had to spend the rest of eternity purging herself of these demons before she could allow herself even a morsel of comfort. If not, was she not just a monster? 
Loki chuckled drily, placing a hand on her shoulder and its weight felt like a welcome balm to her shot nerves. “Who said anything about simple? You took lives. Nothing about that is simple. Believe me, I understand. But, on rare occasions, the ends do justify the means.”
Her head fell, hanging between her shoulders in a sign of defeat she should have never had to deal with. Stark shouldn’t have asked her to come on the mission, but she saved ten of the two dozen from dying in battle due to faults in their equipment. She saved him from what she thought was certain death (and might have been). Her heart was too good for this dark, sludgy world of his, he knew.
He wanted to hate it, to scoff at her naivety, at her hopefulness for the rotting lump that was her world. He couldn’t. He craved it, instead, and wondered how he had ever lived his thousand plus years without that little beacon of hope.
His chest hurt. Loki supposed that was the place his heart was meant to be, and the phantom organ had clenched at her tears, once she had managed to face him again.
She sniffed. “I don’t know if I can live with that.”
Yet I know, if I stepped aside Released the controls you would open my eyes That somehow, all of this mess Is just my attempt to know the worth of my life In precious metals
“I can,” he said simply. The surety of his voice and the clear lack of remorse made her something inside her feel warm like lava, rather than a fireplace’s hearth. She shuddered at his set expression and the glimmer of bloodlust in his stare. “I would have killed a hundredfold more, if it meant bringing you back safe. I will never live to regret that.” Loki was surprised to find that none of these words were a lie. He didn’t want her dead. He wanted her to thrive. He wanted her not to feel this gnawing emptiness that followed the taking of life. “You are my friend and you’re worth many more than that.”
“I don’t think that’s true, but thanks, anyway,” she muttered.
“Would I lie to you?” Never in his life had he wished for someone to ignore his nature and reply in the negative, than he did right now.
Becca’s mouth twisted in a reluctant smile. “Absolutely.” His heart clenched again, and this time there was no doubt about it. “But I don’t think you are.”
A long stretch of silence encompassed them.
“I want to return.”
“Return?” He frowned.
“To the field.” She sighed, pulling her shoulders back and sitting up straight. He had seen that pose before, when she was resolute to solve an issue or dissect a conundrum. He saw it when she had run from the jet and skidded to a stop beside him. “The reason I’ve been feeling so miserable is that fact that I feel awful about what I’ve done, but I can’t ever leave you guys out there alone, again. Not after what I’ve seen. And I’ve never felt this conflicted.”
“It’s what we signed up for, dove,” he assured, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear with incredible gentleness. “You needn’t worry about us. We’ll be perfectly fine as long as you’re there to greet us back.”
“That’s like telling me I don’t have to worry about the sky suddenly turning green. I’m going to do it, anyway.” Becca wasn’t sure why, but she followed up his silent question. “I’m going to get my training certifications back up-to-date, log in some time on local raids, and I’m joining missions.”
“Darling, you don't–”
“I’m going back! That’s final!” Becca snapped so loudly that Loki jumped, startled, and leaned back ever so slightly.
He blinked a few times to live down his surprise and offered her a nod. “Then, I will dutifully follow.” He smirked, nudging her side playfully. “Someone has to keep you alive.” Lest I attempt to destroy this pathetic planet, once more. 
He hated that this was his first thought, but he knew he would follow her to Helheim and back to see her through. He needed to protect that light, that shine, that glow. 
I’ll go anywhere you want me
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noahmanskar · 3 years
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The Best Albums of 2020 (and from the Before Times)
I read a lot of year-end music roundups, and several this year have come with a resonant caveat: It’s been harder to discover new music this year, both because of physical limitations (no shows, no record-store browsing, no chats with friends about your latest finds), and because the way we used music fundamentally changed. It certainly did for me. Rather than serving as the backdrop for a commute or a night out, it created moments of solace from cabin fever while doing dishes, or showering, or running semi-weekly errands. So I often turned to what was comfortable and familiar, songs that conjured memories and feelings to get me through the day. Even on the rare occasions of social listening, the groups I was with drifted into nostalgia — middle school dance tracks, mid-2000s emo, inherited dad rock, even songs from just a year or two ago, when everything was simpler, relatively speaking.
That’s not to say nothing new moved me. There was a handful of albums and songs that were crucial to getting through the doldrums. They soundtracked bike rides, long walks, longer drives and lots of small moments mentioned above. But I don’t think I can think about my favorite music of this year without thinking about the albums of the past that got me through it. Besides, one of the many lessons 2020 taught is that time is a bizarre illusion anyway. (This exercise also lets me write about some recent albums that I didn’t get to write about when they were actually released.
So here are the albums, past and present, that made 2020 bearable. I hope you found yours, too.
Tame Impala, “The Slow Rush”
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Tame Impala’s fourth LP came out on Valentine’s Day. That afternoon, Claire and I had a lunch date to mark the occasion before we got on a plane to visit my parents. The night before, we had gone out to dinner with friends visiting from San Francisco and then to a bar, where we huddled next to strangers on a water bed. Roughly a month later, all of this would be unimaginable, and Kevin Parker’s lyrics to “One More Year” would be eerily prescient as we settled into this new normal:
But now I worry our horizon's been nothing new 'Cause I get this feeling and maybe you get it too We're on a rollercoaster stuck on its loop-de-loop 'Cause what we did one day on a whim Has slowly become all we do
The song is really about surrendering to time, and not worrying about it passing in spite of your ambivalence. The opening chants of Parker’s “Gregorian Robot Choir” make it easy to surrender. They carry you into a world where, as the cover art suggests, all that time you were worrying about has already passed, so you might as well dance. At the same time, the songs that follow, like “Borderline,” “Breathe Deeper” and “Lost In Yesterday” make it easy to remember what it was like to dance in a sweaty room with people you love, and to look forward to doing it again, after a little more time passes.
Fleet Foxes, “Shore”
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There’s something comforting about the fact that Fleet Foxes released this record on the exact moment of the autumnal equinox. It’s a reminder that nature has its own rhythms that carry on regardless of what occurs in our human lives. They give us a measure of certainty in uncertain times. One of these rhythms — death — looms large in “Sunblind,” an ode to Robin Pecknold’s departed musical forebears: David Berman, Bill Withers, John Prine and others. This song exuding calm acceptance shifts into “Can I Believe You,” which wrestles frankly with doubt and fear.
These tracks contain profound contradictions, but sonically, they're both bright, hopeful and sure. That’s what made this album such a balm in the sixth month of this pandemic, a time of both growing darkness and hope for what might be on the other side. It reminds us that there’s power and beauty in feeling all these things at once.
Lil Uzi Vert, “Eternal Atake”
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This one spent two years in label purgatory, but it finally arrived in March to prove Lil Uzi Vert can do it all. He’s at his most versatile here, spitting and crooning, boasting and balladeering. “You Better Move” is an early standout packed with playful nostalgia, including a beat that samples that classic PC pinball game and delightful jabs like these:
Yeah, step on competition, changin' my shoes Green shirt, bitch, I'm Steve, where is Blue? Every chain on, I pity a fool I'm an iPod, man, you more like a Zune Made her eat on my dick with a spoon, ew Versace drawers, bitch, you Fruit of the Loom
Then there are the melodic tracks like “Urgency,” which compel you to hum along even on the first listen. The excellent diversity made it worth the wait for this hourlong journey to another planet.
Sturgill Simpson, “Cuttin’ Grass Vol. 1: The Butcher Shoppe Sessions”
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I haven’t spent much time with Sturgill Simpson outside of 2014′s “Metamodern Sounds in Country Music,” and I can’t say I’ve ever listened to another bluegrass album all the way through. But these new cuts of songs picked from Simpson’s catalog are wonderfully enticing. Simpson puts the talents of his backing band front and center, and their harmonies and rhythms illuminate his vivd songwriting in new ways. It was a great introduction to the genre for me.
Fiona Apple, “Fetch The Bolt Cutters”
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I got here after the hype, after the perfect 10, after all the year-end number-ones. Fiona Apple lives up to all of it. Her compositions are complex and evocative, the lyrics tender and biting at once. Her artistry is unsparing. The chorus to the title track is already getting stuck in my head, and I can’t wait to spend more time with this one.
Bea Troxel, “The Way That It Feels” (2017)
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Almost a decade has passed since I first saw Bea Troxel play. She was in an incredibly talented trio with two of my high school classmates: Maeve Thorne (who has an entrancing solo EP of her own), and Rita Pfeiffer (the violinist on this record). They ended up winning my school’s battle of the bands, and I got to interview them for the student newspaper. Shortly after our senior year, they recorded an album that still outshines most of today’s indie folk. So I jumped at the chance to all three of them again in Brooklyn. 
Troxel’s performance in particular was a revelation. I won’t ever forget how I fell into a trance as she picked away at “Talc,” which exemplifies her gift for natural metaphor. I haven’t stopped playing her record since, and it’s been a constant comfort throughout this year. Her voice is one of a kind, her songwriting is rich, and the compositions flow together beautifully. I can’t wait for more; in the meantime, “The Way That It Feels” will be on repeat.
Travis Scott, “Birds In The Trap Sing McKnight” (2016)
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There’s been much ado about the brilliance of “Astroworld,” Travis Scott’s magnum opus, but I have a soft spot for his sophomore LP, where he reached the peak of the spare and heavy sound that started to take shape on “Owl Pharaoh.” There are plenty of sonic layers here, and the ordering of the tracks is a craft in itself — a series of peaks and valleys that glides from the haze of “beibs in the trap” to the climax of “goosebumps” and then into the cool waters of “pick up the phone.” It feels like Scott is guiding you to and from these destinations. The journey is, as The Weeknd might put it, “wonderful.”
Harmonium, “Harmonium” (1974)
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One of my pandemic binges was “Letterkenny,” the sharp Ontario-set sitcom with top-notch banter and a great soundtrack full of indie hits and Canadian deep cuts. The fight scenes are elegantly choreographed, but so are the handful of sequences at the end of key episodes that reveal the show’s emotional bedrock. One such scene is set to Harmonium’s “Un musicien parmi tant d'autres” — the main characters are reveling in a bar with their Québécois pals, whom they’ve just helped beat up a rival group. As the song builds to its climactic chorus, leading man Wayne, surrounded by couples, realizes his longing for companionship. Another fight breaks out, but instead of joining in, Wayne makes his way through the slow-motion fray toward the woman he’ll propose to in the next season. (Their relationship later falls apart, but that doesn’t undercut this scene’s beauty.)
This is probably the first foreign-language album I’ve listened to in full, but all of it evokes that feeling for me — the joy of walking through the chaos to reach what’s really important. Not a bad sentiment for these times.
Bon Iver, “22, A Million”
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To talk about this weird, dark and brilliant album, I need to talk about “715 - CR∑∑KS.” Everyone I’ve talked to about the third track on “22, A Million” either loves it or can’t stand it. I’m devoted to it to the extent that it was my most-played song on Spotify this year. It oscillates between tenderness and fear, between silence and explosions of sound. The lyrics are an epitome of Justin Vernon’s cryptic poetry. It’s isolated and spare and enthralling and beautiful in its own bizarre way — just like the rest of the album, which is rich with themes of persevering through the darkness in spite of the uncertainty about when the light will appear. Vernon is alone on “CR∑∑KS,” but he’s accompanied by a cacophony of his own voice. As alone as we might feel right now, there’s always someone else shouting through the darkness with us, even if we can’t see them.
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ravenvsfox · 5 years
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Rockband AU Chapter 10
buckle up folks, we’re about to get emotionally and physically violent up in here (no seriously, we’re going to Baltimore, hold onto your hats)
Sometimes, when he’s at his drum kit, he feels like he’s sitting on a rock in the middle of the ocean. 
The surf sucks at the stone, seabirds cry, schools of fish slip close enough that he can see their shimmering colours, and he is still. He is the thing the shipwreck didn’t kill, left out to shrivel under the raw blue sky.
Andrew waits and watches for Neil, searching the rim of the stage, waiting for the smudge of a lifeboat on the horizon. His drumsticks are vertical, fisted on both knees like points on dual compasses. The sooner their singer takes the stage, the sooner Andrew gets to leave it.
Nicky keeps vamping into the microphone, over-exuberant thank you’s and raunchy jokes. He’s unbelievably sweaty under the stage lights. Kevin is hugging his bass to his chest like a lover. Andrew wants to drive a drum stick through the heart of the snare drum and end the show like that instead.
Finally, Neil walks onstage with such a complete lack of aplomb that it takes a moment for the crowd to rile themselves back up again.
His eyes connect quickly with Andrew’s, his expression flat and miserable. It’s like a kill-switch for anything else that Andrew was thinking, lights out. He’s knocked right off of his island and out into the waves.
“The man of the hour,” Nicky crows. Kevin releases his bass, relieved, and his neck strap catches it against his ribs.
Sorry, Neil mouths. His hands find their places on the keyboard, and for a moment he leans into all the keys at once. Sorry, he says again, so the mic picks it up.
“Don’t hold his tardiness against him,” Nicky’s saying. “We’ve gotta create dramatic tension somehow. Do you think you’re ready to close it out?” He’s asking Neil, but he holds out the microphone and the crowd roars confirmation.
Neil responds by breathing out through his mouth, brows stitched together, and dropping his shoulders. 
When he starts singing the keening opening note, it’s with his entire chest, and gut, and hands. Andrew looks off-stage, into the silky darkness of the wings, and looks for whatever made Neil’s voice gush out like blood from an artery.
Neil sways uneasily, seeming half-drunk. He takes his hands away from the keyboard and puts them to his own face and chest, jamming his fingers into his flesh like he’s trying to pierce through and drag the song out. 
He takes the microphone out of its socket and moves with it, licking his lips and riffing so eloquently that a hush falls over the audience. His chest heaves.
Andrew grapples with the drums, wishing he were off stage, or in the audience, or inside Neil’s skin, watching his face and not the back of his head as the music courses through him like a fever.
He ends the show with his head bowed into the mic stand, shoulders shaking. Through the rush of sound and motion, Andrew can see Neil’s hand flexing as he lets go of the microphone.
Somewhere far away, there’s a sound like a gunshot. A swath of the cheering and conversation huffs and stops, confused.
Andrew stands, counting heads and searching for blood, half expecting a river of red to rush through the gaps in the crowd.
Neil’s face is split by light, almost mathematically perfect, like it was that night on the cabin porch, a hundred miles away. He looks tired.
Neil walks close enough that Andrew reaches out and grips him by the wrists, shackled together while their bandmates gather their things and circle each other with the coolness of a family of sharks.
Cloaked by sound, Neil leans in and says “thank you”. For an eager, out of control moment, Andrew thinks, you’re welcome. He thinks, anything. 
Neil is pursing, and leaning, and his face is a whirlpool. It always feels like he’s holding something ugly, and he wants Andrew to take it, if only he knew what it was. “I could never have played without you.”
Before Andrew can register what this means, Neil is pulling free and walking quickly backstage, the curtains swallowing around him.
Nicky claps Andrew on the shoulder, but he heaves out from his grip. There’s that gunshot sound again, followed by another wave of discontent in the crowd. Someone shouts, bruising and angry. There’s a chorus of “hey, watch it”, a hot, wounded yelp. The crisp sound of breaking glass.
“Move,” Andrew says through bloodless lips.
“What’s wrong?” Nicky asks.
What’s wrong is that their fans are breaking into weird, warring factions. However loud they were cheering before, they’re swearing even louder, knots and knots of them circling each other with intent. It’s almost artificial, like choreography, a chain reaction of bodies rearing back and charging.
He pushes to the lip of the stage for a better vantage point, and someone grabs his ankle from below. He stomps down onto the person’s face until they let go, but the momentum has him reeling backwards into Neil’s keyboard, which clatters awkwardly off its stand and unplugs itself.
“Shit!” someone says.
“Are you okay?”
“Come on, Andrew!”
He ignores them, gritting his teeth and dragging himself to his knees. He counts heads again. Aaron. Nicky. Kevin.
“Where’s Neil?” he yells. Aaron, Nicky, Kevin.
Nicky shakes his head down at him, looking completely bewildered.
Their security is conspicuously absent, and the audience is swelling nearer and nearer to the stage. An impossibly loud alarm drones to life overhead, and when everyone cranes to look for the source, the sprinklers turn on.
Mayhem.
Water sluices down on all of that violence and turns to steam. He sees someone backhand Aaron, and the force of his anger is so great that his teeth crack in his mouth.
He catches a stream of water in the eye and is momentarily blinded, still caught half-slouched on his knees. Something clips his temple, hard. He barely throws his hands out in time to catch himself before the stage can slam up into his face. His vision pulses and doubles.
He relives the moment of Aaron getting hit, and then he relives the way Neil disappeared backstage. Something hot swoops in his chest.
“Andrew, we have to go,” Aaron says. His hand is fisted in Andrew’s collar. The crowd is close enough that he can feel their breath and hands, and he can’t fucking see.
He lets Aaron pull him upright. Kevin ducks close through the crowd, and Andrew squints at the dark shape of him through his functioning eye. Nicky is at the side of the stage with fistfuls of curtain, chewing his lip. Aaron, Nicky, Kevin.
Someone in a pencil skirt and a headset ushers them out through the throng and past the stacks of damp equipment. Everyone’s talking and screaming and pushing and no one’s helping. 
Employees of the venue are soaked to the bone, arms full of electronics, rushing back and forth from the stage. Andrew’s feet weave dangerously. He can see a red bruise ringing Kevin’s throat, and through another blazing torch of fury, he has the sudden impression that he might have lost a little time, laid out on stage.
“Where’s Neil?” his mouth says.
The woman in the skirt smiles crookedly at him. Her pupils are just barely ringed with dark brown iris. “Oh, Neil? He’s taken care of.”
He doesn’t even think about it — he lunges at her. Aaron grabs him around the neck.
“What the fuck, Andrew?” he hisses.
“This is a set up,” he snarls. All three of them converge around him, looking nervous and battered. Behind them, a slow grin peels the woman’s mouth back. “The whole mob is premeditated.”
“Mosh pits just go bad sometimes,” Nicky says slowly. “It’s not your fault.”
“Of course not,” the woman says, pouting with fake sympathy. She takes a step backwards, tilting her head thoughtfully this way and that, then turns on her heel. He lurches after her, but a wave of dizziness takes him almost to his knees again. He looks up through sweaty bangs, and his eyes catch on a flash of copper.
“No,” he says.
A little key is sitting unassumingly on an amp next to the open backstage door.
Neil’s key.
“No,” he repeats. A padlock inside of him clicks open and drops out. Is he—is he—is this—
“They took him,” he chokes. “We have to find him.” I need him. He recoils from the impact of his own feelings. His breath comes out ragged as weakness beats down on him, relentless as hailstones. He knows that nothing would make Neil willingly leave his key behind. Nothing would drive him off stage a second before he had to go, not even a brawl.
“We just saw him,” Kevin says, confused.
“He probably just wanted to get ahead of the crowd, right?” Nicky says.
Andrew shakes his head. Neil told him over and over that someone was coming for him. He lay next to him and tapped a nervous tattoo into his bare chest. He looked over his shoulder constantly, viciously, like a snake contorting to bite its own tail. He sat in their kitchen on the eve of their concert and begged Andrew to let him go.
No, Andrew thinks. Not him.
Somewhere deep in his head, through tundra and rot, the version of him that used to beg for things rattles his cage. Please, he says. Please.
“Woah, hey,” Nicky says, as Andrew pushes past the tangle of their arms and over to the door. He peers out into the parking lot, full of terrible, stinging fear. The crowd continues outside for what seems like miles, but Neil is long gone. He scans passing faces anyway. His eyes burn and blur, and he realizes with a sick jolt that they’re full of tears.
“Go to the dressing room and lock the door,” Andrew says. He can’t look back at them. He wrests a short knife free from his armband and passes it to Kevin handle-first. “If anyone comes near you, kill them.”
“Yeah, we’re not doing that,” Aaron says.
“Where are you going?” Nicky asks.
Andrew doesn’t reply. He climbs heavily down the cement stairs and into the fray, feeling like he’s creeping out of a nightmare he’s never been self-aware enough to have before.
His vision is bruised and wrong. People quickly begin to flock to him, out of misplaced rage or a warped sense of protection. He cuts through them indiscriminately. When he takes a stray fist to the gut he twists and snaps their fingers in half. He feels arms trying to loop into his and he cuffs them in the temples, takes them out at the knees, crunches their toes under his heel. 
He searches for fantastically blue eyes in every face he sees, and shoves them angrily away when he doesn’t see what he wants to see.
Andrew circles the entire venue, but Neil is nowhere. Ten minutes ago, he’d been holding him by the wrists, and now he’s gone. There are no suspicious tire tracks in the gravel or out of place footprints because there are dozens of both. There is so much noise and motion that the crime scene never got a chance to settle.
He can feel real emotion on his face. He hasn’t been this deeply unhinged in years. Somehow he comes face to face with the backstage door again, and he stumbles. His thoughts are racing so far beyond him that his hands twitch, as if he could physically reach out and catch them. He thinks of the woman with the wide, gleeful eyes. Thank you, Neil had said. Thank you. Thank you. Goodbye.
He remembers there being security, and he remembers them coming and going in shifts -- new, dark eyebrows hunched over new, dark eyes, the flash of a silver weapon at someone’s hip.
He thinks of Neil nearly singing himself to death. Neil against him, flushed pink in a patchy, embarrassed sort of way, asking to be distracted from ghosts that Andrew could almost touch if he just held him hard enough. Neil inside a Moriyama tornado, touching down just barely in their kitchen, and confessing—He told me things about my past—
Andrew’s heart thrashes with adrenaline. He tears up the steps to the door and into the humidity backstage. The sprinklers have been shut off, and now there are a trio of heavy duty mops being dragged through the sopping mess on stage. He takes the hallway to the dressing room at a run, kicking up puddles as he goes. He rattles the doorknob.
“Kevin,” he says. The door sweeps open. He stumbles inside, getting his hands in Kevin’s shirt and using his momentum to take them both all the way back to the mirrors.
“Andrew, we couldn’t, I’m sorry, there’s—someone’s been killed,” Nicky wails.
Andrew reels. His grip loosens and Kevin squirms away. “Is it—“
“No,” Aaron cuts in. “Neil’s still AWOL.”
“Call Riko,” Andrew demands.
Kevin falters. His expression rumples with hurt. “What?”
Slowly, Aaron says, “Riko wouldn’t.”
Andrew grabs at the lapels of Kevin’s jacket, struggling to communicate how dire the situation is without losing control altogether.
“I need you to call Riko.”
“Don’t ask me to do that,” Kevin says quietly.
“He knows who Neil really is,” Andrew insists. “I need to talk to him.”
______
Nathaniel wakes up in the trunk of a car, with the sweet, woozy taste of chloroform on his lips. He tries to roll over, but his knees hit the door, and the cuffs clipped around his wrists pull painfully. His eyes are crusted closed with blood.
Pain and panic plug back into his brain and flood his entire system. He can’t help it—he screams through his gag. Someone bangs heavily on the seat closest to his head, and he swallows his agony as best he can.
Methodically, he makes his body relax. His heartbeat wrenches back and forth like it’s stumbling around the deck of a ship. They rattle over a speed bump, and he stiffens in his restraints, trying to avoid jostling his wounds.
He remembers everything in feverish sequence.
The way he’d changed hands again and again, caught first in the palm of the audience, and then in Andrew’s sweet, burning grip. He remembers pulling away only to be intercepted by Jackson and Romero, who each took an arm and forced him through the mob so roughly that he might’ve lost a layer of skin. And he remembers Lola parting the crowd to get to him, sharp nails outstretched.
He’s been so stupid. He’s been so complacent that violence actually managed to surprise him.
Lola had bullied him into a backseat at knifepoint, and as soon as they’d switched to a more nondescript car, she’d started interrogating him in earnest. 
The fifth time he insisted that his mother was dead, she’d switched weapons. A handy little vegetable peeler that she yanked up his forearms and stroked over the slope of his left eyebrow down to his cheek. She’d cooed in his ear what she might do with the pieces of his skin, after. It was tradition, Nathaniel remembered, for her to tell her victims what kind of fun she would have with their corpses.
He can feel the patchwork her blades made of his arms and hands, oozing beneath his clothes. Some of his fingers are cut almost down to the joint.
His head pounds from the drugs and his wounds throb terribly, but even in the middle of screaming pain he knows that it’s nothing. He knows where he’s going. You don’t worry about the cracks in the road when you’re headed for a sink hole.
Lola had told him about Nathan’s parole from a year long stint in jail, how he’d seen Ausreißer on television in the prison rec room. Nathaniel had been promoted to the top of his to-find list.
The car beneath him makes a messy left turn and jostles a tear of out him. It escapes down into his bloody hairline and he screws his eyes shut.
He thinks of the gnarls in the sidewalk where weeds always grow through. He thinks of the cardboard pints of ice cream growing icicles in their freezer. He thinks of Dan’s dimples when she throws her whole head back to laugh, Matt and Nicky’s complicated handshake, Allison’s tender half-smile. He thinks of Andrew’s rough fingers in his hair.
Then he thinks of his nails scratching against the bulb of the microphone as he forced himself to let go. The blood-tangy smell of his key ring when he held it to his mouth like a rosary, slipping his copper key out of place.
He always thought that staying in Maryland would be the most painful thing he could do, but returning is much worse.
For so long he felt like a refugee from a world that only his father could control. He spent a decade exploring the places and people that Nathan had never touched, and he almost let himself believe that he could live somewhere good. He’d nearly died for the love of somewhere else. And now he’s being dragged back to the hideous place where he was born.
Ausreißer will be left without a lead singer, he realizes. With an achy sort of pride, he know that they’re too strong for it to affect them for long. They were a band without him, and now they always will be.
The car speeds up, maybe exiting onto a freeway, and he lets the motion jar him to the deepest part of the trunk. Not long now. Dosed with chloroform and left to bleed, he knows this is the last peace he will know in his life.
______
They’re all standing in a tense circle in Wymack’s office, the four remaining monsters, Wymack and Abby crushed into twin rolling chairs behind the desk, Foxes hovering against the cabinets on the far wall.
Kevin’s on the phone, one hand smothering the shape of it, and the other clapped over his free ear.
It doesn’t last long, maybe twenty-five seconds in which Riko gleans who's calling, gloats briefly into the phone, and promises to be there with full retinue as soon as he’s able. It’s humiliating to play his game for even a second. It’s a farce and a betrayal.
“Well?” Wymack asks. “Someone want to explain to me why we’re missing pieces, here?”
“Yeah, and why we’re going to Riko fucking Moriyama for help?” Matt chimes in.
“I don’t know,” Kevin says weakly. He’s already fumbling in Wymack’s liquor cabinet.
“You don’t know,” Dan repeats. “You called us out here for what, then? To show us that you have the mafia on speed dial?”
“Andrew thinks Riko might know where Neil is,” Nicky explains.
“Why don’t you know where Neil is?” Allison asks. Her arms are crossed and her eyes are narrowed and Andrew has less than zero patience. He’s going to start throwing punches just to connect with something.
“Because everything went to shit,” Nicky says. “The set was fine, but then Neil came on for the encore like—really late, sang his fucking brains out, and left. I don’t know why. I don’t know—the whole venue went to hell. We lost track of everyone for a while. It was such bad timing.”
“It wasn’t,” Andrew says. “It was a diversion, set off exactly when Neil said it would be.”
“Cool. What spy movie do you think this is?”
Andrew slaps Allison across the face. He doesn’t even fight it when Renee wrenches his hands behind his back.
“Fuck you,” she says, shellshocked.
“Fuck you,” Andrew seethes. “Neil’s running on borrowed time, and you are wasting it.”
“What makes you so sure about this?” Dan asks. She’s always so shrewdly focused exactly where the answers are. It makes her a deadly leader.
“Yeah,” Matt says. “I really hate to say it, but Neil disappears sometimes. How do we know he didn’t freak out in the crowd and run away?”
Andrew shakes Renee off so he can pull Neil’s key out of his jeans pocket. He steps forward and slides it out onto the desk.
Wymack picks it up between two fingers. “What does this open?”
“That’s not—is that Neil’s key to the house?” Nicky asks. Andrew nods. “Oh.”
“What?” Dan asks.
“No, nothing, just…” Nicky shrugs. “He’s protective of his stuff.”
“Wonder where he gets that,” Allison says, eyeing Andrew. Her cheek is puffy pink.
“He wouldn’t have left it,” Kevin says, ignoring her. “He wouldn’t have been late to our encore, either. He’s always the first person on stage.”
“So where is he?” Renee asks, business-like.
“Taken,” Andrew says. If he could take a bite out of the slow, buffering tension in the room, he would break all his teeth.
In his head, he never lets Neil get out of his bed, and he breaks that mysterious phone of his, and he kills anyone who gets close to either of them. He can’t swallow when he thinks about Neil’s pain. His brain takes him to the threshold of a hundred terrible rooms where Neil could be, and he uses all of his energy staggering away, again and again and again.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Abby whispers. Andrew eyes her, scarcely able to believe that she’s there, or that she has an opinion. She hides her shaking hands beneath the lip of the desk.
“So we’re inviting Riko to the search party?” Matt asks.
Kevin drinks whiskey from the bottle, his eyes pinned somewhere out the window where none of them can follow. He licks his lips. “The Moriyamas have more connections than you could ever imagine.”
“Yeah, but we’re not exactly friends. How do we know he wasn’t the one who kidnapped Neil in the first place?”
“I would know,” Kevin says. His eyebrows knit together. “He would’ve told me.”
Andrew can’t stand the look on his face. Like he’s been bracing for impact but someone else took the hit instead.
He has to leave the room. He walks all the way down the main hallway to the door before he realizes he can’t just get in his car and drive away. He’s stuck here, waiting for a man he wants dead to give him information that Neil would rather die than give out.
He spins and stuffs all of his weight into his knuckles. Connects with the clean white wall. The pain explodes so exquisitely up his arm that he thinks it’ll kill his feelings, but it doesn’t. He should never have broken their deal. The regret is a pressure cuff around his skull and it tightens every time he thinks about it.
“This is a nightmare,” Aaron says, like he just stepped out of Andrew’s head. He does that, sometimes.
“I’m not talking about this,” he replies, without turning.
“Whatever,” Aaron says. “I didn’t ask you to.”
He turns, then. “Then why did you follow me?”
Aaron just looks coolly back at him. I had to, his eyes say. “Abby started crying. Looked like Kevin might be next. I didn’t want to be there.”
Andrew stares at him. He can’t imagine what his face is doing. He’s trying so hard not to shake and swerve and unhitch from himself that he forgot to keep the screws tight on his expression.
“Riko’s not going to help us,” Aaron says slowly. “You know that. He does what he wants.”
“We have something he wants,” Andrew says tonelessly.
Aaron folds his arms, uncomfortable. “So… what? Kevin for Neil?”
“No,” he says, agitated.
“Then what? Everyone in there is petrified of Riko, and they think you have a plan.”
“Aaron,” Andrew says. His voice is thick and dark. “I just need to get him back.”
Aaron squints at him. His mouth twists like he’s compensating for a fat lip. “I wish you would stop caring about people you’re going to lose.”
Andrew clenches his fist and feels the bruises pull. He parcels his grief into a box that won’t break his knees to carry, and pushes out into the parking lot, away from Aaron’s grubby, regretful silence. He wants to remember what high ground feels like. He wants to see Riko’s shiny black SUV coming.
______
Dan puts a hand on Neil’s knee.
“You ready?” she asks. She’s holding a folder of music too loosely, and sheets of it are pulling free and swishing to the floor.
“He's not,” Andrew says. As soon as Neil looks at him, he is very very close. His speckled eyes flare up and dilate. Neil starts to shut his own eyes and Andrew says, “don’t”. The ceiling wheels above him, instead.
There’s someone up there, on the ceiling. He can’t make them out.
Andrew and Dan are talking around him, low and silky.
“You should play,” Dan says, except now she’s his mother, and she’s pointing at a keyboard made of knives.
“It’ll hurt.”
Mary shrugs.
“Don’t,” Andrew repeats.
He stretches his hands out.
As soon as he looks down at his fingers, smooth and unbloodied, he realizes he’s dreaming.
In the dream, Neil starts to play.
In the Wesninskis’ basement, Nathaniel wakes up.
______
Riko is half-reclined on a table in their practice room, shiny boot propped up on a chair. Jean stands stiffly next to him, eyes downcast.
“Are you going to propose an exchange, or shall I?”
“You tell us and live, or you don’t and you die,” Andrew says, barely staying fixed in place by the door, corded with rage.
“We don’t strike deals with bullies,” Dan says. “And we’re not bargaining for Neil’s safety, come on.”
“I will do anything for Neil’s safety,” Andrew says rashly. All of his blood is outside of his body. All of his feelings are confetti and they’re getting in everyone’s hair and eyes and collars.
“I am relieved to hear it. Give me Kevin,” Riko says smugly. He’s enjoying himself. The vicious panic in the room is a cresting wave and Riko is gliding atop it.
Kevin makes a cut-off sound. Jean winces.
Andrew bares his teeth and lunges for Riko, and when Renee catches him across the chest, he rears back and fists his own hair. “Don’t—“ Andrew starts, but he can’t finish the sentence without tearing himself to shreds.
“We’re not giving you anything,” Matt interrupts. “We don’t even know for sure that it’s not you who did this.”
“All the more reason to work with me,” Riko says. “I could make the trade directly.”
“This is crazy,” Dan says. “This is crazy.”
Riko eyes her distastefully. “It’s business.”
“We’ll disband,” Nicky says. “We’ll— I don’t know. We’ll go into fucking hiding.”
“Nicky,” Wymack warns. “Don’t start making promises you don’t understand.”
“We’re not just—this is our livelihood,” Aaron says. “We’ll find another way.”
“This is nothing,” Andrew says. He’s been trying to wrap his head around a hundred deals made of blood, and Aaron can’t even put his guitar down to save Neil’s life.
“I’ll take your silence,” Riko muses, examining the clean pressed cuffs of his shirt. “And your savings.”
“You can’t make demands like that,” Wymack rumbles.
“You called me,” Riko says. “What did you expect?”
What did they expect? What was the plan? Andrew climbs back through his memory of the last hour and all he can see is panels and panels of his own fear, like a house of mirrors. He had been so lit up, so completely incandescent with rage, that he briefly thought he could make anyone do anything if it would save Neil’s life. Even bend the Yakuza to his will. Even bargain with nothing in his hands.
“You are wasting my time,” Riko says.
“You’re wasting Neil’s!” Dan exclaims. “Just tell us who’s after him. Give us a name. It won’t cost you fucking anything.”
“He probably doesn’t even know anything. He’s just covering his ass,” Allison says.
“You’re naive,” Riko replies narrowly. “Neil’s death is advantageous for me. Someone has crossed an item off of my checklist. Until you can promise me something better, you are exactly useless to me.”
He sets both feet down and uses Jean’s shoulder as leverage to stand.
He stops in front of Kevin and says, “I’m not surprised that you’re too much of a coward to save a friend. You couldn’t even save yourself.”
Kevin closes his eyes, breathing quickly through his nose, too terrified to be offended.
“If he’s dead,” Andrew says. “So are you.”
“Intimidating,” Riko says, smiling.
He makes for the door, but Wymack bars his way.
“We’ll make a deal,” he says. “Just—“
“Too late,” Riko says. “I’ve lost interest. I admit I would’ve liked to have killed Neil myself, but I know he’s in good hands.”
“Oh, fuck this,” Matt says, muscling across the room. No one moves to stop him, and when he’s close enough that Riko has to look up into his face, he grabs him around the shoulders and punches him in the eye. Nicky yelps and Allison cheers.
The dam broken, Andrew wrestles out from under Renee’s thumb, fumbling for a knife in his armband.
Jean steps neatly in front of him. “I would not.”
Someone tugs Andrew backwards, but he’s finished with being held back. He decks Jean in the face and ducks under his out-flung arms to get at Riko. His already bruised knuckles swim with pain.
They tussle, briefly, and between snatches of violence he can see that blood is turning one of Riko’s eyes red in sick parallel to Andrew’s.
“Come on. Andrew, come on! This isn’t helping Neil.” Aaron wrenches on one arm and Wymack takes the other. They haul him backwards. 
He catches sight of Renee dabbing at Riko’s bloody mouth and feels betrayal rip through him like prairie fire. Everything is heightened and swollen in his head. Every feeling he’s suppressed for ten years is clambering forward at once.
Riko is righting himself, dusting his hands off, pulling Jean back into his fold like a wayward dog. Two more figures in black have appeared at the door, weapons drawn.
“That was a mistake,” Riko says simply. He steps outside, and his entourage follows him down the hall. Jean looks backwards for a second, eyes wide, and then he’s gone.
“Okay so. We find another way,” Dan says. “We look through Neil’s stuff, we turn everything inside out.”
“I think he was too careful for that,” Nicky says. “He was like a ghost in our house.”
“So we, we, I don’t know, we go to the library and do some research.”
The adrenaline from the fight is still zipping around Andrew’s head like an electric halo. He wants to tell them to look in the duffel bag in Neil’s bottom drawer, to scour the internet for Nathaniels from Baltimore, but he can’t hand over Neil’s secrets even now.
“It’s been hours,” Kevin says quietly.
“He’s not dead,” Matt says. “He’s not.”
“You don’t know that,” Kevin says, even quieter.
“It won’t matter, anyway, because Riko’s going to kill the rest of us,” Aaron says. “Thanks for that, Matt.”
“Was I supposed to do nothing?” Matt says. “The things he was saying—“
“—were just words,” Aaron interrupts.
Matt’s expression breaks, a fissure of disappointment all the way down to his neck. “I thought your brother was the heartless one.”
“God, stop. We’re haemorrhaging time, here,” Dan says. “We need to do something.”
“What? What could we possibly do? We’re not detectives,” Aaron says. “What do we even really know about Neil?”
“Nathaniel.”
They all look dumbly at the open doorway.
Jean Moreau is standing in it, looking petrified.
“Nathaniel Wesninski,” he says breathlessly. “His father took him. The Butcher of Baltimore. I do not know their address, but I know they have political money. Influence. It would be somewhere big and well-situated for body disposal.”
The flush of information takes Andrew completely down. The ways Neil lied to him and the ways he didn’t are equally difficult to face.
“Woah, woah, woah, slow down,” Wymack says.
“Nathan’s alive?” Andrew demands. All the eyes in the room bore into his face.
Jean nods jerkily. “And furious.”
“How much time does he have?”
“I don’t know,” Jean says. “It will have taken hours just to get there. And the butcher is not one to be rushed.” His eyes dart nervously towards the door. “I have to go.”
“Why are you doing this for us?” Renee asks softly.
Jean looks at her for a long moment, and he sucks a shuddering breath in through his mouth. “I have to go,” he repeats, and he stumbles back into the hallway.
Almost instantly, the room explodes into action.
“Do we trust him? We trust him, right?” Nicky asks.
“What exactly are our options?” Dan says irritably.
“Call the Baltimore PD,” Wymack says. “Call the fucking fire department.”
“I’m on it,” Allison’s saying, flipping her phone open and loping out of the room.
“I don’t understand exactly what’s going on and I don’t need to,” Wymack says. “We get him back alive first and then we can talk about this.”
“We’re going, right?” Matt says. “We’re not just going to sit here?”
“We’re going,” Wymack confirms. “Neil or Nathaniel or whatever, he’s one of us.”
Andrew could collapse. He feels like he’s had his face to a sanding belt for four hours, and now he’s dust and scraps.
Despite all the gaps and inconsistencies between Neil’s story and Jean’s, Andrew doesn’t feel particularly lied to. He’d seen Neil’s face. He’d seen the colour and shape of his fear. He knew what it meant.
He remembers promising Neil that he would have killed Nathan if given the chance, and he knows now that he will.
______
His head rolls on tough cement. When he squints his eyes open, he sees long, slippery shadows shifting down the stairs towards him. The air smells coppery and antiseptic, but there's peppery cologne there too.
His father’s cellar.
Nathaniel unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Lola must have dosed him again, and from the red-hot burning lancing down his arms, she and Malcolm must have wrestled him down here none too gently.
He’s dazed and vulnerable enough that he forgets not to look in the corner of his head where Ausreißer and Foxes and Palmetto have been locked away, and the pain is so great that he wishes for unconsciousness again.
He bites the inside of his lip and forces himself still. He’s not cuffed, and he thinks he might have a slim window in which he can get behind Lola and her gun and give himself a chance.
It feels impossible. He’s so injured and woozy that he’s struggling to stay awake, and beneath his chest, his curled, bloodied right hand can’t even form a fist.
He thinks of the distance he’d tried to put between himself and this house, and how time is an elaborate bow that tugs undone as soon as you go back to the place you grew up. He spent years trying to become something new, and someone simply plucked his mask off. He is Nathaniel again.
Murmuring voices reach him through space and memory, and he’s keenly aware of who they belong to. Nathan, certainly, and probably his lapdog DiMaccio. He can feel Lola sitting a few feet away, her nails clinking against the barrel of her gun.
“I know you’re awake,” Lola singsongs. It’s a crushing blow, and Nathaniel grips onto his own disappointment, like he’s holding a blade with his hands so it can’t pierce his throat.
“Barely,” he replies hoarsely. “I’m getting my bearings.”
“Well don’t work too hard at it. You’re about to be scattered again.” She sounds deeply pleased by the thought of it.
He takes great pains to roll onto his side. He looks blearily across at Lola, who is still in her pencil skirt, clean cut. His vision is clouded by blood, one eye screwed up like a gnarled root where the peeler had ripped almost through his eyelid. He feels like he’s in another reality from her. He can barely see his grinning gravedigger from the bottom of the pit.
“Do you ever let people go?” he asks.
She considers this. “Only if I know I can catch them again. A little chase is good for the craft.”
“Murder,” he coughs. “Call it what it is.”
She raises her hands. “Oh, I leave the killing to the experts, Junior, you know that.” The top stair creaks, and she perks up like a trained dog. “Speaking of experts.”
There’s a brief, plodding descent into the cellar, the sound of a hand skimming over a metal railing.
And then Nathan’s in the room.
He fills it up so instantly and unrelentingly, like a flash flood. He is crisp and causal, hair cropped much shorter than Nathaniel’s now, chest thinner from his months in prison.
“On your feet, Junior,” he orders. “I won’t have you insulting me even further.”
Nathaniel hobbles upright. It’s terrible, but if he were here now, I know I’d do anything he asked. He’d said that to Andrew, not long ago. He knew it was true because he never really left this cellar. He’s never forgotten Nathan’s grip around his throat.
He keeps his hands carefully to himself as Nathan yanks him around, pulling his new injuries open. It’s an old dance, but Nathaniel can tell that his father is no longer taking pleasure in it. Nathaniel has ceased to be a pliable partner. 
The news about Mary’s death briefly seems to sideline him, but he quickly regains his balance.
“So you made a name for yourself,” Nathan says, holding Nathaniel up by the face. “Did you forget that I had already given you one?”
“I didn’t think you wanted a failure as an heir,” he chokes.
“I certainly didn’t. But you belong to me, and only I can break or discard you. It means something that you have my face. I can’t allow you to run away, squander my resources, and parade your defiance through the mainstream media.” He squeezes Nathaniel’s raw cheeks. “I’m going to enjoy silencing you.”
Nathaniel shuts his eyes and feels his hope withering and dropping off its stem.
“Look at me,” Nathan demands. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”
Nathaniel wets his lips. “No, sir.”
“Me neither,” Nathan admits. “I’m waiting to be inspired. This,” he gestures to the bleak but sterile corners of his basement. “Is my stage.”
He heaves Nathaniel into the wall, and crushes his forearm into his windpipe. “I think I might shut you up for good. You thought your voice would carry you out of my reach, didn’t you? How about I cut out your tongue?”
“N—no,” he says, aborted, hating his own weakness. “You can’t. Please.”
He struggles to hold Nathaniel’s mouth open through his thrashing and clamping teeth. He holds one hand out, and DiMaccio crosses the room with a selection of Nathan’s favourite weapons. Nathan accepts a sleek carving knife, and Nathaniel shakes his head.
“No, don’t.”
“Stand still or I take a lip as well,” Nathan says.
Nathaniel stills, letting out a thin, terrified breath as Nathan wedges the dull side of the blade into his mouth. He pries his jaw open, and props the knife edgewise between the rows of his teeth. He makes an amused noise, and pinches the ball of Nathaniel’s piercing between his thumb and forefinger. He retracts the blade to give himself room to work.
“You think you’re a rockstar, don’t you?” He yanks on the piercing until Nathaniel tastes blood. “You’ve always been baselessly arrogant.”
Nathaniel bites down on his father’s fingers. He’s released and stumbling before he can linger in the gravity of what he’s just done. His mouth floods with even more blood, and he reels around and spits it in Lola’s face. He dodges her waving gun and puts all his weight into body-slamming her into the wall. She croaks and drops, but he’s so unsteady that he falls with her. The gun goes skidding into the centre of the room.
He rolls as Nathan slashes in his direction. The knife doesn’t have as much reach as his usual cleaver, and it tears gracelessly through the air.
Nathaniel’s sliced hands take the agonizing brunt of the damage as he pulls himself onto his knees, trying furiously to get his feet under him. He catches sight of his father’s mangled fingers and DiMaccio’s furious face, and panic surges in his gut. He reaches for Lola’s gun at the same time that she does.
She’s faster.
His slippery hand glances off the handle, and she whirls and pistol-whips him across the face. She’s not smiling anymore.
Nathan is upon them in an instant, his expression wild. “Enough.”
“Just let me go,” Nathaniel begs, knowing how fruitless it is but unable to stop himself from speaking what could be his last words. “Let me go and I’ll—“ Nathan ignores him, and puts the knife across his mouth like he’s about to chop into an apple. The blade threatens to cleave his jaw from the rest of his head.
“I’ve heard enough from you,” Nathan says, and he begins to cut.
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herondaleholly31 · 5 years
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Love On The Weekend  Chris Evans X Reader
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overview: Whenever you can you and Chris spend a weekend together just the two of you. This  weekend is different. 
A/N Hey guys!! I’m currently in the middle of exams but I wanted to start writing some of the requests that was sent to me after my last post. Thank you so much for all your kind messages and follows after that post, it really means so much to me. I’m working through the list so I will try and upload as much as I can I promise. I hope you enjoy this one, make sure to keep sending me any requests! 
Like and Reblog! 
word count: 3,738
4:55. Five more minutes to go. You were impatient, and having already cleaned your desk three times in the past hour you were checking your emails one last time before you clocked out. Delete, delete, asos discount code saved, the rest thrown in spam. That’s it. All done. Only three more minutes. 
“Y/N!”
Jack entered your office without knocking, an ominous stack of papers under his arm. “you’re still here, great. I need you to sort these files out before you go.” The stack fell with a thud onto your desk.
“I can’t,” you shook your head “I’m just about to head out.” 
“Oh I’ve also put you on call duty this weekend,” Jack ignored you “so any plans you have cancel them.”
Your spine chilled “I can’t do this weekend. I cant I-“ you shook your head to try and stop your rising panic “I have to have this weekend off.”
“Tough luck. You’re going to want to keep you phone charged, I get a lot of emails.”
“No Jack-“
“Is there a problem?” He scowled.
The clock had struck five, he was going to be there any minute. “I can’t reschedule this plan my boyfriend’s job-“
“sweetheart can I be frank? I don’t give a shit,’ your bosses patient demeanour had gone and his normal irritation came through “I’ve got a golf game tomorrow and you were the last person to ask for time off. So you’re on this weekend.” He slammed his hand on top of the stack of papers and then turned to leave when suddenly a deafening sound came from outside. Shocked, Jack smacked his arm onto your computer, causing him to swear colourfully “WHAT IS THAT?” But you had already rushed to the window, your smile widening. 
“He’s here.”
“WHO?” 
You weren’t listening, grabbing your bag and throwing your coat over your arm “I’m going.”
“Is that for you?”
“Yes.” You turned once more, determination overruling your fear “Have a nice weekend Jack.” And with that, you flicked off the light switch and walked out the office. The honk was ringing down the corridor as you took the stairs two at a time before bursting out the door. A black range rover was sat in the middle of the carpark, and leaning against the  bonnet was your boyfriend Chris. His eyes were covered with sunglasses but you knew his eye brows were raised in a teasing expression as he watched you stride over “are you always that dramatic when leaving work?”
“Only when my boss is being a dick.’ You reached him and cocked your head back so you could kiss him, both smiling against each other as the realisation that this moment had finally happened washed over. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Chris rested his forehead against yours and you breathed deeply, feeling the anger ebb away. “I missed you,” he whispered.
“I missed you too. I couldn’t get out of that place fast enough.”
‘I saw” Chris laughed. He pulled away to open the door next to him to reveal  leather seats and your battered rucksack, bulging at the seams. “I packed everything on the list.”
“including the-“
“including my grey jumper for you to wear in the car.” 
“thank youuuu,” clambering up into the seat you started to get changed, tights getting ripped and pony tails being loosened. Chris’s jumper had been washed one too many times, the fluffy interior bobbled and stretched to fit his physique; however you always wore it on these trips and had therefore become a running joke. “Where to this time?” You asked, popping your head over the collar to look over at Chris who was fiddling about with the Keys. He slid them in and a second later the car roared and shot out of the car park, the revs barking through the quiet. He didn’t answer until you had made it onto the highway.
“I’m going to keep it a surprise this time.”
“ooooo” you perked up “we haven’t done that for a while. Do I get a clue?”
“nope.”
“pleaseeeeee.”
Chris shook his head chuckling “you’ll like it I promise.” Still determined to know you sat up on your knees, leaning over the gear stick to kiss his cheek “not one hint?”
“No!” Chris laughed. You continued to ask, peppering the half of his face and neck with jokey kisses until his death went slightly ragged. “you’re going to make me crash.” He didn’t move away though, enjoying the way you bumped your nose against his cheekbone as the car steamed ahead. The car flew like a the air of you were on the run, Chris only realising when cramp started to form in his ankle from the clenching. You were so present to him in that moment his mind seems to have fogged over. Luckily You only kissed him a couple more times before sitting back, defeated. He was able to calm his pulse once again. “fine” You rolled your eyes teasingly “I guess I’ll trust you. Give me the aux cord.” You propped your bare feet up onto the dash board and plugged it into your phone and scrolled down until you found the playlist: Love on the weekend.
The weekend was something you and Chris had done for a long as you’d been dating. Although you lived in Boston near his family and spent stints in LA, work and business sometimes kept the pair of you apart for weeks if not months at a time. This had been difficult, until on a whim Chris had done what he would come to do every time; text you the night before that he was picking you up and that you two were going away together. That first time he’d taken you to a beach house where you’d spent the weekend getting a suntan and much needed alone time. That had been nearly two years ago and since the pair of you had taken trips all over the country, with nothing but a car and essentials. They had become your favourite tradition together. 
The first song of the playlist started and Chris nodded his head in satisfaction “yessss!’ He pumped his foot on the gas and the car shot down the fast lane, leaving the traffic behind. The music swelled until the rough voice of Journey’s “Don’t stop believing” was blasting through the speakers, matched only by Chris’ rendition. He was tossing his head about and giving it his all, making you laugh so hard you felt the breath pound against your throat and your chest started to tense. The tipping point was when on the final high note your boyfriend’s voice cracked dramatically, to which you had to dig your hands in-between your clenched thighs to stop you from peeing. God it was so good to laugh like this again. 
The speakers continued to blast out classics, raging from Kanye West to Disney to Prince until both your voices were frayed and your chests ached from laughing. At one point there was no sound from either of you except for wheezing and knee slapping. You were like children, bubbling with energy and excitement as the feeling of each other there made you giddy. 
“We’re nearly there,” Chris was able to heave out later, breathing deliberately to even out his chuckles “keep an eye out for the right exit.”
“exit for what?” 
“I’m still not telling you.”
“How am I going to know what the right exit is if I don’t know where we’re going?”
“Hey I gave you a name just trust me.” He reached out and patted your knee, before slowly moving his hand up to rest on your thigh. There was nothing suggestive about it, but you felt your body melt under his touch as he continued to drive. He hummed to the dulcet tones of John Mayer and would occasionally have to shift in his seat but he made sure to keep your thigh at arms length. His palm stayed soft and warm against you  as the car pulled off the highway and drove down strips of long roads under golden sun stained foliage. One rumbling dirt track later and the car rolled into an opening, where it stopped and slumped, exhausted. Chris breathed, smiled, and squeezed your leg “we’re here.”
The house sat snuggled in the trees, overlooking a lake that shone brightly. White walls, blue tiles roof, a rickety dock that rocked slightly against the wind. It looked exactly the same as it did in the pictures that were hung around the Evan’s family home. You gasped in excitement “This is the place-“
“From my childhood pictures,” Chris nodded.
“The place you said you’d always take me,” you placed your hand on top of his “I can’t believe you did this.” In your excitement you leant over the gear stick and grabbed Chris’s face In between your hands “Thank you thank you Thank you!” You planted one big kiss on his lips causing him to laugh loudly before leaping out the car, your bare feet lacing with the grass. The pair of you grabbed the bags from the car and dragged them up into the house, abandoning them in the hall way to explore your home for the weekend. An open floor plan of polished wooden floors, white furniture and blue wallpaper stretched through the house, with soft corduroy sofas and shelves of thumbed classic books and board games. It was a weird mix of modern and old; as if time didn’t effect it. You were running around the house, calling for Chris to see something before discovering something else and getting even more excited.  When Chris still hadn’t come after the fifth time you called you went clattering down the stairs to find him in the kitchen, already pulling things out of the stocked fridge “pesto eggs?” He asked.
“MMMM YES!” You yelled in excitement. “Sorry,” you quietened “sorry. Yes please.” 
“I take it you like the house then?’ “Is this the part of the story where you tell me you’ve bought it?” You slid onto one of the stools by the island, nicking a bit of red pepper from the chopping board.
“ Unfortunately not.”
“shame. I would’ve quit work on the spot to move.”
“It’s that stressful huh?”
“You have no idea.”
Chris stopped stirring “so tell me about it.”
You shook your head, running your hands through your hair once before letting them fall on the table “I don’t want to weigh you down with that. You don’t wanna hear about that.”
“Yes I do,” Chris said “its obviously bothering you.”
“Not tonight Chris. Please.” You didn’t want to think about anything negative this weekend. Not with the limited time you had with him. “your eggs are burning by the way.”
“Huh? Oh Shit,” Chris went back to wildly stirring the contents of his pan, and the conversation was dropped. 
************
The next couple days felt like the montage to a rom com movie, a warped bubble where negative thoughts and emotions weren’t allowed to penetrate. There was a lot to Catch up with so the pair of you didn’t waste a single minute. Swimming in the lake, running together through the woods, playing chess whilst drinking too much beer. A lot of random hugs and heated make outs that lead to other things that caused your skin to flush and tingle. This was partly due to Your shoulders getting  burnt, resulting with Chris finding great pleasure in occasionally smacking the sensitive skin causing you to scream blue murder whilst chasing after him. 
‘I still think I’ll have a hand imprint on my shoulder forever,” you joked. It was the last night and you were cooking whilst Chris picked the movie. He was crouched by the shelfs, his recently showered hair peering his grey t shirt with droplets. “What movie we thinking?” He called.
“hmmmm How about Captain America?”
“Funny.” Chris rolled his eyes. You laughed before diving down to retrieve the steaming dish of Chicken and vegetable pasta from the oven and dishing into bowls. 
“Babe! You’ll never guess what movie they have.” Chris lifted the DVD case like a trophy, the title in your direction. You read it and gasped excitedly “About Time? Oh my days yes!”
“You’re gonna cry.”
“I am not.”
“You say that every time.”
“well this time I can definitely say that I will not cry!”
*************
“It’s just” you stuttered, “it just so…so” you had to gulp loudly through the raked sobs “so sad!” Bill Nighy and the little boy started skimming stones on the beach, causing you to whimper loudly, more tears streaming down your flushed cheeks.
“I told you you would cry,” Chris said, but his own eyes were watery and his jaw clenched in emotion. Seeing this made you even more upset and you started to grip onto the pillow, holding your breath so to stop the sobs. It didn’t work. Chris couldn’t stand it anymore; part of him obviously wanted to comfort you but also your turmoil was starting to become comical. “sweetheart,” he laughed “come here.” He dragged you over to sit in between his legs, your back against his chest so he could try and stop you from crying. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,” you breathed “I’m not going to-oh my god they’re hugging.” The crying was uncontrollable now “This is the last hug they’re ever going to have together.”
“Okay you need to tell me whats wrong now,” Chris’ tone shifted to worry. He’d never seen you this upset over this movie before “hey, hey. Talk to me.”
“I don’t want you to leave me tomorrow.” 
“what?”
“You’re going to leave tomorrow and I’ll be left with an apartment that is too big for just one person, a job I hate and the constant reminder that these weekends are the only things that I actually enjoy in life.” 
The movie continued to play but Chris wasn’t watching anymore. Instead he sat there, struggling to find the right words to say. He didn’t want to ask, you’d specifically told him not to ask this weekend, the itch of knowing was starting to burn in his brain. “What’s wrong with work?”
You huffed, flinging your head back to knock against his shoulder “I hate it Chris. I used to love working there, but I just can’t do it anymore. The last time I had a weekend off was our last weekend 3 months ago.” 
“why?”
“Because Jack makes me work so he can piss about golfing and spend the weekends screwing his assistant. I see the texts,” you nodded as Chris’s eyebrows shot up in surprise “they’re just as awful as you can imagine.” 
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“about the affair? It’s not tha-“
“No. About work.” 
“Oh.” You shrugged,  wiping the back of your sleeve across your face “I didn’t want you to worry about me that’s all.” Feeling your boyfriend huff you felt yourself get defensive “you’re away for so long I didn’t want you to have to take off anymore time than you had to just because my career turned shit.”
‘That’s not fair,” Chris shook his head “I should’ve known.”
“Why? What would’ve you done?’ You were sitting up now, frowning at him, arms crossed “Quit your work and moved back full time to Boston?’ “Maybe!”
“No you wouldn’t of!”
“But at least I would’ve had that option!” His eyes flashed with a mixture of pain and annoyance “Y/N how am I supposed to be there for you if you don’t tell me these things?” 
“That’s not fair Chris.”
“NO,” he snapped “what’s not fair is finding out that you’re feeling like this and yet I was the last person to know!”
“If you were here more YOU’D KNOW!”
There was a horrible silence. Shocked, you put your fingers over your lips, as if trying to grab back the words that were still ringing through the room. You were both shocked; hurt plastered on both your faces. You wanted to take them back, to rewind time so you could start this conversation again, to finish this weekend in a way that you will treasure and picture for the next weeks as you wait for him to come home to you. “I’m sorry.” You finally spoke “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Chris nodded slowly, and you noticed that his eyes were glistening with tears and you felt your brain screaming in fear and your heart be squished like a juice box “yea you did.”
“NO! No I didn’t.” You pulled him closer “I’m just upset about work, I’m taking it out on you.”
“But you do wish It don’t you?” Chris whispered.
“Of course I wish you were here more,” You nodded “but acting’s your dream. Of course I want you to be doing that.”
“Im so sorry Babe,” he pushed out a heavy sigh to stop the emotions from stunting his voice “I wish I knew how bad it was.”
“It’s not your fault You didn’t know. I wasn’t telling you.”
“I should’ve picked up on it. If I’d known I’d-“
“It’s not your fault Chris. I’m sorry for not telling you.”
Chris smiled softly. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders, locking his hands together so you were pressed against his shoulder. He kissed the top of your head, nodding slightly “This was not how I was thinking this conversation was going to go.”
You laughed, snorting slightly due to the snot that had built up from your previous sobs “me neither.”
“And I was looking forward to telling you about my plans for after the movie.”
You felt your heart sink slightly. These conversations were always awfully painful. “Did your agent get another script for you?”
“Actually no. He won’t be getting me any for a while.”
“What?’ You looked up at him, confused “why?”
“because I told him I didn’t want any. Because I’m taking a little break.”
‘Chris? Please say you didn’t do that because of me!”
“only partly,” Chris smiled guiltily “I just miss Boston. I miss my parents, My nieces and nephews, You. I just want to spend some time here. Spending time with my family.”
The tears were falling again, only this time they were ones of happiness “you serious? You’re coming home?”
Chris nodded, savouring this moment for as long as he could. “5 more weeks and then I’m yours.”  
******************
The Boston skyline had never looked so unwelcoming. Despite the sunrise bathing the windows with molten pink and blue reflections, they were a reminder that you were back in reality. You’d left the house early that morning with the remise you’d return in the summer with the whole family. It had still been difficult to say goodbye. The entire drive back you and Chris only spoke a few times, both too nervous of what to say in these last moment. Chris’s hand was back on your thigh, but this time your hand was intertwined with his, your only lifeline from breaking down into uncontrollable tears once more. Although this was the last goodbye you’d have to say for a long time, this one felt the most difficult because of the reality of what they were going back to. The buildings of the city grew thicker and thicker as you drove down main streets and over bridges until all too soon the looming signs floor your office building started to come, and then the ruling for the carpark, and in no time at all Chris was pulling into one of the visitors spots and switching off the engine. “we’re here.” 
“yea.” A silence. “ Thanks for dropping me off by the way.” 
“Yea of course.” Chris swallowed. Neither of you moved. No one made the move to say goodbye. But you knew it was going to happen, and your grip on his hand got tighter as you realised that now was the moment to let go. 
In the end it was him. It left you feeling empty, like you’d dropped something into water and you knew that you were never going to get it back, and that’s when the tears started to fall again. In a moment Chris jumped out of the car and ran over to your side of the car, opening your door so he was able to scoop you into a hug. “ I know,” he whispered as you clung to him “ I know.”
“i don’t know if I can do this Chris,” you sniffed into his neck.
“Yes you can. You can sweetheart. Remember what we said.” He kissed your ear lightly “Just five more weeks. Five more weeks and the I’m home, you can quit your job here and we’ll figure something out together okay? Okay?” His tone made you move your gaze so you were looking at his wide eyed expression, full of promise and reassurance “We’ll figure this out together.”
“Five weeks.”
“five weeks and then I’m yours.”
You nodded, sniffing “Okay,” You breathed “Okay I’ll do it.”
“You can do it.” He kissed you then, and his lips tasted of salt but they were familiar and warm and his, and you already missed him so much five weeks suddenly felt like a lifetime. 
“I am,” he rested his head against yours once more “so proud of you. I really am.” 
You nodded. You kissed him as long as your lungs could muster and this time you let go, flattening your skirt and slipping on your heels as Chris grabbed your bags from the boot and handing them to you. He kissed you once more, told you he loved you and then walked back around to sit in the car. You walked around to his door and leaned in through the open window to kiss him again.
“I can’t watch you walk away,” he confessed “because if I do all I’ll want to do is stay.” 
You nodded “That’s fine. I’ll see you in five weeks.”
‘Five weeks.” 
“I love you Chris.”
One more kiss, and then he pushed the car into gear and pulled away, leaving you to wave goodbye to him. As he did, the windows rolled down, and a second later you heard the opening chords to “Love on the weekend” play. He didn’t look back, but you knew that he too was already counting down the days until the next time you two could see each other. 
582 notes · View notes
ardenskyedarcy221b · 4 years
Text
autumn leaves and apple cider
Tumblr media
Peter yawns. His fists rub his eyes hard enough to see black stars. Eventually he blinks hard enough that he can see the time projected on his ceiling: 7:33. He grunts. Mental math tells him he’s slept a little over two hours since last time he checked the time. He shoves off his comforter, whines at the blast of cold, and rolls out of bed. 
He pads into the hallway in search of his father. 
Kitchen is empty. Couch in the family room is unoccupied. His brow furrows as Peter shuffles toward the back porch. Now, if his dad can’t be found inside the house, Peter can always find him somewhere outside. It has been a weird transition not automatically finding Tony Stark inside a laboratory, but time is on Peter’s side now. 
Only the back porch is vacant and worry settles heavily in Peter’s stomach. 
“Front porch?” he asks himself under his breath as he cuts through the cabin. If anxiety wasn’t pressing right at his edges, Peter could have stretched out his hearing and listened for his father’s heartbeat; however, as he is preoccupied, Peter walks out onto the front porch to the sight of thick fog cloaking the earth and no sign of his father. 
He isn’t sure what compels him onward: Peter tromps down the steps and his socks immediately soak up grass’s moisture as he ambles toward the dock. A violent shiver traverses his spinal column so Peter tucks his fingers underneath his armpits. 
Fog density is high, causing Peter to rely on muscle memory. Gentle waves lapping guides him along as well. He squints as if his advanced eyesight could cut through fall’s veil: it can’t. Leaves crunch beneath his feet. His toes keep finding holes or rocks to trip over. Perhaps in the end his advanced eyesight does assist him because up ahead his sees a figure at the end of the dock, barely even a silhouette, though it’s enough to tip Peter off that he found his father. 
“Dad?” 
Figure turns and a familiar baritone croaks out, “Pete?” 
Relieved to have found his father, Peter closes the distance between him and the figure at the end of the dock as quickly as he dares. A hand grasps at Peter’s forearm and curls into his hoodie material. 
“What are you doing out here?” he asks, not bothering to hide his confusion. 
“No reason,” is the first reply then his father sighs a laugh and finishes, “dunno, really, other than I just wanted to be by the water.” 
Peter shrugs off the answer. 
Father and son stand side by side, listening to the lake lap and birds tweet good morning hellos, until another chill steels over Peter. Then he burrows into his father’s side, maneuvering his arms around him until Peter is satisfied. He hums. 
“Cold?” 
He makes a noise at the back of his throat, too lazy to verbalize. 
“What, my hoodie not cutting it for you anymore?” his dad keeps pressing, a hint of his amusement breaking into his tone. “I speak from experience when I say I know that hoodie is warm.” 
“S’not yours, s’mine,” he muffles his words into his father’s side. “And my toes are cold.” 
“Your toes are—” Tony cuts off and then exclaims, “Why the hell are you outside without your shoes? Get back inside!” he gives Peter a little push. 
Peter giggles, stumbling but not moving away. He may have stuck himself to his father’s side using his spidery stickiness. 
Then his dad’s fingers wiggle like he’s going to tickle Peter and he shrieks, unsticks himself and bolts for the cabin. His father’s deep chuckles follow behind him at a sedated pace. He has no time to feel embarrassment for the ploy because Peter loathes being tickled, especially thanks to his enhanced sensitivity after the spider bite. Any time his dad or sister do not get their way, they have the tendency to exploit Peter’s weakness. 
Not fair, he pouts as he opens the glass screen door. His smile won’t disappear, though. 
Peter trots back into his bedroom to shower. It is only a matter of time before the calm of the morning is broken by Morgan waking up. Last night Dad and Pepper promised the whole family would go pumpkin picking and Peter’s little sister lost her mind. When he first came back, snapped or blipped or whatever terminology is popular at the moment, Morgan’s exuberance was a bit much for Peter’s frayed nervous system. She weaseled her way into his heart, though. Eventually. 
He shakes the thoughts away and finishes getting ready. 
Dad and Pepper are making breakfast when Peter wanders back into the kitchen. 
“Pete!” his sister chirps, sporting a chocolate milk mustache.  “Come eat; we have places to be!”
Peter snorts as he finishes shuffling to his seat next to the young girl. “I didn’t realize we were leaving so early?” 
“We’re not,” his father snorts. 
Peter looks up to see his stepmother rolling her eyes and Peter smirks at her, both of them sharing a knowing expression. 
Morgan decides pestering is the way to go after finding out that they aren’t leaving until after lunch. All it does is keep her chattering and everyone else wishing away the morning. And she convinces Pepper they should have a picnic in the car so they can get to the pumpkin patch earlier. 
Halfway to their destination, Morgan turns to Peter and says, 
“Will you braid my hair?”
“Now?” 
“Mmhmm!”
Before Peter can positively or negatively reply, Morgan is already climbing out of her booster seat and crawling into his lap. Peter fumbles to assist her but she knocks away his hands until she settles herself. Her smile is pleased and she is definitely preening. 
“Mo—” he starts. 
“Morgan Hope, what are you doing out of your seat?” comes their father’s terse question as the man twists from the passenger seat to stare back at them. “Peter isn’t your lounge chair. Get back over there, little miss.” 
Morgan’s head tips back onto Peter’s chest. “But Daaaaad,” she whines, “Pete needs to braid my hair.” 
“I don’t care. He can do it when we get there.” 
“He’ll do it fast, I promise, ‘cuz I don’t wanna wait.”
“Oh, is that so?” 
Morgan turns away from their father and pokes Peter in the cheek. “Please, Petey, will you braid my hair?”
Peter’s gaze flits to Tony. His father acts unimpressed but his eyes twinkle in amusement. So he answers, “Sure. Do you have a band?”
Morgan slips two different colored purple cloth bands off her wrists and shoves them in his face. (He thinks that’s what they’re called; Morgan calls them ponytail holders, sometimes, and Pepper goes back and forth between ponytail holders and bands. He’s settled on bands to be done with it.)
He makes a face at her and turns her to sit forward. “The things I do for you,” he pretends to grumble. 
“The things I do for the both of you,” his father echoes from up front, correcting his posture. 
“I know.” his sister sing-songs. “It’s ‘cuz you love me!”
Because Morgan is queen-in-training when it comes to avoidance strategies, Peter is suckered into giving her twin braids. Then she wraps her arms around his neck and makes him strap her back into her booster seat. She kisses his cheek in thanks, though, so there are small consolation prizes. 
Forty minutes after leaving their lake house, they arrive at their destination. Morgan cheers and their parents share a smile upfront. On top of handling random hair crises in the middle of road trips, Peter’s job also entails making sure Morgan keeps her socks on and putting on a jacket. Both are rather monumental tasks considering Peter has enhanced strength and Morgan is barely pushing three-three in height; his sister is wily. However, seeing as how his sister hasn’t pestered with her yellow rain boots this entire time that leaves, 
“Jacket, Mo,” he hands over the pink lightweight jacket. 
“Don’t need it,” she scrunches up her nose and eyes the item with growing distain. “I’ve got my Iron Man sweater on; don’t need a jacket.” to prove her point, her hands disappear in the golden material of her sleeves and she shakes them in his direction with all the fanfare of an ornery five year old, “Seeeeeeee?”
“I’m not the boss.” 
“You’re ‘posed to be one of my bosses, so technically you are the boss.” 
“Too bad I’m always the boss and trump your brother then, hmm, little miss?” Tony interjects as he turns around in his seat, free of the safety belt’s restriction, snagging the jacket from Peter’s outstretched clutches and shaking it in his daughter’s direction. “No jacket means no hayride.” 
Despite herself, Morgan can’t think up a quick enough rebuttal. She rolls her shoulders back and lets out a dramatic huff of, “Fine.” Then yanks the material and carelessly shrugs into it. 
Pepper gets out of her seat and opens up Morgan’s door, opening up her arms in silent initiation to be held. 
Tony and Peter follow them out of the car. 
As they make their way into the bustling crowd, Morgan wiggles down from Pepper’s hip and spider-monkeys her way onto Peter’s back. She mostly attempts to hitch her free ride while Peter continues walking, screeching whenever he tries stopping to assist. Eventually, they somewhat compromise by Peter stopping and Morgan throwing herself onto his back, arms curled so tight around his neck Peter can almost accuse her of choking him.  She nestles in close then whispers, 
“Can we get some apple cider?” 
“Um,” he glances around in search of the requested beverage, curious to see where she spotted it before him. Right as he finds it, one of her fingers points and he says, “Sure, if Dad and Mom don’t care.” 
“Don’t care about what?” comes twin responses. 
“Morgan wants apple cider.” 
Pepper makes a face while Tony shrugs. 
“You already had chocolate milk today, lovebug.” 
Morgan scoffs into Peter’s neck. 
“One cup won’t hurt her,” Tony offers up. Then he semi-lowers his voice, “Bet you she won’t even like it.” 
Pepper rolls her eyes, though allows, “One cup.” 
So they wind up waiting in line to all grab hot apple cider. Several minutes pass of Morgan clinging to Peter and Pepper fussing and  Peter slowly edging closer to his father so Tony can keep making a grab for Morgan with his prosthetic arm only for the little girl to shriek. After they pay for their drinks, Pepper says they have to sit down to drink them. 
“But Moooom,” the little girl whines, eyes riveted on a tractor pulling a group of people sat in hay up the way, “I wanna go now.” 
“Guess we’ll have to wait for the next one.” 
Peter senses an impending meltdown. He blurts out, “Hey, Mo, watch this.” without giving much thought to his harebrained idea because his sister’s attention immediately redirects to him. 
And so Peter takes a huge gulp of hot apple cider, holds his cup out at arm’s length, and spits the drink out in an arc straight back into the cup. Mostly. Only, 
“Ow ow ow, crap! That is hot!” 
Pepper looks like she wants to reprimand him, but Morgan and Tony are too busy belly laughing at Peter’s folly, so his stepmother winds up grinning along. 
A different kind of warmth fills up his belly than the one lingering in his mouth. 
Sure enough, when the next hayride pulls around, the Starks get on it. Morgan remains glued to Peter’s side and demands to sit in his lap during the ride. Peter nods his agreement and picks a corner seat in the back, nestled in by hay. Dad presses in on Peter’s free side while Pepper takes the last seat. 
Excitement fills his bloodstream. As they take off for pumpkin pastures, Peter’s knees jostle Morgan around as his sister oohs and ahhs over the farm’s decorations. He doesn’t remember going on hayrides as a kid, though celebrating Christmas on a Malibu beach definitely makes up for it, in Peter’s humble opinion, he is embracing the experience. Like listening to Morgan sprouting out ideas of what they are going to carve their pumpkins when they get home, after spotting the first small lines of the orange spheres.
“I think I want Lord Voldemort’s face.” 
His dad snorts while Peter turns Morgan around to face him. 
“Why?”
“Why not?” she gives back. 
“Why not a cat?” 
“Because I don’t wanna paint it black; I wanna carve it!” 
Pepper tacks on, “You’re not handling anything sharp, I’m afraid.” though she doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest.
Morgan knocks her forehead into Peter’s clavicle at the devastating news. Peter thinks he hears her say this is why under her breath but he can’t be certain. 
Dad leans over to press a kiss against Peter’s temple and attempts to do the same to Morgan, but she’s having none of it. After a few more attempts, Peter hands her over all the same so Dad can drop kisses all over her rosy cheeks. Her giggles pitch over top the roar of the tractor. 
Pepper winds up pretending to save Morgan right as the tractor pulls to a stop. She stands up and shuffles off with Morgan, who continuously peeks over Mom’s shoulder to cross her eyes and stick her tongue out at Dad. Peter lists into his father’s side and Tony slings in arm over his shoulders, pulling him in close. 
Leaves crunch under their feet as they step off. 
“Daddy has to have the biggest one,” Peter hears his sister say somewhere up ahead. “Just ‘cuz. But I don’t get the smallest one, okay, Mommy?” 
“Mmm. Sounds reasonable. I suppose I’ll take the smallest one, how’s that sound?” is Pepper’s reply and Peter can imagine her smile pulling out her dimples. 
“C’mon, Daddy! C’mon, Pete!” hollers Morgan. “Let’s go pick our pumpkins!”
“You heard Miss Bossypants; chop chop, daylight’s wasting away,” nudges his father. 
Peter breathes in deeply and beams up at his father, his vision squinting as joy settles around them.
Autumn tastes like crisp air and hot apple cider; autumn is the warmth of his little sister wanting to show him everything that captures her attention; it’s watching his dad’s recovery in a positive light, seeing him walking around unassisted and smiling freely. 
Autumn is being with his family. 
AO3
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weeping-petals · 4 years
Text
A Lasting Song
Word Count - 3,503
The Great Gem War comes to a final and brutal conclusion.
They were Winning.
 They had to be.
 The battle had endured for over a month at this point, Quartz and Topaz soldiers spilling out of Home World to aid the grand take over that the Diamond Authority had planned. A final Gambit to squelch the rebellious faction, and drag the Earth back under Diamond Rule. Diamond Genocide. If they did not win this game, it was all over.
Spinel tracked every Gem that was poofed, and with a small volley of units gathered up comrades before the unthinkable could happen. Pink Diamond, or just Rose Quartz now, had a firm policy against shattering foe Gems. After all, they didn’t understand what was happening, that the rebellion was a façade to relinquish destruction of a world their Diamond fell in love with. To a fault Spinel agreed, and Pearl as well – with unrestrained devotion – understood more than their comrades would, of their kind and benevolent commander. The rage and onslaught of foe Gems was understandable, though the retaliation with such an aggressive backing came as a bit of... surprise. Rose Quartz was certain. She was always so certain about these things.
 So, Spinel assured that each confirmed enemy stone was bubbled, and sent back to camp. They would sort out who was who later, soldiers fell right and left. The foe Gems were in such a frenzy that they shattered first, didn’t question later – she had seen more shards produced from Jasper’s allied to the same faction than she was comfortable with.
 Which was why it was important to secure Gems before the irreversible was done!
 Spinel herself was poofed four or five times, but thankfully her cut was so specific that she was easily recognized by friendlies and sent off field to recover. It became more than a process of reforming and catching a Bismuth for a new weapon, Gems needed time to reconnect with their fresh form. Adjust to the violence and cycle of poof and fight. Most of the Crystal Gems were not warriors by class, but common builders, Smithers, assistants, and some like herself, entertainers. They learned to fight, to use abilities and inherit strength, and dug deep down within the light of their Gem to tap into forbidden powers. Forbidden by Home World and class restrictions.
 The dust and conflict steadily shifted across the field, they were forcing units into a preferred destination. Some even about faced and retreated, the enemy’s barrage began to thin out and more pure Gem fusions crumbled. Spinel kept busy, coordinating with Gems better suited with agility, speed, and courier as opposed to brute force.
 But something… felt off.
 “Where is Rose Quartz!” she snapped, at any Gem carrying a star that streaked by on the field, covering distance rather than defending fellow friendlies. She was given a variety of snarky responses.
 “Over there!” “Are you kidding?” “See the blitz!” “You can’t miss her!”
 And it was true. How could she miss the cloud, the ravaged landscape, the direction that every other foe soldier moved in when they caught an inch on the combatants.
 She had to check in with Pearl, insure that she was still intact. There was one Gem in all the battle, she knew with absolute certainty, who could not be poofed. Or more accurately, who should never be poofed.
 They would lose the game.
 A quad-fuzed Topaz snared a Crystal Gem fusion and wrestled the muilti-limbed warrior, the formers focus outmatching the combined attributes of a new Crystal Gem. Spinel averted her course, her weapon twirling ‘round and around her body while she built up momentum. One arm lashed out, catching a large axe buried in the soil, her arm wrenched and tightened while her fingers dug into the metal. She circled around the side of the titans brawl, tracking movement and thinking up a good one-liner.
 The Cystal Gem fusion went airborne and the Topaz drew back, winding up for a devastating punch.
 “HEY!” Spinel stopped and dug her heels into the soil. The Topaz snapped her head around, and smirked upon spying her. “Why don’t pick on someone YOUR OWN SIZE!”
 She retracted her heels and let herself launch. Utterly flabbergasted, the Topaz spun around and put out her arms – that expression changed when Spinel barrel-rolled her body, her duel bladed staff cycling around her arrow-esque shape faster and faster, until she was a blazing drill. The real plot twist came when her zipping shape shot between the Topaz’s feet, Spinel skid across the hard soil tearing up smoke. It was a cool pose nonetheless, and the Topaz looked around, searching for the miniscule adversary.
 “Syke!” Spinel indicated upward with her free arm.
 The Topaz glanced up, in time to receive the full impact of the Crystal Gem fusion that plummeted earthward.
 “I wasn’t the right size! See?” She stuck her thumb to her nose and wriggled her fingers, in the direction of the popped and divided Topaz soldiers. The Crystal Gem poofed each one, and dropped into her respective pieces.
 One of the friendly Gems poofed, without provocation. “Jade!” The Carnelian barked, and grabbed up the green stone.
 Spinel was primed to shoot off, but this trio looked far from warrior class. They all were in the same ship on the matter, but the group appeared less experienced and shook by coming undone in the midst of chaos.
 “You guys better get off field. This isn’t your time to contribute to the fight, it’s your time to survive.” The Nephrite looked offended. “Look, your friend is overwhelmed. We all are, in fact. You need to take care of her, because today, I’ve seen a lot of shards.” She spun away and began a sprint, weapon slung over her shoulders. Quietly, under her breath, she added, “And I’ll probably see a lot more.”
 Rose was still in the fray, somewhere. Spinel had a vague sense of where but finding the axis was the key. Was Rose at all able to abandon the battle for recuperation? Not poof and reform, but to take time out of the constant blade clashing and shield bashing. The units took turns, everyone played a part. Fusions formed and fell within hours, pure Gem fusions couldn’t grasp the concept of multilingual conversations manifesting and shrieking amid the dust. Passion for the new overcame the droned on same-old-same-old routine of pure fusions with sharp focus.
 She can’t poof. She can’t poof.
 Did she mean herself, Spinel? Or Rose Quartz?
 “Hey you!” she bounded down a clutch of rocks, racing toward a lumbering Crystal Gem fusion she couldn’t recognize. It’s shape made no sense, but she looked sentient, and clever enough. “Launch me!”
 The fusion put out a hand and Spinel plopped herself on the palm, the moment her weight settled she was flying into the stratosphere! She swept the dual blade above her head and swung it, twirled it like a blade of light on a spool of thread. Below, the shape and movement of battle took on refined focus, though it was apparent she was miles off course. Flashes of pink and brilliant sparks glint through the thick haze, the contrasting wisps unmistakable. Ah-ha!
 “Now to – ” Something collided with her backside, and before she could check herself the weight dragged them down. She squealed, nearly loosing her weapon in the process. Above her arms a Morning Glory shot through the airspace and careened out of sight.
 “You’re like a star in the dark sky! What were you thinking?” a familiar voice spat. Now Spinel recognized the arms laced around her middle.
 “Not much, to be honest. I’m a little on a one-track mind, if you catch my drift.” They were too high up to land safely, she decided, and wound up her legs like springs to compress the fall. Garnet released her and darted away, immediately meeting fists with a Quartz soldier.
 The Quartz wasn’t alone, three large Amethyst came barreling from a cloud of dust.
 “Ooh, you brought friends,” Spinel cracked. She swung her blade, doing some flashy maneuvers before whipping around to meet the line-backing head on.
 Poof. Poof. Poof. And POOF! Four Gems clinked to the ground. Spinel was still poised, or frozen, while Garnet dusted her gauntlets.
 “Ah… need any help?”
 “Bubbling them would be a good start. Spinel, I can’t help but notice you seem a bit distracted.”
 “Distracted? Me!” She hurried to bubble the Gems. “Pfft, we’re in the middle of an ongoing and endless battle. How can someone be distracted? I can’t see the soldiers past the dust.” To emphasize, she coughed.
 “Something on your mind?” Garnet crossed her arms.
 Don’t let Saphire trace your design. Don’t let Garnet see the pathways.
 “I’m worried,” she admitted.
 “I know.”
 “You do.” She kicked the blunt side of her blade and flipped it over her shoulder. “Home World Gems look a lot perplexed and a lot more lost. Like, I don’t know. They have a goal, but no one’s given them a word on how to achieve it.”
 “As if…” Spinel hung onto Garnet’s next words, “commanders ceased relaying orders?” She whipped around, absolutely clobbering a tri-Topaz fusion. The dismayed individual Gems took mild hits, Poofed out, and bubbled out of the field. Garnet didn’t turn back, but tracked another dropship that slipped across the far fringe of the strafe.
 “You put into words the feeling.” She chuckled, but the sound was void of mirth. “Yeah, we should probably check in with Rose.”
 Garnet moved, and Spinel hastened to match the pace. The fuzion had a direct and simplistic method to her strategy in conflict and battle, she concluded confrontations as quick and efficiently as possible. A perfect mesh of Saphire’s calculations and Ruby’s combat prowess. If one watched from afar not knowing who Garnet was, a short-sighted evaluation might view the method as single-minded brutality. But no, it was fluid motion, and it always impressed Spinel how precise the fusion was.
 On Home World, Garnet had garnered a reputation. A blasphemous fuzion and blatant insult to the court of Blue Diamond. Other foe Gems that recognized her were drawn in, eager for bragging rights of separating the first mix fusion. It would give Home World Gems no greater joy than to see the insolent Ruby and Saphire separated, permanently.
 Having to confront more and more Gems in the heart of battle was such a kill joy, too.
 Another dropship careened down from the atmosphere, appearing from a blip in the blackhole that preceded its sudden appearance. However, rather dump out a buttload of generic Gems, it landed. All the Home World ships that managed to evade ground fire would land, and load up with a bulk of fighters prepared – willing – to withdraw. A tactical retreat?
 Spinel spent some of her energy to propel herself high enough to get a good look, but only a glimpse before she descended – and sliced out the Jasper’s that went fist to fist with Garnet.
 “I don’t like this,” Spinel voiced. “I like this even less than when they’re bombarding us with weapons.”
 Garnet was about to reply, but swung around knocking down a duel Ruby fusion. The soldiers were losing numbers and retreating. But it seemed too good to be true.
 “I can’t see— Where did you see Rose Quartz?”
 Spinel pointed her staff and watched Garnet take off. At first she didn’t follow, a few foe Gems galloped by hunting for the one that took out their friends. Spinel helped. A little. She bubbled the two Ruby’s.
 “Take a rest,” she murmured, lost in thought. “When this is all over, maybe, just maybe, we’ll all be friends.”
 She tore off in the direction she sent Garnet, hastily bubbling the Gems she tangled with, getting sloppy with her tactics. Once or twice, foe Gems tore past her as if afraid of something. Not Garnet, but it amused her that Gems twice the fusions size were spooked off after seeing a duel-fused Jasper pop.
 Something was wrong.
 Spinel stalled and turned her face skyward, peering through the clogged air unable to make heads or tales if it was dawn or dusk. The days meshed together, the fighting was never ending. And something was amiss.
 “Argh!” That yelp sounded familiar, followed by the clash of weapons. It was Pearl, which meant—
 “Rose!”
 Where was she? “Where is she?” Spinel hollered. And where exactly was Pearl? She spun in place, searching, dashing in short sprints. This was the axis of the spinning wheel, the eye of the storm.
 The unmistakable clang of a weapon hitting the resonating point of an impenetrable shield was an incriminating factor. Its sound carried, rebounding back through the clatter and barks of combat. A large helmet went whizzing by, nearly colliding with the small Gem.
 “Rose!” Spinel called. The noises were moving around. As she searched the smog, she spied Pearl at last! – their Pearl – on her knees, blocking another blow from an enemy Jade. Spinel swung her body around and shot out with a long kick, knocking the foe Gem backwards.
 Pearl looked battered and absolutely spent to her limits, but held her ground. She glanced over her shoulder, an expression Spinel couldn’t read in her eyes.
 “Do you hear that?” she whispered. “Do you?”
 Confused, Spinel squinted her eyes. She heard nothing, aside from the shouts of fellow and foe Gems meeting weapon to weapon. She did feel something was… missing, some creeping uncertainty coiling inside the core of her Gem. A resonation. An oncoming storm.
 It was bright. The dust thinned out, or was it an intense ray of heat breaking through the atmosphere? She chanced another gaze upward, despite an imposing foe Gem bulldozing from the choked vapor.
 No. Oh no. No-no-no. No, it couldn’t—
 “Spinel!” Garnet dove from somewhere and tackled her, rolling aside as the foe Gem plowed into the soil where she stood mere moments before. “Where is she?!”
 A shadow swept in from the side and caught Garnet by the shoulder, it swung around holding the fusion close.
 “Pearl!” Spinel wailed. Wordlessly, Garnet aimed an arm into the murk. There was Pearl, on her back and blocking the sword that descended for her forehead. Spinel dropped her weapons and zipped her arms out, catching Pearl by the plush of her shoulders and reeled her in with enough force it nearly knocked Rose down.
 Everything was so bright, so intense. Cutting through the stark haze without contest, with absolutely no mercy.
 “Stay DOWN! EVERYONE!”
 There was only four of them, Spinel reflected. Garnet tightened her arms around her and Pearl, and Spinel coiled her body tighter around Pearl. Looking back around Garnet’s side, she beheld Rose Quartz summoning her shield and brace it to the ground, their commander pressed herself into the concaved center. In the same instant, a radiating blaze shredded the clouds, obliterating the fog clinging tight across the brutalized landscape. It was unlike anything Spinel had ever witnessed, capable of blinding and painful to view directly. The shield hummed a strange melody of agony, as the song from the sky thrummed from beyond the charted galaxy of Pink Diamond’s doomed colony.
 Rose hissed through her teeth, pressing back into Garnet. Garnet could do no better than to push back, and keep their leader from toppling as the shield pressed and buckled under the intensity. It would crack, Spinel was certain. It would crumble and they would all vaporize into stardust.
 She poofed and all was silent. Dark. And the world was Gone.
 What felt like ages later, she managed to reform. It wasn’t easy, but she succeeded in straightening out into a shape, and draw in something worth solidifying into. She slammed hands and knees into the dirt, a scream belting from her core. The landscape stretched as far as the eye could perceive, and was barren, void of sound and movement. Colors across the horizon slated in dreary reds and blacks, and weapons lay trapped in the soil where they fell. Abandoned and lost.
 She dragged a hand to her chest and sat back, wincing with each movement. Tears dripped from her eyes. Why was she crying?
 “I thought you were too.”
 She looked to the one that spoke, Pearl, curled up beside a rock with her face in her hands. “They’re all gone,” she whispered.
 “Who?” Spinel croaked. Though it was obvious. “What happened?”
 Pearl shook her head and sat up straight. “Retaliation. We felt it. Rose… er, Rose. Felt it, I mean.” She hugged herself and shuddered.
 “My Gem. It feels weird. Hurts.” Hurt was a human made term. Gems couldn’t get hurt, not really, only the Gem stone could be cracked. Humans learned the Gems language, but made new terms to describe new sensations. The best way she could describe the unsettling tingling was hurt. It buzzed and didn’t feel right at all.
 “I know. We all feel it. We were safe though.” There was such emptiness in her tone.
 Spinel jumped to her feet. “Rose! Garnet! Carnelian! The others! Where are—” She gaped at Pearl. “No!”
 “Rose and Garnet are fine. The others, though... the others.” Her tone became soft, almost inaudible. “All gone. They’re all gone.” Pearl pressed a hand to her forehead and at last, began crying. “I thought, you too. Not Spinel, please my stars. Not her too.”
 “NO! It…. That’s not fair! It’s impossible! IMPOSSIBLE! They can’t all be…. Not. Them….” She glared at Pearl, as her co-conspirator stood and walked over. Pearl looped her arms around her shoulders and tugged Spinel in close. Spinel accepted the embrace, and set her head against Pearl’s chest. “They can’t be,” she murmured. “Not everyone…. Our friends. It’s not fair. We were winning. We should have won.”
 “It was Retaliation from the Diamonds,” Pearl hummed.
 “What have we done?” She brought her arms up.
 And shoved Pearl away. Hard. “Just WHAT have we DONE? WHAT was the point! We have nothing now! NOTHING! We’ve LOST the GAME! It was rigged against us!”
 Pearl gawked, wide-eyed. “It was never a game, Spinel.”
 “I KNOW!” She grabbed at her pigtails, her words cracked. “But how was I supposed to get through every minute of every single day, if I didn’t have some way to keep grounded? HOW! And now we’ve lost! We lost EVERYTHING! And for WHAT!?” She buckled to her knees, body falling into a ropey mess. She hiccupped and sobbed, like the broken toy she was.
 “What was the point of fighting so hard, if this was all we were gonna get? What… why did I have to fight? I wanna go home. I just… wanna go home.”
 After a few minutes, Pearl inched in closer. Spinel was still bawling, quivering, and wouldn’t look up. Pearl knelt low and, tentatively, set a hand on the Spinel’s head. “We still have each other.” Spinel flinched, and Pearl hesitated. “We have each other. And… Rose and Garnet are searching for survivors. Maybe in the caves, or the underground.”
 “That’s stupid.”
 “They need to check, nonetheless. Garnet… she doesn’t see if we find anyone, but we have to explore the scenarios. Maybe someone found the best hiding place.”
 “I could find them,” she muttered, but it was bitter. She dragged her head up and checked their surroundings once more. “How long?”
 Pearl pursed her lips. “Two. Weeks. Nearly thr—” Her arms snapped up when Spinel dropped onto her lap.
 “I want to go home.”
 “I think Home World believes we’re gone. Completely.”
 “No,” Spinel sighed. She observed the strange patterns in the sky, as the atmosphere stitched molecules back together. “I want to go back to my Garden, with 𝐻𝑒𝓇. I want to play real games. Not this stupid war business. This was so stupid. We’re so dumb. Stars, I’m such an idiot.”
 “You’re not an idiot. None of us could have predicted this. Even Garnet— ”
 “Yeah, sure,” Spinel hissed. She rolled over and coiled her limbs under her body, struggling to push off the ground.
 “You need more rest.” Pearl tried to pull her back down, but Spinel brushed her off.
 “I’ve done enough rest. I need to be someplace less destroyed.” She scrubbed at her eyes and cheeks, but the tears still came. There was nothing to be seen across the horizon, but the derelict and orphaned weapons of once proud rebels, intermixed with armament of terrible foes avenging a fallen Leader. “What do we do now? What’s the point?”
 “We start by looking for survivors. Catalog the damage done.”
 “How exciting.” She was better off in her Gem. “If the rest of the planet is this level of destroyed, I’ll shoot myself into the nearest star.”
 Pearl straightened up from the ground and began walking, in no particular hurry, and Spinel followed without complaint or quip. She kept her eyes set on Pearl’s heels, ignoring all the half-buried Gem stones they passed across the wasteland. It was the longest walk back to the nearest base of operations, done in excruciating silence, but they had all the time in the world. They only had time, and each other.
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Hadestown Has Something to Say!
And I’m so glad it does!
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File Hadestown under Shows That Make You Go “Hmm.” This is a show I’ve liked more and more the longer the show has been over and the more I’ve had time to sit and think about it. 
Overall, I really really loved it. It’s such a rich musical filled with amazing stage pictures and beautiful music and really powerful and passionate performances. This is a passion project on stage and it’s marvelous.
The score, of course, is amazing. Anais Mitchell has really written something very special here. I’ve really never heard anything like it before on Broadway - this mix of folk and jazz and rock with an undercurrent of sheer musical theatre. The “Chants” in particular are astounding. Likewise “When the Chips Are Down” and “Wait For Me” and “His Kiss, the Riot” are stunning achievements in musical theatre writing. However. I have one very big qualm about the score, but I’ll talk about this later. 
I know we all love Rachel Chavkin but she really is quite stellar. The phrase I keep coming back to when thinking about her directing style is “all consuming.” Between this and The Great Comet, her musicals feel like being swallowed whole by which I mean everything is very big and very powerful and very emotional and very much like I’m being punched in the gut. I love this feeling. I love theatre that makes me feel like the rest of the world doesn’t exist and she does this with her work. 
What Chavkin does with stage imagery is phenomenal. There is a real sense of other worldliness while still being very grounded in the one we live in. You can tell she really gets these characters and she gets these themes and literally every moment is used to drive the story and make you feel something. There’s a real sense of power in her directing that makes the audience feel every suckerpunch of this show. “Wait For Me” in particular was a showstopper. 
The lighting was wonderful. Like truly stunning. The contrast between light and dark in this show was really interesting and sources of light and what that means was also very fascinating to see. From Eurydice’s candle to the handheld miner lights, everything had meaning and everything felt very poignant. 
Everyone in this show is very good. There isn’t a single bad performance. Eva Noblezada was very surprisingly good - surprising only because I’d never seen her perform before and she really added a lot of good things to Eurydice. 
However, this is Amber Grey’s world and we’re all just living in it. She is AMAZING. She steals every scene and every moment. She is absolutely incredible in every way. The hype about her performance is 100% real and she is honestly and truly the best part of the show. I can’t imagine anyone else playing this role because she is truly perfect. Her Persephone is so layered and so fearful and damaged and fraying at the edges and yet so strong and steadfast and determined. I want to see the show again and just focus in on her the whole time because she is amazing. Even just the way she moves and dances was electric. 
And of course Patrick Page is also stellar. He brings such an intensity to every role he plays, and Hades feels like the culmination of Many Years of Intense Roles. This is also the second role where he’s been mean to Reeve Carney. But I digress. He’s fantastic. His “His Kiss, the Riot” vibrated throughout the entire theatre. His Hades is so complicated and yet very simple and the way Page carries his Hades is really really wonderful. He has this fluidity to him (that also echoes throughout the entire show and I’ll talk about this later) that feels like he was made to be in this very moment at this time. 
André de Shields was another standout for how present he is during the entire show. He doesn’t leave the stage at all really during the entire show and he has this particular brand of swagger and simmer to him. I felt him there throughout the whole just contemplating the cycle of everything going on and yet when the focus wasn’t on him he didn’t steal the attention. Hermes is a very complicated role (side note but I have a theory he’s Orpheus’ dad) because he’s part narrator, part plot moving character and the only one aware of how time works in this world and is also the one telling us the story from start to finish. He has to balance the whole show on his shoulders and de Shields does it wonderfully. 
My goodness those Fates. They were sinister and terrifying and felt like the true villains of the show. They’re basically inner demons personified and they infected every character in the most deliciously evil way. They were so fascinating to watch and I want to read like ten think pieces on them. 
I’ve been raving about this show but there are some things I really didn’t like about it and want to address. 
The first is that all the actors really play to the center orchestra, and, likewise, it’s very much directed that way. The sight lines from the sides is kind of bad, especially from the rush seats. I felt like I was staring at their backs more than I’d like to. They need to play to the whooooole audience. By the way, the rush situation for this show is Awful and they only have like five tickets total. Like that’s all. Myself and a friend got there at like 4:30am and we’re fifth and 6th in line and they had already run out of evening show tickets and we got the last of the matinee ones. About twenty people behind us had also been waiting like 5 hours and got absolutely nothing. So be warned of that! 
And my biggest qualm with the show. My biggest biggest problem with the show is that Anais Mitchell ruined my absolute favorite part of the show with the Broadway transfer. All three “Epics” were my favorite songs in the show and had the most beautiful imagery in the Off-Broadway run and concept album. Here, however, they’ve been stripped of their beautiful poetry and imagery and are really basic songs. I was SO disappointed. The three songs that were my favorite parts of the show became the worst parts of the show. The new versions are honestly bad and it’s disappointing because they didn’t used to be and they don’t have to be. 
It’s hard to believe that Orpheus’ song is gonna save the world because it’s the weakest song in the show. Reeve sings it beautifully but I was so disappointed and honestly hated this change. 
Speaking of Reeve, he’s good! He isn’t amazing, but he’s good and I like the very different approach he’s taking with Orpheus. His Orpheus is scared and anxious and insecure but very very talented. Reeve really gets his footing in Act Two, where he shines. Not spoiling anything but the second to last scene is his best and he’s completely heartbreaking. 
The show is super interesting in how it moves forward and progresses. It just kind of flows from one thing to the next and one moment to the next and it actually reminded me a lot of wind. It felt very much like the wind was blowing the story along and I know that’s a weird way to put it but that felt very much like a thing that was going on.
Also, this show has this really beautiful fluidity in the way characters walk and the way everyone, especially Hades, moves on the turntables. Honestly this is the best use of turntables I’ve ever seen in theatre. It creates the atmosphere and adds so much to the cyclical nature of things and the way it shows movement is beyond beautiful. The movement throughout this show really shined. 
Hadestown has a lot to say and I’m so glad it does. I’m so glad this is a bold new musical that wants to say something and says it. 
There’s so much in this show about capitalism and the dangers of power hungry capitalists and there’s so much about poverty and the lengths people will go to get simple basic needs fulfilled. There’s something really interesting in this show about work and how powerful people use it to completely dehumanize people. Likewise, there’s this very interesting struggle between art and capitalism and artists and money which was super interesting to see personified in Orpheus and Hades. 
Much like Oklahoma!, I felt this show also had a strong theme of “us versus them” especially in “Why We Build the Wall.”  This is such a big thing in American culture that I’ve seen displayed a lot in theatre lately and I think it’s important that it is. It’s important that we’re forced to confront things about America as a whole country that have been prevalent forever but never said aloud. 
Interestingly enough, I feel like Hadestown says a lot about activism. And leadership. Orpheus is continuously presented as this musician who is going to change the world and yet Orpheus isn’t entirely capable in his actions. He has the right words but he doesn’t trust himself enough to fully believe in it - or that others believe in him - despite this song doing magical things. He also must be physically pushed by Hermes to do anything. I saw this as an interesting statement on those who can change the world relying on words over action as well as talking about self confidence and doubt and believing/not believing in yourself. I know that Damon Daunno played Orpheus as extremely cocky and self-assured and seeing Reeve Carney at the opposite end of this is very interesting. I’d like to see Orpheus played somewhere in the middle. 
Going along with that, consequences and choices are a big theme in Hadestown, and I felt that most of the time Eurydice was forced to make choices in order to survive and faced horrible consequences anyway rather than the usual “dumb characters makes bad decision and suffers” or even the Louis Ironson kind of “He knows he shouldn’t do this but is going to do it anyway” kind of thing. 
Oddly enough I loved the statement on climate change this show made. 
I’ve found myself being drawn to art and theatre about cycles and repetitions lately, and Hadestown is exactly that to a t. I don’t know why I love theatre like this so much, maybe it’s my inherent pessimism that nothing ever changes and that we as humans inherently bold that capacity for badness in us, but I suppose it also goes along with my inherent optimism that things can change, we as humans have the capacity for change and maybe one day we actually will. The way this show ends is really really wonderful in this way. 
And of course this show speaks so much about love and love and heartbreak and love and trust. Old love and new love. The parallels between Hades/Persephone and Orpheus/Eurydice are really well done. Trust is such an interesting aspect of this show and I’m glad Anais Mitchell and Rachel Chavkin never shy away from the uglier aspects of it. 
Lastly, Hadestown has what I will now be calling Big SNM Energy, aka Big Sleep No More Energy. I am fully convinced that Chavkin took some inspiration from that show, or at least both Hadestown and Sleep No More take place in the same universe. 
The vibe and feel of both shows is incredibly similar. Likewise, the swinging lights in “Wait For Me” are exactly like the swinging lights in Sleep No More. There were also similar themes of things happening in a cycle, things repeating but moving forward anyway, good and evil, temptation and choices/consequences. The Fates had a very similar feel to the three Sleep No More witches when they’re together. The sheer detail of it all and the location. My friend thinks Hecate is Hades’ ex, which actually narratively works for both shows. 
Hadestown will absolutely be a show I revisit as much as I can because there is just so much in there. There’s so much detail and so much to think about, which all good theatre should have. 
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thelostcatpodcast · 5 years
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THE LOST CAT PODCAST TRANSCRIPTS: S01 EP02: The Worry Dolls
SEASON 1: EPISODE 2: THE WORRY DOLLS
Episode released 1st July 2014
http://thelostcat.libsyn.com/episode-2-the-worry-dolls
My lover bought me worry dolls. They dance for me every night, and cry when they think I am not looking.
THE LOST CAT PODCAST BY A P CLARKE, EPISODE 2, THE WORRY DOLLS
My lover bought me worry dolls as they could see the situation with my cat was getting me down a bit.
What worry dolls are are little stick figures about an inch high with bright clothes made of coloured string wrapped around their bodies. Their heads and hands are just the top of the sticks.
How worry dolls work is, last thing at night, you tell them your worries and then put them beneath your pillow. They will take away the worry from your sleeping head for the whole of the night, giving you comforting dreams, and a fresh start in the morning.
So, after the wine, I took them from their box, laid them out in a row on my hand and whispered my worries to them.
“I am worried about money. I am worried that my lover does not love me. I am worried about my cat, which is lost.”
Then I laid them out in a row on my bed, put the pillow over them, and lay my head down to sleep.
They did not work as I expected at all.
Late that night, long after the clocks stopped working, I was awoken by movement beneath my pillow. So I sat up in bed, staring down through the gloom and the wine at the pillow, and saw it pulse like a sea cucumber.
I lifted the pillow and found the worry dolls all in a row, moving as if to music, up and down and side to side. They would partner up and spin about each other like perfectly weighted moons before moving on to the next. They formed a circle and, each rotating slowly around their middles, they moved around the circle they formed on my sheet. Once to the left, and once right.
They formed back into a line, and began again.
I watched them do this three times. They began to slow and I worried they were tiring. I leant in close with my ear right over them, and I could hear the tiny pulls of the string slipping on itself, I could hear little creaks of the straining wood, and I could hear the miniscule clicks and knocks where the binds were loosening.
So I put my lips as close to them as I could, I said “thank you.” And I gathered them and put them back in their box. They made no sound I heard then and, happy they were resting, I fell soundly asleep until late the next morning.
I could not tell you of what I dreamt, but I felt better than I had in a week. I am not sure I trust those who can recount their dreams with any detail.
So that morning, in the light of the day,  I looked very closely at all the little worry dolls in my hand. And I could see that the string was frayed and mended, knotted and re-knotted. I could see that the sticks were splintered in places and mended by new loops of string.
These were not new worry dolls. I was not their first owner, and mine were not the first worries they had dealt with.
Who’s worries had they been tasked to ease before mine? What had made them feel like they had to work so hard? What was the size of those worries?
I dug up fresh string – blue and yellow and green – and put it in their box.
I looked closely at them as I did, looking for some clue and I found, in amongst the knots of string, tiny slivers of a shining thread, almost filament thin. They shone as if flecked with metals - silver, gold, something purple.
That night they had wrapped the fresh string around themselves to strengthen their bonds, the shining threads almost completely hidden. The worry dolls looked strong, and refreshed. So I lifted them from their box, and whispered my worries to them once more.
“I worry about the future. I worry that I do not love my lover. I worry about my cat, which is lost.”
Then I put them beneath my pillow and went to sleep.
I remembered a dream, or some of it. What I dreamt was I was sitting at the table in my garden during the summer because it was warm. My cat was sitting on the table, and he was ignoring me.
Was that a good dream?
And when I looked closely at the worry dolls the next morning, I could already see a discolouration in the string, and the faintest smell of burning, as if from friction.
I left them in their box that night. I could not face the idea of one of them breaking. And deep into the night I could hear them weeping, and it warped their sticks.
So on the fourth night I put them beneath my pillow once again, whispering my worries as I did.
“I worry about anti-biotic resistant strains of virus. I worry that it is worry that gets in the way of love. I worry about my cat, which is lost.”
And I noticed they had woven some of my cat’s hairs into their clothes.
I had to find out where the worry dolls were from, and showed them to my house-mates.
“I recognise those threads,” said one. “There’s only one person round here has material like that. It hangs as curtains in her front window.”
“That’s amazing,” I said.
“I hear she hangs them as a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Well i’ve heard… She’s a witch.”
“You’re using that word.”
“Well it’s what I’ve heard.”
“Where does she live?”
“You shouldn’t go.”
“Where?”
“124 Cherry Lane.”
And I went, taking the box of worry dolls with me.
At the end of the high street, down a cul de sac,  I found 124 Cherry Lane. It was the entrance to a large Edwardian house, but nothing else. Not the house, just the entrance, Around it was just air.
You could see the next road over, behind it. The walls of the surrounding houses towered over it. Curtains of a strange material, flecked with shining threads of silver, gold and something purple, hung behind the one tiny window.
I knocked three times. And before I finished the third knock, the door opened. And an old lady stood before me.
“A young man,” she said. She said it like she was telling me who I was. I straightened up.
She looked me up and down, and looked at the bandages around my right foot and said “I do not keep cats in the house.”
She spoke like someone who had spent so long getting what she wanted that she mostly chose not to these days.
“You have something for me,” she told me.
“I think these are yours,” I said and I brought out the box of worry dolls, and showed them to her.
When she saw them she cried.
“Come in,” she said.
Her hair was silver and gold and bunned-up loosely at the back of her head by two thick chopsticks painted in black with flowers. She wore endless shawls and a dress of that same material, flecked through with shining thread. She looked like an almost impossibly ancient lady, doubled over, and with skin like parchment.
I went in.
The house was tiny.  Inside there was a narrow hall I could barely fit through leading to nothing but a spiral staircase leading down.
A dozen umbrellas formed a bouquet by the door that I got tangled in. A huge dark mirror, blackened almost to the centre with silver’d cracks dominated one wall.
“It makes the place look bigger,” she said. When I looked into it I saw three of me, standing in front of a huge fireplace with a dog sleeping on one side.
“There’s not much left of what there was. But I do not need so much these days. Please, follow me.”
And she disappeared down the spiral stairway. I followed. It spiralled down twice, three times, getting ever narrower as it did. Down and down it went. I counted one hundred steps until I was almost in darkness and then I stopped counting, as this is what a child does. When I stopped counting the stairs ended.
“Finally,” she said.
The stairway opened out to a forest.
With grass on the floor and huge mushrooms everywhere, the room was bounded by huge trees I could not see through. I followed their branches up and saw the sky like a tiny window between their leaves. The surrounding houses looked down like quizzical battlements peering in.
In the middle of the room were two comfy chairs, a lamp,  a loom, and a coffee table.
I opened my mouth to begin speaking, and she held up a bony finger and I stopped.
“First things first,” she said. “You have come to me and, in return, I offer you a glass of wine.”
Now it would have been rude to refuse. So I sat in one of the infinitely deep chairs in the forest of her living room and she brought out a bottle of deep red liquid with no label from a knot in one of the trees and poured it all into two huge, thick-glassed goblets. And together we drank a glass of wine…
<music plays: The Song Of Madelline, written by A P Clarke, performed by A P Clarke and W Walker-Allen>
There once was a girl who was made out of snow
and she would leave puddles wherever she would go
and when she was happy she started to cry
and of course loved a boy who cheated and lied
When he left for nothing, she was hard as a stone
so these things go
and the drunken priest watched her stand at the end of the pier
heard her singing a song and then just disappear
Well a storm came from the sea and settled over the town
and it ripped up the roofs and made a terrible sound
and the bell of the church blew around for a day
and then fell on the priest and then tolled him away
the wood ripped and thundered and swirled through the air
all through the year
and the rain turned to snow and then buried them deep
then the snow turned to rain and they drowned in their sleep
and it rained rocks and dogs and a frozen red wine
and the town learnt to sing the song of Madelline
well they drank until morning, and then wrapped themselves warm
they called on her name and then headed in to the storm
they hauled up the nets that they laid in the street
for the thousands of fish that lay dead at their feet
and the boy he came home, grew rich and grew old
so these things go
but the rocks and the wood and the snow and the wine
and the town all sing on to the song of Madelline.
It was good wine, too.
“May I look at them?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, and handed them to her.
She breathed in deeply as she held the box.
She said “these were once mine.”
She sat up then, impossibly straight in her chair, and fixed me a calm gaze and for all the world she looked as glamorous as any movie star. She spoke like someone who really, really did not care whether I found her attractive.
And she told me the story of the worry dolls.
“I have been young,” she said “And used it well. I had my loves and wove spells to make those loves perfect. I took them, and I left them, as I desired. Perhaps some would call me selfish, and I am sure that they are right. I have had, in my time, everything I could want in a life.
“But I am not cruel. Every love I left I wove a new spell for, to ensure their lives had what they wanted too. I loved them, and did not want them sad.
“This is what I gave them, and this is what they took: a life lived by spells is bound by spells, and if I did not keep the weaves fresh, the spells would come undone, and leave my loves with tatters where their lives once were.
“So I made these worry dolls, and I worried on my loves, to keep the spells fresh and tended. A lifetime of spells and a lifetime of worry.
“And now I am old, and I have had to sell much of what I own – to get rid of what I no longer want, and to keep that which I still need. Much was sold in large boxes, as lots. The dolls had been placed in one by an uncaring carer and I lost them. Without the dolls, I could not worry about all those I had loved, and I have been in despair ever since.”
I said “I do not really believe in magic.”
“It is as real as it is.”
“That isn’t much of an answer.”
“It wasn’t much of a question, young man.”
“Why do the worry dolls cry?”
“They were made that way. They were made to ease the worry of the heads that sleep on the pillows above them. If they do not dance, they can not let whatever is in them out.”
She leant forwards, “do not feel too sad, young man. If you want to think of it that way: we are made a particular way too.”
“Is this poetry?”
“This is how I live my life.”
She spoke like someone who did not feel it necessary to explain herself to me. Considering yourself the centre of the universe is an arrogance of youth, but it is a comfort of age.
“I want to return the worry dolls to you.”
“You understand that they are yours.”
“If they are mine I can give them to who I please.”
“That is indeed your right.”
“Then I give them to you freely.”
“Then it is my right to only accept them if I give you something in return.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It is my right, young man.”
“Then I accept,” I said.
“Tell me. Tell me what you are worried about,”  she told me.
And, for some reason, I felt a need to tell her. As she eased back into her infinite chair, and opened the box of worry dolls, I said “I worry about my cat, which is lost… and about my lover.”
She was looking closely at the worry dolls, laid out upon her hand. She had noticed the hair of my cat wrapped around them.
“I think the dolls will help you with your cat. Your lover,” she said, “is your business.”  
As she gently brushed at the string of the dolls, I could see them moving beneath her finger, leaping up to meet her.
“But let me tell you this: whatever made you think love was happiness?”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Worry is love too,” she finished with a wry look back at me.
And I found myself smiling.
She placed her hand flat upon the other and put the worry dolls back in their box.
And then The old woman was suddenly leant in close to me, right over me in my impossibly deep chair. And she kissed me on the lips.
She said, “the worry dolls will be safe with me, and I see your wine is done. And thus, so are we. I have one last thing to ask of you, which shall put me in your debt forever more.”
“Ask it.”
“Do not come back again.”
“But I’d like to check in on you.”
“Do this for me, young man. Never come back.”
“I promise.”
And her face broke out in a wet-eyed grin and she looked just like a baby.
“Excellent.”
She took the empty wine glass, showed me to the stairs and beckoned me up.
“Take an umbrella, ” she said.
The next thing I remember I was on the high street with an umbrella in my hand and it had just started to rain. So I put the umbrella up and walked home.
Over the next few days a strawberry shaped mark in my skin has appeared on the side of my mouth. It is slightly hollow, as if some of my flesh is gone. It is not sore. My lover says it is nice, and kisses me there.
That night I worried about my lost cat, and that was fine. It was lost, after all.
And I haven’t gone to see her again. And I won’t.
I hope the worry dolls are happy.
THIS HAS BEEN EPISODE 2 OF THE LOST CAT PODCAST, WRITTEN AND PERFORMED BY A P CLARKE. COPYRIGHT 2014.
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