#you know really old movies like white Christmas? how in the emotional scenes peoples faces are blurred a little?

[creativesplat]

Smooth/Rough

#I decided to do the smooth/rough prompt as two different styles of picture #one feeling rough the other feeling smooth #you know really old movies like white Christmas? how in the emotional scenes peoples faces are blurred a little? #that was the inspiration #but also I wanted to draw game-model accurate miphlink because it's fun to do that :) #they're awesome and I love them #miphlink #miphlink week #I can't believe it's actually started! #everyone it's miphlinkweek!!! AAAAA #miphlinkweek2023 #creativesplat draws

[kcrabb88]

Queer Movies/Books/TV Shows for Pride Month!

Happy Pride everyone!! For your viewing/reading pleasure I have made a (non-exhaustive) list of queer media that I have enjoyed! 

Movies/Documentaries

Pride (2014): An old tried and true favorite, which meets at the intersection of queer and workers’ rights. A group of queer activists support the 1985 miners’ strike in Wales (complete with a sing-through of Bread and Roses + Power in a Union)

Portrait of a Lady on Fire: On an isolated island in Brittany at the end of the eighteenth century, a female painter is obliged to paint a wedding portrait of a young woman (or, two young lesbians fall in love by the sea, and you cry)

God’s Own Country: Young farmer Johnny Saxby numbs his daily frustrations with binge drinking and casual sex, until the arrival of a Romanian migrant worker for lambing season ignites an intense relationship that sets Johnny on a new path (Seriously this movie is GREAT and doesn’t get enough love, watch it! It’s rough but ends happily)

The Half of It:  When smart but cash-strapped teen Ellie Chu agrees to write a love letter for a jock, she doesn't expect to become his friend - or fall for his crush (as in she falls for his crush who is another girl. This movie was so good, and really friendship focused!) 

Saving Face:  A Chinese-American lesbian and her traditionalist mother are reluctant to go public with secret loves that clash against cultural expectations (this is an oldie and a goodie, with a happy ending!)

Moonlight:  A young African-American man grapples with his identity and sexuality while experiencing the everyday struggles of childhood, adolescence, and burgeoning adulthood (featuring gay men of color!)

Carol:  An aspiring photographer develops an intimate relationship with an older woman in 1950s New York (everyone’s seen this I think, but I couldn’t not have it here)

Milk: The story of Harvey Milk and his struggles as an American gay activist who fought for gay rights and became California's first openly gay elected official (the speech at the end of this made me cry. Warning, of course, for death, if you don’t know about Harvey Milk)

Pride (Hulu Documentary):  A six-part documentary series chronicling the fight for LGBTQ civil rights in America (they go by decade from the 50s-2000s, and there is a lot of great trans inclusion in this)

Paris is Burning (Documentary): A 1990s documentary about the African American and Latinx ballroom scene. Available on Youtube!

A New York Christmas Wedding:  As her Christmas Eve wedding draws near, Jennifer is visited by an angel and shown what could have been if she hadn't denied her true feelings for her childhood best friend (this movie is SO CUTE. It’s really only nominally a Christmas movie and easily watched anytime. Features an interracial sapphic couple!) 

TV Shows 

Love, Victor: Victor is a new student at Creekwood High School on his own journey of self-discovery, facing challenges at home, adjusting to a new city, and struggling with his sexual orientation (this is a spin-off of Love, Simon, and it’s very sweet and well done! Featuring a young gay man of color)

Sex Education:  A teenage boy with a sex therapist mother teams up with a high school classmate to set up an underground sex therapy clinic at school (this has multiple queer characters, including a featured young Black gay man and also in season 2 there is a side ace character!) 

Black Sails: I mean, do I even need to put a summary here? If you follow me you know that Black Sails is full of queer pirates, just queers everywhere.

Gentleman Jack:  A dramatization of the life of LGBTQ+ trailblazer, voracious learner and cryptic diarist Anne Lister, who returns to Halifax, West Yorkshire in 1832, determined to transform the fate of her faded ancestral home Shibden Hall (Period drama lesbians!!! A title sequence  that will make you gay just by watching!) 

Tales of the City (2019):  A middle-aged Mary Ann returns to San Francisco and reunites with the eccentric friends she left behind. "Tales of the City" focuses primarily on the people who live in a boardinghouse turned apartment complex owned by Anna Madrigal at 28 Barbary Lane, all of whom quickly become part of what Maupin coined a "logical family". It's no longer a secret that Mrs. Madrigal is transgender. Instead, she is haunted by something from her past that has long been too painful to share (this is based on a book series and it’s got lots of great inter-generational queer relationships!) 

The Haunting of Bly Manor:  After an au pair’s tragic death, Henry hires a young American nanny to care for his orphaned niece and nephew who reside at Bly Manor with the chef Owen, groundskeeper Jamie and housekeeper, Mrs. Grose (sweet, tender, wonderful lesbians. A bittersweet ending but this show is so so wonderful)

Sense8: A group of people around the world are suddenly linked mentally, and must find a way to survive being hunted by those who see them as a threat to the world's order (queers just EVERYWHERE in this show, of all kinds)

Books

Loveless by Alice Oseman:  Georgia has never been in love, never kissed anyone, never even had a crush – but as a fanfic-obsessed romantic she’s sure she’ll find her person one day. This wise, warm and witty story of identity and self-acceptance sees Alice Oseman on towering form as Georgia and her friends discover that true love isn’t limited to romance (don’t be turned off by this title, it’s tongue-in-cheek. This is a book about an aroace college girl discovering herself and centers the importance and power of platonic relationships! I have it on my TBR and have heard great things)

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters: Reese almost had it all: a loving relationship with Amy, an apartment in New York City, a job she didn't hate. She had scraped together what previous generations of trans women could only dream of: a life of mundane, bourgeois comforts. The only thing missing was a child. But then her girlfriend, Amy, detransitioned and became Ames, and everything fell apart. Now Reese is caught in a self-destructive pattern: avoiding her loneliness by sleeping with married men.Ames isn't happy either. He thought detransitioning to live as a man would make life easier, but that decision cost him his relationship with Reese—and losing her meant losing his only family. Even though their romance is over, he longs to find a way back to her. When Ames's boss and lover, Katrina, reveals that she's pregnant with his baby—and that she's not sure whether she wants to keep it—Ames wonders if this is the chance he's been waiting for. Could the three of them form some kind of unconventional family—and raise the baby together?This provocative debut is about what happens at the emotional, messy, vulnerable corners of womanhood that platitudes and good intentions can't reach. Torrey Peters brilliantly and fearlessly navigates the most dangerous taboos around gender, sex, and relationships, gifting us a thrillingly original, witty, and deeply moving novel (again, don’t be thrown off by the title, it too, is tongue-in-cheek. This book was GREAT, and written by a trans women with a queer-and especially trans--audience in mind)

A Tip for the Hangman by Allison Epstein: A gay Christopher Marlowe, at Cambridge and trying to become England’s best new playwright, finds himself wrapped up in royal espionage schemes while also falling in love (this book is by a Twitter friend of mine, and it is a wonderful historical thriller with a gay man at the center).

Creatures of Will and Temper by Molly Tanzer: a very very queer remix of The Picture of Dorian Gray (which was already quite queer), featuring amazing female characters, a gay Basil, and a much happier ending than the original. 

Red, White, and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston: The gay prince of England and the bisexual, biracial first son of the president fall in love (think an AU of 2016 where a woman becomes president). Featuring a fantastic discovery of bisexuality, ruminations on grief, and just a truly astonishing book. One of my favorites!

One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston:  For cynical twenty-three-year-old August, moving to New York City is supposed to prove her right: that things like magic and cinematic love stories don’t exist, and the only smart way to go through life is alone. She can’t imagine how waiting tables at a 24-hour pancake diner and moving in with too many weird roommates could possibly change that. And there’s certainly no chance of her subway commute being anything more than a daily trudge through boredom and electrical failures. But then, there’s this gorgeous girl on the train (This is Casey McQuiston’s brand new novel featuring time-travel, queer women, and I absolutely cannot WAIT to read it)

The Heiress by Molly Greely: Set in the Pride and Prejudice universe, this takes on Anne de Bourg (Lady Catherine’s daughter), and makes her queer! 

Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters:  Nan King, an oyster girl, is captivated by the music hall phenomenon Kitty Butler, a male impersonator extraordinaire treading the boards in Canterbury. Through a friend at the box office, Nan manages to visit all her shows and finally meet her heroine. Soon after, she becomes Kitty's dresser and the two head for the bright lights of Leicester Square where they begin a glittering career as music-hall stars in an all-singing and dancing double act. At the same time, behind closed doors, they admit their attraction to each other and their affair begins (Sarah Waters is the queen of historical lesbians. All of her books are good, and they’re all gay! The Paying Guests is another great one)

(On a side note re: queer books, there are MANY, these are just ones I’ve read more recently. Also there are a lot of indie/self-published writers doing great work writing queer books, so definitely support your local indie authors!) 

#I am inevitably forgetting things!!! #These are just ones that came to mind #Long post #Pride

[palimpsessed]

Steel Yourself

That morning in Las Vegas when Simon gets his hair cut has been in the back of my mind for over a year, and the recent Wayward Son anniversary reread and lots of talk about hair in the server, brought it front and center. So I decided I had some thoughts and I wanted to get them out.

I asked myself a lot why Simon did this one thing at this one moment. He's let his hair grow out for a long time, probably since the summer before eighth year, or at least the summer after Watford. He's even told us: "I haven't cared enough to get a haircut."

But when Simon does cut his hair, he's still in the same bad place mentally. He still doesn't see himself in a positive light. So why the change? And why this change?

For me, it all comes down to the timing. Timing is very important in terms of Simon's hair. Throughout Simon's life, you could tell the time of year by the length of his hair. At the start of every summer, he shaved his head, and the rest of the year, he grew it out. When Simon starts at Watford, his hair is still fairly short from the previous summer: "A Trojan 11-year-old with baggy jeans and a shaved head." (This is also the look sported by the Insidious Humdrum, which Simon created shortly before being "discovered" by the Mage and taken to Watford.)

Why does the length of his hair matter? Because the shorter it is, the more vulnerable Simon is. (And I don't mean like Samson losing all his strength when his hair was cut off.)

Simon spends months completely unprotected and cut off from all contact every summer. Those summer months in the care homes, exiled from the World of Mages, and the first 11 years of his life, Simon is at his most vulnerable. He doesn't have a family or access to his friends when he's in care. He can't really use or practice his magic. And he's left open to attack from pretty much any magickal or dark creature who feels like trying their luck. (See: fit goblin cabbie and suspected bonety hunter/pervert from the beginning of Carry On.) (Simon has more than one price on his head by the time he's eighteen. And the Humdrum could attack anytime. And the Mage's enemies could hunt him down to get their revenge on the Mage.)

The only person Simon is able to contact during the summers is the Mage, and I think we can all agree that makes him significantly less safe than if he was completely cut off.

Simon is most vulnerable in summer and that's when his hair is the shortest. The drastic change, the rude awakening of being thrust back into the Normal world alone at the end of each school year is perfectly signified by Simon cutting off all of his hair. (Also, undercuts: half-shaved, half-grown. Simon, composed of halves: Normal world/World of Mages; Chosen One/Insidious Humdrum; limitless wells of magic/inability to Speak; dragon/human.)

Once Simon is back at Watford, his hair grows in; the longer he's there, the longer it gets. The more months he spends back at Watford--the only true home he's ever had, surrounded by the only people who love him--the more security he has, and the less vulnerable he becomes.

Are the summer haircuts a necessity of living in a group home "with seven other discards"? Or just something Simon does on his own? It's not really made clear, but Simon does say "I shave it", which implies some degree of agency. I don't think it's uncommon to want to change one's hair (style or color) when life gets overwhelming. (2020, anyone?) It's a great and safe way to exert control over life and self when other things feel out of control. The thing about Simon is that he has never had control over his life; that's part of what makes him so vulnerable the years he spent in care, the years he was the Mage's personal boy soldier, the years he was groomed as Baz's enemy and the Chosen One born to take down the Insidious Humdrum. The length of Simon's hair seems to be the one thing he has control over.

When Simon is most vulnerable, he cuts his hair. In his case, it's an act of defiance, of agency. Cutting his hair is a way for him to be strong, to take control.

Let's move forward in time now to Wayward Son.

Even though he's left Watford and childhood and defeated "the big baddie[s]", Simon is still struggling through a life out of his control. He has wings, a tail, and no magic. He has no direction because he thinks he was born to die. He's burdened with years and years and years of trauma that he can't find a way to avoid or properly confront and he's decided to just stop trying to do either one.

Simon starts the book at his lowest point. And his hair seems to be at its longest, even though he's also at his most vulnerable. How does this tie into the point I'm trying to make?

Simon is not taking agency in his life; he's "lying on the sofa". Life is out of control again, but Simon hasn't shaved his head this time because he's given up trying to fight back.

I think subconsciously, Simon is now trying to use his longer hair as a kind of emotional armor. Short hair has been associated throughout his life with his most vulnerable state (and the Humdrum). Simon is essentially trying to build up a sort of physical barrier to the trauma that's constantly pushing in on him; trauma that he is trying his best to run from, to not face (including quitting therapy and telling his therapist that he prefers to have his brain close "off painful corridors"). Simon tells us that he hasn't "cared enough to get a haircut", but the implications seem to be much deeper than a lack of care.

We first see the hair-as-armor technique with Baz. Baz uses most aspects of his appearance as a way to craft his careful image of control. It's a skill he intentionally adopted from Malcolm. Baz practices his facial expressions and posture in the mirror to make sure that he's able to hide his emotions from the outside world. He cares about fashion, and puts on an expensive suit when he's going into a dangerous situation the way others would put on armor. Up until Simon kisses Baz in the woods, Baz's hair is kept carefully slicked back like a "gangster...or a black-and-white movie vampire". That scene in the woods is incredibly pivotal, but not just from a SnowBaz perspective. That's the moment that Baz hits his lowest point. He's convinced he's failed at finding his mother's murderer (and we all know Baz top-of-the-class Pitch doesn't handle failure well), and he's confronted, and been taunted by, the very monsters that he's been trying his whole life to deny he's one of. He doesn't care that Simon is there to witness his breakdown; he runs off into the woods and sets the fire he hopes will kill him.

That moment in the woods is one of just a few times that Baz allows himself to be vulnerable in front of Simon. And Simon is sure to comment on the state of Baz's hair when it's not neat and tidy. (Simon is very helpful.) There's the moment Baz finds out how Natasha really died ("His hair is in his eyes"), then after sharing magic out on the lawn with the dragon ("His hair falls forward"), which leads to them sharing magic on Baz's bed later that same day. These are incredibly integral steps along the way to Simon and Baz's truce and romance. Baz has to let down his guard so that Simon can see his humanity, his vulnerability, and recognize his own feelings, feelings that he's kept buried down deep because he's believed that Baz hates him and wants to kill him (and we all know what Simon does with painful thoughts). Each instance leads up to that kiss in the woods, after which Simon talks about the way Baz's "hair falls in a lazy wave over his forehead". Simon and Baz spend that night kissing and sleeping in each other's arms; they talk for the first time ever about their feelings for each other. Baz's hair is loose and wavy and not slicked back because he's let his guard down, he's let Simon in, he's let himself be vulnerable. And one of the first things Simon does when he kisses Baz is slide his hand into Baz's hair and mess it up; after kissing, this seems to be top of his list "of all the things [he's] always wanted to do to Baz".

And what does Baz do later on Christmas Eve, when he's getting ready for dinner after Simon leaves with Penny and Agatha? He slicks his hair back. It doesn't evade Simon's notice, either. (Nothing about Baz evades Simon's notice.) He "wish[es]" Baz wouldn't slick his hair back, because "it looks better when it's loose and falling around his face". Simon wants Baz to be vulnerable around him, and Baz was trying to put his armor back up when he was convinced that Simon wouldn’t come back.

Baz has more hair in Wayward Son. (I'm not even going to touch the body hair thing, so calm yourselves.) His hair is longer than it was at Watford, and he's able to grow a beard. Simon sees Baz's new, softer look as illustrative of Baz's maturity, self-assurance, and attractiveness, reasons that Baz is too good for him. ("He's coming into himself. And I'm coming apart.") But what Simon fails to recognize is that, as in Carry On, Baz's softer hair is actually illustrative of his emotional vulnerability.

Between Carry On and Wayward Son, Baz, like Simon, has grown out his hair, and he seems to prefer wearing it loose. He isn't the same boy he was in school; he has everything he ever wanted (Simon), so he can let down his guard. They're supposed to be living the happy ending neither one of them ever thought they'd get to have. He doesn't need to protect himself anymore, because he isn't living with the constant fear of being outed one way or another in a boarding school without escape. (He does still have to live with the fear of being outed as a vampire, but that concern has to be much less immediate now that he's outside of the only place that mages live together. He's under far less scrutiny in London and at university and far less likely to be discovered.)

And yet, Baz isn't happy, he isn't secure. He thinks he's going to lose Simon, that maybe he's already lost him. Baz now struggles to get his hair back under control (just like Christmas Eve), and their ill-fated road trip conspires against him at every turn. Baz's hair gets blown to hell when the convertible top breaks; Simon compares him to Mozart, then Baz compares himself to a member of a "hair metal band"; he can't use magic to tidy his hair, and even wetting it only gets him to a Bucks Fizz or Wham! equivalent; his hair gets "bushy and matted" in their fight with Jeff Arnold and his posse; Simon tells Baz not to ride in the back of Shepard’s truck because of “what the wind does to [his] hair”. (Remember the scene in the back of the truck? Yeah. Very emotional.) Baz's emotional turmoil is reflected in his diminishing physical condition throughout their trip. He finally lands on using his mother's scarf as a means of keeping his hair under control. He's trying to reclaim some of his emotional armor, because, as he tells us: "Simon Snow, it hurts to look at you when you're this happy. And it hurts to look at you when you're depressed. There's no safe time for me to see you. Nothing about you that doesn't tear my heart from my chest and leave it breakable outside my body."

Baz is in pain. He's trying to hold himself together and his hair is the perfect metaphor for this. The fact that he uses his mother's scarf to keep it under control harkens back to his method of aping Malcolm in Carry On. He turns to his parents for the means of bolstering his armor in the face of vulnerability (which we see play out much more overtly when Baz later contemplates calling Malcolm, and calling Fiona, for help with the NowNext).

(Side note about Baz's family. Want to talk about hair showing emotional vulnerability? How about Malcolm going white after Natasha died? The man is broken by his first wife's death and he never recovers emotionally, even though he's remarried and had four more children. He still can't express any emotion toward Natasha's son. Also, Fiona. With her natural white streak dead center in the front of her hair? Fiona is an absolute wreck of a human. She's volatile and self-destructive and vindictive and was also shattered by Natasha's death and before that, Nico's Turning. Both Malcolm and Fiona are permanently marked with signs of their emotional trauma with their white hair.)

I think post-Humdrum Simon has taken a page out of Baz's book, having always seen him as self-assured and completely in control in a way Simon never was. He's internalized the hair-as-armor technique as a misguided way to insulate himself from his pain, growing it out instead of cutting it off (with his "new length" being a physical representation of the barrier he's trying to make around all of the painful things in his head).

This obviously doesn't work. Simon isn't fooling anyone, not even himself.

In Carry On, Simon shaves his hair to exert control, and Baz slicks back his hair to project control. In Wayward Son, Simon uses his longer hair as a kind of shield against looking vulnerable, and Baz's longer hair reflects his vulnerability.

Wayward Son ends with Simon still in a very vulnerable state. If Simon thinks of short hair as being linked with vulnerability, and long hair like armor, then why did he decide to cut his hair in Vegas?

Because he did care enough to get a haircut; he cared enough to make himself vulnerable.

Why?

Because he's in love with Baz and he can't tell him, so he cuts his hair to show him.

Simon is being brave. He's taking a step and he's exposing himself in a way he's been too scared to do for a long time. Which is the crux of all of this: allowing himself to be vulnerable is actually a kind of strength.

The night before Simon gets his hair cut, Baz meets Lamb. Simon listens to Lamb flirt with Baz, and Baz sort of flirt back with Lamb, for hours, and can't do anything about it. When he does finally intervene, he sees them together, and he thinks Baz and Lamb are going to kiss. He thinks Baz wants someone else. He thinks Baz wants to break up with him. (He already did think so, yes, but at this point of the book, Simon has started to convince himself that they're "getting by".)

The night culminates in one of Baz's lowest points, drunk and draining birds in the hotel bath, bloodstained and forced to face the brutal reality that is his life as a vampire with three witnesses, one of whom is the love of his life. Baz doesn't ever want Simon to see him drink. He has to tell Simon more than once to leave the bathroom to try to maintain some part of his dignity and to keep Simon from continuing to watch (because Simon wants to watch).

This is Baz at his most vulnerable, and Simon is there for all of it. Again. And he wants so badly to be with Baz. But Simon is a mess and can't articulate his feelings. So he goes out and gets an expensive haircut to show Baz that he does care. He finally cares enough to get a haircut (to exercise agency over himself and his life). This is his way of trying to fight for Baz. It's completely off the mark (use your words, Simon) but it's sweet and it's well-intentioned. And it's brave.

Simon has two things in life that he's clinging to with all the power he has left in him: Baz and Penny. And that morning in Vegas, he's probably contemplating the possibility that he's going to lose Baz. (And, unless they get a break, Agatha.--Again.)

TL;DR: Simon cuts his hair, to try to get some control over his out-of-control life, to make an effort for his boyfriend, to try to bring back the part of himself from Watford who was a hero who could take on anything with his undercut ("and a belly full of magic"). It's vulnerability, but it's also strength.

Shaved or tousled, Simon Snow, I hope you get your well-deserved happy ending with Baz, and Penny, and Agatha, and Shepard. And therapy. Please, please, please therapy.

#meta #my meta #simon snow #baz pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #snowbaz #steel yourself #a heavy meta on hair #rainbow rowell #simon snow series #co/ws #awtwb #carry on #wayward #any way the wind blows

[eleanorbloom]

Love  Actually Is... (Bryce x MC)

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x f! MC (Eleanor Bloom)

Word Count: 5k  

Warnings: Fluff and some curse words. Rated T.

Summary: Eleanor is feeling down and Bryce has a very particular way to cheer her up.

Taglist @utterlyinevitable @choicesficwriterscreations  @starrystarrytrouble @lahellacute @lucy-268  @cinnamonspongecake @romewritingshop @bratzlahela @freckles-spangledvampire   @mercury84choices  @curiousconch @openheartfanfics

_________

“

4 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS.

“Bryce, love, what are you doing?” I shouted from the couch in the living room toward our room. My voice was husky and nasal because I had been crying for the past hour, and I was drying my puffy and reddened eyes for the umpteenth time that evening.  I was frustrated, sad, and angry, but I was doing my best to move on, “We have to decide what are we gonna do on Christmas Eve. I’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow.”

No response. For a moment I thought he was in the bathroom, or sleeping, but then I heard some rummaging in the room, so I knew for sure he should’ve heard me.

"Goldie, what are you up to?" I insisted as Bryce didn't respond to me nor approached the living room in the next minute. I was about to get up from my seat when I saw him coming out of our bedroom with a smirk on his face and some strange clothes on. He was wearing a white buttoned shirt and black cotton pants, very different from the dark jeans and green Henley he was wearing ten minutes ago.

I frowned.

“Love, why are you wearing that? You have a wedding I wasn’t aware of?” I asked, watching him come to the living room.

“Wait and see.” He simply replied as he was scrolling through his phone, and then walked to the big windows of the living room.

Outside there was the reason for my disappointment, of my anger. It was dark, stormy, and really, really cold. The glass of the window was completely frosted, so the streetlights barely could percolate through the thick layer of snow in the glass.

One more click and a few notes started playing in the home sound system. Bryce, giving me his back, started swaying his hips.

I knew those notes. My mind was racing, trying to decipher where I had listened to them. “Is this…?”

Your eyes tell me how you want me

“Oh my god.”

I can feel it in your heart beat

Then Bryce took slow steps backward and turned her face to wink at me, all seductive and teasing while he was singing along with The Pointer Sisters. Then he pointed a finger to me while his hips started rocking toward my way.  

I started laughing instantly, of course. The way he was looking at me and how smooth his movements were would never stop to amaze me. But it was also a mix of fun and tenderness, because he was acting like a character from my favorite Christmas movie, Love Actually, only to cheer me up, so even if I was laughing my ass off, I was pretty emotional too.

He kept moving and singing until he reached the center of the living room, and then changed his steps. Now he was moving to the sides with open arms and legs, moving his head to the beat. The whole step was hilarious, but he was doing it even funnier with his confident smirk and his expert motions, exceeding the very well presentation Hugh Grant did in the movie. It was like he was born to do that scene.

“I’ll take you down, I’ll take you doooown, where no one’s ever gone before”

“Love, oh my god!” I said wiping the tears off my eyes, as was crying again, but this time for a very pleasant reason.

We were so immersed in the dance that none of us heard the sound of keys in the lock, and the door cracking open. Just when the door slammed shut, we realized Keiki was there, staring at Bryce with a puzzled look and biting her lips to not burst out of laugh.

“What the hell are you doing, weirdo?”

“Jump in and feel my touch! Jum if you want to taste my kisses!” He said dancing towards her, rocking his hips teasingly, and Keiki gave him a horrified look as he saw him dancing around her. “Hi Keiks, welcome home.”

“No! I’m leaving! I should’ve never come back! Nikka, take me with youuu!!" She screamed as she pretended she was asking her best friend to rescue her.

Then she turned to me, as I was cackling louder than ever, “Ella, are you okay with this?” she asked me with a mix of disappointment and amusement, taking a seat beside me.

“Keiki, it’s hilarious.”

“Jump! You want to taste my kisses in the night then”—Suddenly Bryce jumped to the empty space beside me and started dancing over, moving his butt over me. “Jump, jump for my love!”

“Eeewww Bryce!” Keiki squealed, covering her eyes with both hands. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can live with this weirdo, share a bed with this clown, Ella.” Her cheeks were flushed, partly because of the embarrassment but mostly because she was trying so hard not to laugh.

“Well, I mean, you live with him too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but you consciously chose him. And I bet you already knew how ridiculous he was before agreeing to be his girlfriend. I literally had no choice.”

Bryce jumped to the floor again and then squeezed to sit in the middle of me and Keiki.

“Oh, come on little sistah, don't be such spoilsport," He said “Are you thirsty? Can I offer you a glass of wotah? Or maybe a cup of tea?”

“Oh my god, Ella what the hell did you give him? Did he smoke anything?”

“Dear lord! Where are your modals, Keiki? Your Governess would be ashamed of how rude you are behaving with your beloved older brother.”

“Okay, I’m going to my room now.”She said as she was trying to stand up from the couch but Bryce stopped her.

“But darling, tell me first how was your day? The mall was too crowded?”

“A living hell, but now I realize it was better than this hell.”

“Oh, and what will be my Christmas present? Did you found that lovely china cups I’ve been dreaming about so much these past months?”

“Will you ever stop talking like you’re auditioning for Downton Abbey. Ella, please talk some sense into him.” She looked at me, pleading, and I couldn’t help but tease her even more.

"Keiki, darling, wot is wrong with ya? Why are you speaking this strange accent? One way to the shopping mall and you’re all American? The Queen would be ashamed of you!”

“I can’t believe this, you of all people, Eleanor?” She was disappointed, but I could tell she was enjoying the whole exchange.

“Stop complaining, you stupid sandwich!” Bryce shouted in his best Gordon Ramsay personification. “It’s almost Christmas, laugh a little, child!”  

“Sandwich? Did I hear Sandwich?” I asked with a mischievous smirk on my face.

That was our intern joke. Whenever or wherever we would say the word sandwich…

“Noooooo, sandwich nooooo, dam….n…”

We would sandwich the last person to react. So Bryce and I wrapped Keiki into a tight hug, sandwiching her.

"SANDWICH!" We squealed happily.

“Please, help me, god." She pleaded, feigning annoyance. “I can’t believe you are 29 and behave like 10 years old kids. Worse, like you were 5!"

“Don’t play the dumb, Keiks, you like being sandwiched.” Bryce defied. After a moment, she surrendered and gave him broad smile.

"Only because I have no other option but to accept your weird ways of showing love."

"We have more adult ways, but you don't like them either." I added, then Bryce and I squeezed her a bit more, to finally release her from our grip, "Aaaand you’re free”

“Thank god” She sighed loudly. “Why all this fuss, though? You two were watching Love Actually again? Or is this your normal mode before Christmas?”

“No, I was just trying to cheer Elle on.”

“Why? What happened?”

“They canceled the flights due to the snowstorm for the next two days so… we’re not going to Chile.”

“Oh, no.” She whispered. I could see the disappointment in her eyes. We have been waiting for this trip for weeks, maybe even months. “I’m so sorry, Ella.  I know this was important to you. I was really looking forward to traveling to Chile too.”

“I know... That’s what has me so sad and angry…” I shook my head, trying to shake off the bad emotions. “So, well, you know your brother, he likes to ridicule himself to make me laugh, so he was doing just that.”

“Ridicule myself, excuse me? That’s was a terrific presentation, it was divine! The Queen would be so pleased! So would Hugh Grant!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, bro.” She rolled her eyes “So, what are we gonna do?”

“Well, have Christmas Eve dinner here and maybe join our friends on Christmas Day? If you’re okay with that, of course.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” She smiled. “Whatever helps me not spend the whole day with you two, weirdos”

I chucked.

“Excellent, I let them know we’ll joining them on Friday”

After we discussed the menu and we came up with a complete grocery store list, Keiki finally stood up from the couch. “Well, now that we are ready with that, I’m gonna laid down a bit. You two are exhausting, you know that? I only hope you’re not this impossible on Christmas Eve.”

Bryce and I watched Keiki walking to her room with two bags in hand at a light pace.

“That was Keiki or is Ethan ventriloquizing Keiks somewhere?” Bryce asked once his sister got into her room.

“She’s a teenager, love. I bet you were that grinch too.”

“Well, yeah, but not that grinch.”

“Maybe she’s right and we really are impossible.”

“Yeah, but she cannot know.” We both laughed. “Let's behave until New Year's Day."

“Deal.”

 2 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS.

As I wasn’t going to be out of town for the next days before Christmas, I went to work so I could have those free days in the future.

I was checking on a patient when my pager went off. “MEETING IN 10 MINUTES.”

After updating the chart and checking one more patient, I walked toward the Diagnostic Team Office. When I entered, ready to sit in my usual spot between Ethan and Baz, I was surprised as I found Baz sitting in my spot and Ethan on Baz's. The rest of the spots were full of papers, so the only option was sitting in Ethan's spot, next to the whiteboard and facing the glass wall.

"Have a seat, Eleanor," Ethan said as he noticed my worry.

“Ooookay. So, what’s the matter?”

“Cleveland Clinic called to report a new symptom, and I think this might be our cue to provide some alternatives to their Diagnostic Team.”

“Oh, okay.”

Ethan was explaining the new symptoms when something behind the glass walls caught my attention. Two blinds were partially closed while the other two were opened, revealing everything outside the hallway.

A figure in a red turtleneck sweater with a snowman in the middle, a red Santa hat, and something white on his arms.

Then I realized it was Bryce and what he was grabbing with his arms were big white cards.

When he realized I recognized him, he winked at me, giving me his usual dashing smile.

Ethan kept talking, ignoring that I was kind of unfocused. I couldn’t help but give glances to the wall behind him, wondering what was happening out there.

Then Bryce put the cards in position.

“PRETEND IT’S A BEE”

My eyes widened but I tried to dissimulate. Ethan kept talking.

“I KNOW YOU’RE STILL DOWN”

I smiled sadly.

“I GUESS MY SEXY DANCING WASN’T ENOUGH”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, so Ethan noticed and looked at me confused. Then he looked where I was looking, so Baz did.

"For the love of God," Ethan said pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Please ignore him.”

Bryce continued.

“SO HERE I AM, TRYING AGAIN”

I shook my head and bit my lower lip, resisting the laugh.

“I KNOW WE’RE AT WORK, BUT LET ME SAY”

“WITHOUT HOPE OR AGENDA”

“JUST BECAUSE IT’S CHRISTMAS”

“AND IN CHRISTMAS YOU TELL THE TRUTH”

“TO ME, YOU’RE PERFECT”

“Awww” I heard Baz squeal. I couldn’t help but chuckle at his reaction.

“AND MY WASTED HEART WILL LOVE YOU”

“UNTIL YOU LOOK LIKE THIS”

And in the next card, there was a photo of me, sleeping, with my open mouth and all, completely oblivious that someone was taking me a picture.

Baz laughed again and even Ethan chuckled.

"Oh my god," I covered my face with both hands in embarrassment.

“SORRY, THAT WAS LAST NIGHT.”

“Son of a…”

“BUT I DO LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOU LOOK LIKE THAT”

“OR LIKE THIS”

This time it was a photo of me, sick, about three months ago. The three in the office laughed. Even Ethan was enjoying the spectacle.

“AND I WILL LOVE YOU UNTIL YOU LOOK LIKE THIS”

“(I SWEAR THIS TIME IS TRUE)”

And there was a picture of ashes.

“OR MAYBE UNTIL YOU LOOK LIKE THIS”

There was a picture of a koala.

“WHETHER YOU BECOME ASHES OR REENCARNATE IN A KOALA”

“OR IF YOU LIVE SEVEN OR TEN LIFES”

“I’LL FIND MY WAY TO YOU”

“AND I’LL KEEP LOVING YOU AND CHEERING YOU UP ALL YOUR LIVES.”

“MERRY CHRISTMAS KOALITA.”

“YOUR GOLDIE THAT LOVES YOU VERY MUCH.”

By then there were tears all over my face. I was sobbing. Without thinking too much, I stood up from my chair and ran outside where he was leaning the cards against the wall.

“Hmpf!” He said when I crushed against him. I pressed my face to his chest and sobbed. He stroked my hair softly. “Hey… I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you cry” He muttered softly. I shook my head. “I wanted to cheer you on, baby koala”

A few seconds later, I parted from him. His sweater was stained with my tears, and my face was a complete mess. “It’s fine, it’s just… I thought you wouldn't notice. I didn't want you to notice."

“Love, of course I’d notice, and I’d feel horrible if I didn’t, honestly. It’s okay if you’re still angry and sad. You can rant with me, you know that, right?”

“I know, it’s just that… I didn’t want to bore you with my emotional mess. I know this is something out of my hands and I should just accept it… but I’d been months waiting for this.”

“I know baby, I’d been too, and I’m really sorry we couldn’t make it, but you don’t have to pretend, not with me. If you’re feeling sad, I wanna be there for you, alright?”

“Okay, love. You’re right. It’s just… Ahhh!” I grunted in frustration and I buried my face deeper in his chest for a moment “I really want you to meet my abuela. And my tata. And cousins and… Just everyone. And I want them to meet you.”

“We’ll make it, gorgeous. We’ll find the perfect time to travel, I promise. In the meantime, I'll try to cheer you on while you're sad, okay?”

I nodded and he kissed me on my forehead.

"Thank you, my love."

Just then, Baz went out of the office.

“You know I’m team Zines” He stated, and then shook his head “But you two make it really difficult to maintain my position."

I chuckled.

“It’s your brother after all, I get it.”

"Just know that you're in second place in my hashtag relationship goals." I nodded. “And you, mate” He added, looking directly at Bryce “I don't know why you're still alive. With those pictures...”

I gave a stony glare to Bryce.

“Oh, yeah, don’t think I’ve forgotten, Bryce Lahela! When we get home…!”

“Ooof, I better go," Baz announced.

“But the meeting?”

Baz snorted and kept walking. I turned around and Ethan was leaned against the window looking at us, serious. “I thought you couldn’t be cheesier, Lahela, but here you are, always proving me wrong.”

"And I pretend to keep proving you wrong,"

Ethan rolled his eyes.

“Wait… Ethan, you knew about this?”

“Obviously. Do you think this jackass would dare to interrupt me? In a meeting?”

“Well, yeah?”

“Eleanor Andrea Bloom how dare you!” Bryce scowled at me.

“You should know better than me that he’s wiser than it seems, Eleanor.”

“Well… actually yes, it makes sense, but I also know that you would never agree to this.”

“Maybe I was feeling generous just because it’s Christmas.”

"Thanks, buddy, I owe you one."

“By this time, like a hundred. And I'm not your buddy. How many times do I have to tell you?"

“Thank you, Ethan, really.”

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t ask me something like this never again.”

And he started walking toward the elevator, leaving us alone in the hallway.

Bryce took the cards and we went inside the office.

"Now… explain to me when the fucking hell did you take that photo?"

“Ooooof Keiki is waiting for me at home, gotta go, babe…”

I took his wrist. “Bryce. Explain. Now.”

"I always take random pics of you, I thought you knew. Reading, sleeping, cooking… At work… This one… I might have taken it like two months ago? When you had 24 hours shift and a bear could've fallen over you and you wouldn't have felt it."

I giggled. “I can’t even be mad at you for embarrass me in front of my colleagues.”

“I know, my charms are irresistible, mad-proof.”

“Don’t tempt fate, darling.”

“Is that a threat?”

Bryce leaned towards me, just a breath away. His warm breath, smoky with coffee and sweet with cream and sugar made me thirsty. I really wanted to resist, but it was hard. Besides, what was the point? I wasn't even mad at him. If all, just melted. Of course, he knew that, he knew he could advantage of that, like he knew I would forgive him for such embarrassment just because he was cute and handsome. I mean, I don't even have to explain to you what effect he has on me, you have seen him in action a couple of times by now. So I just gulped as I was looking into his lips quirking in a smug smile, trying so hard to resist…  

“Maybe not now but-” I try to retort but he silenced me with a kiss. I could’ve moved my face, push him away… But I’m weak around him. He knows it perfectly well.

“You talk too much, babe.”

“How da…”? He silenced me again with another kiss. Marvelous and breathtaking. He smiled against my lips.

I can’t resist him. I’m weak. I can be strong for a lot of things, I can set my mind for a lot of things, but when it comes to him… I’m so weak. But at that moment it felt so right to give in. Because the whole surprise and the way he was there to soothe me really helped me heighten my spirits, he helped me accept that I couldn't travel but everything would be alright because he was with me, and he would be right by my side in case things turn dark again.

 CHRISTMAS DAY.

Despite the sadness that we were feeling, especially me, for not being able to travel to Chile, we had a great dinner, and we behave like adults for Keiki’s sake.

And the dinner was especially delicious because it was made by the three of us. Sometimes it’s concerted, sometimes it’s improvised, but when the three of us are in the kitchen, the meal is always more gratifying. For the collaborative work and for the bond. For the memories. Cooking together will always remember us of the night Keiki came into our lives. The night I met her and the night Bryce saw her again after ten years. So every time we do it, it reminds us of how far we have come.

How far Bryce and Keiki have come after struggling for his ten-year absence for months after she came back into his life.

How far Keiki and me we have come after she finally accepted me in her life, because she came to Boston to have his brother back, and instead, and she won a new sister too, even if at some point it didn’t seem like she was happy with that.

How far we have come Bryce and me, as partners, as roommates.

How far we have come the three of us as a family.

It makes us proud of ourselves and the way we congratulate each other is by sharing something we as a family prepared.

When I woke up that morning, Bryce was already up, making breakfast in the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas babe," He said, kissing me on the lips, before slicing a berries pie I had bought for Christmas morning.

“Feliz Navidad, amor," I said giving him a mischievous smirk. He loves when I speak in Spanish, if you know what I mean.

Just then, Keiki appeared in the living room.

"Merry Christmas! Can we open our presents now?"

“Oooh, looks who woke up with lots of energy and cheerfulness!”

“Don’t ruin it, Bryce!” I said, nudging his shoulder.

"Thank you, Ella."

I sprinted towards her and hugged her. "Merry Christmas, Keiks!”

“SANDWICH!” I heard from the kitchen.

“Sandwich!” Keiki shouted instantly, and the next thing I knew is that Bryce was hugging me from behind. It was my turn to be sandwiched by the Lahela siblings. “Why I feel like I’m being sandwiched even if I’m supposed to be the bread? You’re so invasive, Bryce.”

After a few seconds, they let me go, so we all approached the Christmas tree and started distributing the presents. First, we gave Keiki her presents, then Bryce’s, and then it was my turn to receive presents.

We normally give hints the month before of what things we need or want and this time I honestly didn’t want too much. Just a new gloves for the cold (which Keiki gave me), maybe some new book and a supersonic hairdryer. I had been hallucinating with it for the past month because the reviews say that it cuts the hair drying time in more than half, so it was really looking forward to having five minutes more of sleep each morning because now it wouldn't take me that much dry my hair. Plus, it leaves the hair shinier than normal hairdryers.

I talked about it three or four times the past weeks, and Bryce catches everything. Sometimes there are times when Bryce notices first than me when I’m pissed off about something, so it was impossible that he wouldn’t know what I wanted for Christmas.

And what I received as a Christmas present instead? A box full of pens and sticky notes and cute notebooks.

"Oh, this is cute," I said, trying to hide my disappointment. "Oh, and it has a puppy! A goldie like you!”

“Yeah, that’s why I picked that one, I know you would love it," Bryce said, smirking at me.

“Thank you, this is very useful!”

Then we went to have breakfast on the kitchen island. After a few minutes, the disappointment dispersed but still. Pens, sticky notes, and notebooks. What the fuck? That would’ve fitted Keiki better than me. A teenager me, maybe even a Med School student me, but not an in-half-a-year-I’ll-be-attending me! I couldn’t believe it.

When we were done, I got up to put the dishes in the dishwasher, but Keiki stopped me.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do this.” She said, grabbing the mugs before I could reach them.

“Let’s have some sleep before we go to see the guys, babe” Bryce took my hand and led me to our room.

I sat in the bed and when I leaned to place my head on the pillow, I felt something hard under it.

I furrowed. Bryce was staring at me, biting his lip. I moved the pillow and I found a box wrapped in snowy gift paper with a red ribbon. When I opened it… there it was, the freaking supersonic hairdryer.

“Oh my god! This is… This is what I wanted!”

"I know," He said, smiling.

“You did it on purpose?”

I heard a laugh at the entry of the room where Keiki was walking towards us with her phone on hand, recording.

“I bet Joni Mitchell was playing in your head the whole breakfast, am I right? I’ve looked at clouds from both sides nooooow”

“You…”

At that moment it hit me.

"Okay, so now I'm the crying wife? You made the fool of me as Harry did with Karen?" I said throwing the pillow at him. “And you helped him, Keiki!”

"Hey, in my defense, it was a joke, I didn't buy this hair dryer for my secretary or something."

“Oh, so I should thank you that you’re not cheating on me? You made my breakfast bitter! Sticky notes! What the hell!”

By this time, Keiki was sitting at the edge of the bed, still laughing but looking at me cautiously in case I would throw her another pillow.

“Hey, I had planned to do this in Chile, which means… you would’ve opened the gift at midnight and not until the next morning you would’ve found out what was your real gift.”

I shook my head.

“You really got me.”

“I know. It was painful seeing your disappointment, but totally worth it after seeing your reaction with the real gift.”

“And now we can watch it every night before sleeping if we want” Keiki teased.

I scowled at her, but then I just chuckled as I felt a sentiment of thankfulness and joy invading me. Bryce, and Keiki too, had been doing tons of things to cheer me up the last few days, and even if at that moment I still wished I was here, I felt so complete, because despite all, there we were, laughing, boding, teasing each other, in our natural selves. Just as families do and I was thankful for the family I had. The family I chose.

“Thank you, both of you, for cheering me up these last few days while I was so gloomy and weepy."

“That’s what family is for. They stick with you no matter what.” He kissed my cheek. “And to prank you even when you’re down”

                                              ”

“Oh dear, I can’t stop laughing, he really got you!” Ofelia giggled, wiping a tear off her cheek.

 Eleanor stared at her grandmother by her side and followed suit, releasing a hearted laugh. "Yeah, and I couldn't believe it. I mean, I’m always very grateful for whatever he gives me… But a box of sticky notes, lela? I was so sure he knew what I wanted... But it was all a prank in the end. The last scene of a very Love Actually Christmas."

“You never have a dull time with him, do you?"

"Never. He always finds a way to make a difference, and even on normal days, when we are tired and bored and none of us have the energy for anything else than lie down on the bed… even like that, he somehow makes it feel special."

"Mmmm yes, he does have a way to bring out the best in people and the best in any situation."

"Yup, that's definitely him." Eleanor smiled fondly, watching as Bryce was cheerily speaking with her grandfather at the other side of the table, sharing tips about how to make the perfect barbecue. Bryce didn't know a thing about barbecues, but he was learning the Chilean way.  

They had arrived two days ago in company of Keiki and had planned to spend a couple of days there, getting to know the family and then they would take a tour around the south of the country, especially Chiloé and Torres del Paine for a week or so, and then they would return to her grandparents house for the proper farawell before getting back to Boston.

A few moments later Bryce turned his head and winked at her.

Eleanor couldn't help but smile goofily at him.

"It's so rare what you've found here, dear, and in such short time" Ofelia continued, after noticing the exchange between the couple. Eleanor gave her a puzzled glare "What do you mean?"

"The devotion you two have for each other. Sometimes it takes years, sometimes people get married without having it, but you already have it. And it's so hard to find, Ellie, because you can kiss and sleep with anyone thinking it's love, you can even get married and have kids without even love the other person, or just believing it's love when sometimes is just comfort or an illusion. But you two…" She gave a quick glance to Bryce and then to Eleanor "You don't even have to tell me to know you're in love because the way you look at each other, the way you care about each other speak volumes."

"You really think so, lela?" Her eyes shined with hope.

"I do. The way he cares about you and brings out the best of you, the way you admire him and push him to be a better brother, a better friend, a better partner. That's what love actually is,  making each other better and be happy with the simpler things in life, and you two have it, without a doubt. And you know what? That's the kind of relationship everyone should aspire to have for the rest their lives and you two are lucky to have it.”

Eleanor stared at the resolution with whom her grandmom was speaking and she knew it was all honesty. She felt relieved because there was someone outside her that thought that too. Sometimes she used to think it was too soon, but now was realizing that maybe it was alright. It was all real.

She had known it since she realized she was in love with Bryce, and it became more clear when they moved together, but now the truth was undeniable and more palpable than ever: Bryce was the man she will spend her whole life with.

Bryce was the man she was going to marry.

_____

A/N: Merry Christmas everyone and happy holidays! I hope you all enjoyed the day (or the days) despite the sad circumstances.

Special thanks to Conch @curiousconch for helping me with the initial ideas of this fic, I think without your support and ideas, I don’t think this fic would’ve turned out the way it did without our brainstorming session, so thank you so much!

And thanks to Ruby @starrystarrytrouble​ for encouranging me and sending me motivation to keep writing it despite my blocks and being out of ideas, thank you dear, I hope you enjoyed this!

Thank you all for reading!

I hope you all have an amazing week, and my best wishes to each and every one of you in the year that’s about to start soon.

A big hug!

#bryce lahela #Bryce x MC #Bryce Lahela x MC #Open Heart #Open Heart Choices #Playchoices #Pixelberry #Choices #Choices Stories You Play #Open Heart Fanfic #Open Heart Fanfiction

[paths-of-my-childhood-candid]

OH, TAYLOR! Taylor Swift On Side-Stepping Into Acting, Owning What You Make & Loving The “Weirdness” Of Cats

On a grey London afternoon in late September, Taylor Swift slips quietly through the doors of a north London recording studio. It is an auspicious moment: the queen of confessional pop has come to meet Andrew Lloyd Webber, the king of musical theatre. Together, Swift, who turns 30 this month, and Lloyd Webber, 71, have written “Beautiful Ghosts”, a new song for the soon-to-be-released film adaptation of Cats – Webber’s 1981 extravaganza, which ran in the West End and on Broadway for a combined total of almost 40 years. In it, Swift plays Bombalurina, and like her co-stars – Idris Elba, Judi Dench, Francesca Hayward, Ian McKellen, Jennifer Hudson, Rebel Wilson – appears in full, furry CGI glory. Track finished, these two titans of the music industry sit down to talk… 

Andrew Lloyd Webber: Well, the first thing we have to clear up is that we both love cats. Taylor Swift: [Laughs] We do! One of the first things you said to me when we met was that you’re president of the Turkish Van Cat Club.  ALW: Professionally, there is nowhere I can go to top this, as you can completely understand. TS: I have three cats. How many do you have now?  ALW: I have three, too – they are all Turkish Vans. And you’ve got a Scottish Fold I believe. TS: I have two Scottish Folds, we think the third is a Ragdoll mix. ALW: You’re probably never going to talk to me again, but you know I’ve got a puppy? He’s called Mojito.  TS: I heard about this! How does he get along in the hierarchy?  ALW: Well, he believes he’s a little bear actually. He’s a Havanese dog, which I got because Glenn Close has one. TS: I’ve met that dog, he’s really good. ALW: You come from Pennsylvania. TS: I do. People seem to think I was raised in the south, but I’m from the north – grew up on a Christmas tree farm, then moved to Nashville when I was 14. ALW: And you wanted to move to Nashville for the songwriting or the singing? Or both? TS: Both – I was just obsessed with Shania Twain, Faith Hill, Dixie Chicks, and the thing they had in common was that they had gotten discovered in Nashville. So I had it in my head that this is a magical place where discoveries are made and people are able to do music as a living. ALW: Was it the storytelling side of country songs that you liked? Absolutely. It reminded me of the ’90s, when you had these amazing female singer-songwriters like Alanis Morissette and Sarah McLachlan; incredible female writers like Melissa Etheridge, Shawn Colvin; and these types of Lilith Fair women. Then you started to hit the 2000s and the only place I could find real confessional storytelling was country music. ALW: Did you know anybody when you got to Nashville? TS: No, we didn’t really. I’d been going there on vacation with my family, and my mom, my little brother and I would stay in a hotel and try to meet people. Eventually, after several trips, I got a development deal – it’s a non-committal record deal, like, “We’ll watch you develop for a year and then we’ll decide if we sign you.” That was grounds enough to move the family. ALW: Presumably you were in school in Nashville as well? TS: Yes, I was going to high school during the day and doing my songwriting sessions at night. It was a double life. I’d be writing notes in class, and my teachers never knew if they were notes for my class or if I’d gotten an idea for a song. ALW: How many songs would you write in a day? TS: Usually, never more than one. I had these sessions every day, and if I didn’t come in with a good idea, I’d get stared at. You’re not inspired every day, as you know, but you have to show up and treat it like a job. That’s where I learned the craft of songwriting. ALW: I’ve never worked like that, because I’m so story driven. What interests me, though, is how Nashville works. How did you get your foot on the performing ladder? TS: It was really writing first. At the same time, I was singing the national anthem every time I could – at festivals and fairs and bars, anywhere I could get up on stage. I was trying to hone both sides of what I was doing, but I’m very well aware that I would not have a career if I hadn’t been a writer. I wouldn’t have just been a singer, it wouldn’t have worked. ALW: I guess that, today, very few people have a major career unless they write. TS: Yeah, I agree. I think it’s really important – also from the side of ownership over what you do and make. Even if you aren’t a natural writer, you should try to involve yourself in the messages you’re sending. ALW: How does a young country artist get their first break? TS: I worked as hard as I could, reached out to as many people as I could to make sure I got meetings with publishing companies and labels. They didn’t come about very easily, but once I got in the room I’d just get out my guitar and play for them. ALW: Do you have to sing in a certain club to get to the next stage? TS: Everyone does it a different way, but the Bluebird Cafe is a place where everyone was discovered – from Garth Brooks to Faith Hill to, arguably, me. I remember being at your house after we’d written a song, and you telling me you’d bought it when you were 24 or something, that’s when I realised just how young you were when you had a vision to be doing this at such a high level. ALW: I was writing for the theatre when I was eight-years-old. I had a little toy theatre and did dreadful musicals on terrible subjects. Then, when I was about 13, I met a boy who wanted to write lyrics, and we did a couple of musicals at school. TS: So from the beginning you would pair up with a lyricist? ALW: One of the things I worked out very early was Lloyd Webber and lyrics are not a good idea. TS: Wow. It is a good alliteration, though. ALW: You were 19, weren’t you, when you had your first big hit? TS: I was about 18 when “Love Story”, a song I’d written alone, was a worldwide hit. I was lucky enough to work my way up in country music, for new artists nowadays, it feels like the trajectory of their career is like being shot out of a canon into a stratosphere they could in no way be prepared for. I got to sort of acclimate to every step of the path I was on, and by the time I had a massive hit I’d been working since I was 14. Moving from country music to pop was a crazy adjustment for me. ALW: And now we’ve written “Beautiful Ghosts” together for Cats. TS: I remember the moment. I went over to your apartment to rehearse “Macavity” and you sat down at the piano and started to play this haunting, beautiful melody, and I think I just started singing to it right away. ALW: You wrote the lyrics more or less then and there – it was fantastic. TS: It’s a different perspective on the song “Memory”, too, and the character of Grizabella [played by Jennifer Hudson], who used to have majestic, glamorous times and doesn’t anymore. On the other side of it, you have this little white cat [Victoria, played by Francesca Hayward] who’s been abandoned – she’s afraid she’ll never have a chance to have beautiful memories. So that’s where she’s singing “Beautiful Ghosts” from, to counter Grizabella’s idea of tragedy. ALW: I’d like to come back to something I thought when I heard your album, Lover – which is really absolutely brilliant. Am I right in thinking you approached its recording just as though you were giving live performances? TS: I did. I was really singing a lot at that point – I’d just come from a stadium tour, and then did Cats, which was all based on live performances – so a lot of that album is nearly whole takes. When you perform live, you’re narrating and you’re getting into the story and you’re making faces that are ugly and you’re putting a different meaning on a song every time you perform it. ALW: That’s the point isn’t it. TS: Yeah. ALW: Does that ever make you feel you want to be an actress? TS: I have no idea. When I was younger, I used to get questions like, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?” I’d try to answer. As I get older, I’m learning that wisdom is learning how dumb you are compared to how much you are going to know. I really had an amazing time with Cats. I think I loved the weirdness of it. I loved how I felt I’d never get another opportunity to be like this in my life. ALW: It’s weird, what I’ve seen of the movie. TS: It’s decidedly weird [they laugh]. ALW: I think Tom [Hooper, the film’s director] has really tried to make something original. And I agree, I think as you get older you do become less sure of yourself and start to question what you can do. Would you consider doing a musical? TS: A musical? Absolutely, absolutely. ALW: Or writing your own? TS: That is way up there on my list of dreams. ALW: You should. TS: Was it really wonderful for you when you got the news that Judi Dench had accepted the role of Old Deuteronomy? ALW: Judi was in the original version in 1981 but she snapped her Achilles tendon and had to withdraw. Then I had this idea, which I ran past Tom, that we could make Old Deuteronomy a woman. Seeing her perform this time was quite an emotional thing for me, because it was a very, very sad day when she had to leave the original show. TS: She’s lovely. I remember being on set, and there is one scene that Idris [Elba, who plays Macavity] and I do with Judi, and someone walked up to me with this kind of gummy candy and I was like, “Oh, I’ve never had this before, this must be British candy, this is amazing.” I was raving about this candy so much, and Judi must have overheard me, because the next day I got to my dressing room and there was a signed photo from Judi and, like, six bags of it [they laugh]. Andrew, we both started young. What do we have in common from our experiences? What do you think was hard about it? And what was great? ALW: I suppose what was hard for me was that I was a fish out of the mainstream water. In the 1960s, to love musicals was as uncool as you could possibly be, and kids in my class at school would laugh at me. TS: I was the same. I loved country music and, where I was in school, the kids were just completely perplexed by that. It’s gotten more mainstream, but when I was a 13-year-old in Pennsylvania, I got similar reactions. Do you feel like you’re glad you were really young when you started? ALW: Yeah, are you? TS: I’m really glad, even though there are challenges to it – like you’re not allowed to make the same mistakes as everyone else because your mistakes are a commodity. ALW: And your mistakes are made in public. But we share something in common, in which we are extremely lucky. We both knew at an early age what we wanted to do, and most people in life don’t have a clue. TS: That’s very true. I think, also, a lot of the time when people see a career that they want it can be results-based. Rather than wanting to write musicals, they want to be a person who has written musicals. But when I see you work, I see you consistently creating and being curious about the next idea. You relish in the process even more than the rewards, which is the advice I would give anyone who wanted to do anything remotely close to this job. It cannot be about the results. ALW: It’s the process isn’t it? TS: It has to be. It’s supposed to be fun!

MEET & GREET: Introducing the faces behind this month’s issue

When it came to interviewing Taylor Swift about her musical-movie debut in Cats, there was only one man for the job: Andrew Lloyd Webber, composer of the original West End and Broadway mega hit. The two colossi of songwriting had plenty to discuss at a recording studio in north London – art, ambition and authenticity, plus what we can expect from the soon-to-be-released film.

Vogue: What was it like to work with Taylor? Andrew Lloyd Webber: She’s supremely professional and very charming with it. In my view, she could go far. Vogue: What was your first impression of her? ALW: She’s a lot taller than me, and a lot more attractive. Vogue: What’s your favourite Swift hit? ALW: “Blank Space” from the album 1989. It’s a great pop song with great lyrics.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas ninwrites!

For @ninwrites. I was so thrilled to get you for Secret Santa this year as your Malec fics are some of the very first that I ever read when I fell into Shadowhunters way back in 2016. You gave me so many great prompts this year that I really struggled deciding what to write, especially because I know we share so many common interests! Part of me wanted to write a sweeping sci-fi, and another part of me wanted to write a clever procedural, and then I know how much you love superheroes and I also love superheroes, so that could've easily happened ...

But in the end, I decided to strip everything down and write a story about second chances. About seemingly unrequited yearning and human connection and liminal spaces and time unravelling backwards and friends-to-almost lovers-to-strangers until serendipity intervenes. Of course, I went drastically over the word limit but this happens every year so I am no longer surprised.

Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy this little microcosm of a story!

Tags: malec | rated: t | extended oneshot | human AU, roadtrip, friends-to-lovers-to-strangers-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, surrealism

Read on AO3

*****

saudade in the key of highways

saudade

/saʊˈdɑːdə/

noun

(especially with reference to songs or poetry) a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never be had again. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places, or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, and well-being, which now trigger the senses and make one experience the pain of separation from those joyous sensations. However it acknowledges that to long for the past would detract from the excitement you feel towards the future.

"as we fall / into the common, suspended disbelief of love, you ask / will I still be / here tomorrow, next week, tonight you ask am I really here."

— Olga Broumas, Beginning with O; “Bitterness”

first chord

There is rhythm to this loneliness.1

The endless darkness. Passing headlights; the hum of the engine; the splutter of the heater fighting against the cold that claws and scratches at the windshield. The highway, deserted, is like a strange and eerie dream that travels on and on and never ends.

The rental car: new. Nondescript in its newness. Two hands on the wheel; the faded hum of the radio, a soft accompaniment to the bright beam of the headlights. The car has a cassette player, but no cassettes. It never has any cassettes.

There’s a gas station like a beacon in the distance: a faint glow of sodium yellow that slinks along the horizon but never draws closer, spilling light like fuel out across the open fields.

Alec prefers driving at night. There is never any need to ask for directions because he never passes anyone he could ask for directions; he might be the only car he’s seen in fifty miles.

The radio crackles, then laughs, ‘ we know it’s only November but nothing gets us in the mood for Christmas like -’  

Almost immediately, the signal drops, but the interluding white noise is familiar too. It fills the silence with unimportance, an invisible presence in the passenger seat who doesn’t require conversation or stops to stretch their legs, but is company enough for long drives across the country.

Moments on the road are filled like this: a hundred similar soundtracks for a hundred indistinct highways, their miles wearing down the tread on Alec’s tires and the lines of Alec’s palms, where he grips the steering wheel for hours without a break, in much the same way.

‘So if you’re listening at home, or you’re stuck on a late-night shift, or if you’re driving cross-country and need a pick-me-up, give us a ring and tell us about your favourite ever Christmas song!’ says the radio. ‘But to get us started, we have Marnie from Portland on line one -’

Alec punches the buttons on the radio until he finds a classic rock station. He taps the steering wheel, not to the beat of the song, but to dispel some of the restless energy that tingles in his fingertips.

A sign on the roadside passes him by at high speed; it tells him that he’s a hundred miles from nowhere in particular - but at the last intersection, a similar sign told him he was a hundred-and-one, and now he’s acutely aware of creeping ever closer to his destination.

It’s a destination he’s not sure he wants to reach. A destination he calls home.

There is rhythm to this loneliness . Alec is used to it: the anxious churning of his stomach, the longing for the road to continue beyond its end; the endless, perpetual, and pointless journey of back-and-forths.

One: drive across the width of the country. Indiana, Iowa, Nebraska, Oregon, again and again. A country of ochre-yellow wheat; plains and flatlands; tractors abandoned on the roadside.

Two: report to the local field office, where he’s given a desk too small for his long legs and a computer he doesn’t have a password to. Talk to the county sheriff who snaps at him, ‘ the FBI has no business out here, we can handle this on our own ,’ and then to the man who refuses to open his door wide enough for Alec to get a good look at his face, but whose eyes skip over Alec’s badge and land on the gun on his hip and he thinks the same thing as the sheriff.  

Three: avert his eyes from the body lying on the steel table in the morgue. Pretend that federal intervention was warranted, even though he knows this case is another crime of opportunity and the sheriff was right. The sheriff is always right. ‘ Waste of the FBI’s time, if you ask me. ’

Four: write up another field report that uses all the same words as the one before. Mail it back to Washington. Hopefully it will reach the Assistant Director before he does.

Then, five, begin the drive home.

Rinse. Repeat. Repeat again. Avoid his mother’s calls when he stops for the night at an interstate motel. Make excuses not to see his father when he’s in town. Pretend like he’s not bothered missing out on another promotion, because that would mean moving to a desk job and he likes being out in the field.

He likes driving. This is the mantra he repeats in his head rather than listening to the song on the radio.

There is rhythm to this loneliness .

The car’s engine rumbles on an empty stomach and Alec glances down at the fuel meter, ticking ever closer to the red with each passing and uncountable mile. The gas station in the distance begins to draw closer, finally allowing Alec to catch up, as its cluster of lights shift and reform into the familiar shape of civilisation.

Alec’s turn signal lights up the immediate stretch of highway with flashing orange and a click-click-click sound in the front seat of the car. There’s no-one behind him and no-one ahead of him, but he slows almost to a stop as he eases the car off the road and onto the crunch of hard-packed sand.

A single streetlamp overlooks the highway, casting a pool of unsettled yellow-white light across a phone booth that stands slanted upon the roadside. The gas station lingers a little further back: a small, stout building with a flat roof and a pile of browning-Christmas trees propped up out front. Its two gas pumps advertise diesel at a discounted price, but one of them appears to be out of order.

Beside the gas station, there is a diner; it’s old and clapped-out and almost empty at this time of night, but the bright light beaming through its windows in all directions is painful to look at. The movement of people inside is like a scene playing out in an old movie, stuck on repeat over and over again, the tape unable to skip forward. A repeated moment, and one which Alec has played his part in too many times to count.

Again, his stomach rumbles loudly and he guides the car to a stop before pulling up the handbrake.

He’s alone at the pumps. As he steps out of the car, the silence greets him; the wind falls and the road is swallowed up behind him by an encroaching night, compressing the universe into a single point. A single flicker in time.

Alec retrieves his service weapon from the glove box and clips it onto his belt, pats his chest for his badge tucked into his breast pocket, before drawing his overcoat tight around him. He won’t linger out here, not when it feels like something just out of sight is holding its breath and shifting in and out of bounds; he’s far too afraid of falling back into the passage of time.

Instead, he turns towards the diner; the bell above the door jingles the same as it always does. The TV in the corner is on mute but hums with static. The sound of plates clattering in the kitchen is enough to drown out his shoes on the chequered floor as the waitress looks up at him but doesn’t say hello.

Corner booths are best placed for people-watching and people-hiding and Alec, in his non-descript suit that matches his non-descript car, sinks onto the squeaky red-leather bench without being seen at all. He sighs heavily, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulder that has been bothering him for the last fifty miles.

There are scuffs on the leather and old coffee stains on the table, but he fishes his keys, wallet, and badge out of his pocket and tosses them on top of the menu; he already knows what he’s going to order and there’s no need to look. He’s been craving something greasy since he left Portland this morning, fuelled only by a cup of filter coffee from the machine in the motel lobby.  

Alec grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, a soft groan catching in his throat. In the same moment, the lights overhead seem to flicker, although not for long. Must be a short circuit. The waitress rubbing down the bar doesn’t look up, focused too intently on a coffee-ring stain that isn’t really there.

Diners late at night are strange places. Liminal places. Places of beginnings and endings and threshold moments and tangled journeys, forever caught in that feeling of arriving or departing - but the longer one lingers, the more reality begins to distort.

Alec is not alone in the diner, but the diner is alone in the night that laps and recedes against the windows that look out over the parking lot. Beyond, the gas station hums with a familiar argon sound, bright and electric and not-quite-right in the dark and, behind that, the edge of the highway outlines this displaced moment.

There is nothing else. Alec’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, and for all he knows of the endless fields of wheat that stretch out to the horizon, he cannot see them. The bell above the door chimes again and a young couple slips into the diner, their arms slung low around each other’s waists, giggling as they take up two stools against the bar. Three seats down from them, an old man in a trucker hat and a Chicago Bulls’ jersey is frowning at the TV above his head, trying to lip-read the late-night news anchor because there are no subtitles. In the far corner of the diner, a group of teenagers are tossing fries at each other and one of them makes a milkshake bullseye.

Alec doesn’t know why these people are here, in the middle of a late-night nowhere. He can’t remember the name of the last town he passed through, but it wasn’t more than a handful of houses and a couple of telephone poles kept upright by plywood and nails.

He glances back out at the parking lot, but his rental is the only car there. Strange.  

Strange, but not unexpected. He has learned not to question it, these fragments of unaligned reality, because soon enough he’ll be on his way again, a burger in his belly and bacon grease smeared across the corner of his mouth, and this diner will cease to exist as soon as he’s out of sight and over the ridge of the highway.

Perhaps it will appear again somewhere else. Perhaps he will come across this place again, another mile or two down the road, inhabited by a different group of late-night travellers who will watch him from the corners of their eyes but not say a word, because a lone man in a cheap suit is no more out of place here than they are at two in the morning.

The waitress brings over his burger and a side of fries, setting a mug down in front of him and filling it up with coffee from her pot. Alec nods at her in thanks and she blows a bubble of gum that pops across her mouth and sticks to her teeth, before she retreats behind the register and starts again on that stain.

Alec doesn’t waste any time tucking a napkin into his shirt collar. His tie is cheap and he doesn’t really care if he ruins it; there’s a spare in the bag in the trunk of his car anyway. He takes a large swig of coffee, and then a bite out of his burger, and ketchup and burger juice leak out through his fingers, splattering on the paper wrapper that covers his plate.

It tastes the same as it always does. His stomach growls loudly as he takes another bite and ketchup drips down his thumb.

Movement through the window catches his eye. He looks up and there, on the very edge of the light emanating from the gas station, is a man in the phonebooth next to the road. His back is to Alec but he’s gesturing wildly as he talks into the receiver, and the wind, now returned, billows through his long woollen coat.

A slice of tomato falls out of Alec’s burger with a distinct plop . He’s not sure why the man draws his attention, but Alec has long since learned to trust his gut - it’s an invaluable skill to have in the Bureau , his father would say. It will get you places. It will make people see you as someone they can trust to watch their back. You can’t buy that sort of loyalty, Alec.

The man is tall. He has dark hair and long legs and he grips the edge of the phonebooth with his free hand. He seems to be having a very intense conversation, unlike the hum of background noise that surrounds Alec now.

The man is an anomaly. He is not someone Alec has seen at a diner before - not a truant teenager or a trucker or a pair of lovers on a late-night tryst - and he doesn’t fit the narrative.

Alec wolfs down the rest of his burger, barely pausing for breath, and washes it down with a swig of coffee that burns slightly too hot. He leaves his fries untouched and throws down a twenty dollar bill, stuffing his badge and wallet into his pockets as he makes for the door.

The bell jingles a third time. Alec wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as he steps out into the cold, no doubt smearing ketchup across his chin. He knows his suit is creased and his shirt is rumpled from the drive, his hair upswept by the sudden gust of wind that threatens to knock him off his feet, and he can almost hear Jace laughing in his ear, alright, G-Man?

Alec passes by his car and heads straight for the phonebooth, but the closer he gets, the more he can hear of the man’s one-sided conversation.

“And there’s no way you can get a guy out here tonight?” the man is saying. “I can pay extra for the trouble. Uh-huh. Yes. Yes, it’s pretty urgent.”

Alec draws to a stop when the length of his shadow steps upon the backs of the man’s shoes. He shoves his hands into his pockets so as to appear as unthreatening as possible when the man inevitably turns around, but -

“I don’t see how a service can advertise itself as 24-hour and then not be available in an emergency,” the man says into the phone. He sounds stressed; there’s something about the cadence of his voice that rumbles through Alec’s chest and draws the hair on the back of his neck up on end. Something decades-old familiar. “The least you can do is give me the number for another rental service. A cab company. Something. Anything .”

The man turns away from the phonebooth, catching sight of Alec from the corner of his eye and holding up a finger as if to say hold on a minute , but he stops, whatever words on his tongue extinguished into roadside dust.

Alec’s eyes widen. He knows this man.

Fuck. He more than knows this man. He remembers the first time they met, the firm confidence of his handshake, the bright colours of his shirt, the way Alec thought, at the time, this man is going to change you .

It’s Magnus. Magnus Bane.

Alec never expected to see Magnus again. Not since -

Well, not since then .

“Magnus,” says Alec, like an exhale. And God , his mouth has not formed that name in years; he’s heard it, sometimes, inside his memories, but never beyond. “What are you -”

Magnus stares at him in disbelief, and Alec can hear the man on the other end of the phone line asking hey, are you still there? Hello? where Magnus holds the receiver away from his ear.

Something doesn’t make sense here, but Alec can’t put his finger on it. Not once has he met someone at a diner who he recognises. They’re all meant to be faceless people; people he could meet again a hundred times and still not recognise.

But Alec would recognise Magnus Bane with his eyes closed. It’s been years, and yet the feeling that floods his chest now, is -

An ache.

“Yes, sorry,” Magnus says suddenly, half-turning back to this phone call. His disbelief becomes a scowl. “No, it’s fine. I’ll call them myself. Thank you. Okay. Goodnight.”

The man on the other end of the line hangs up first and the dial tone echoes in the night for a moment, and then another, and then another.

Alec swallows thickly. He draws his hands out of his pockets and folds them behind his back, clenching his fingers in a tight grip where they can’t be seen.

Carefully, Magnus sets the phone down inside the phonebooth, and turns back to Alec, and then - he smiles.

“Alexander Lightwood,” he says, with a shake of his head. His smile grows broad, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “God, what are the chances? Any other night, and I’d think this was a figment of my imagination, but with the way today’s been going, I-” He stops himself and takes a half-step forward. “I haven’t seen you since -”

“Since before Quantico,” Alec interrupts. He knows he’s staring but he can’t help it. “Ten years. Yeah.”

Ten years, three months, and twenty one days. Alec has been counting. If he looked down at his watch, he would know the amount of time that has passed to the minute, to the second, in fact, but he’s not about to admit to that.

He never expected to see Magnus again, and yet -

He hoped.  

“Ten years, really?” Magnus remarks, folding his arms across his chest. Alec follows the movement with his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it must be. 1985, wasn’t it? Christ, that makes me feel old.”

He looks Alec up and down, focusing on Alec’s dust-scuffed shoes, and then on the gun that sits snug on his hip. The corner of his mouth lifts, and his smile becomes a little more genuine.

“I see it’s Special Agent Lightwood now, though. Congratulations.”

“Alec’s still fine,” Alec says quickly. “I mean - you can still call me Alec. That’s fine.”

“Alec,” says Magnus, sounding it out. He’s always held Alec’s name with a special sort of care, but now, he says it like he’s saying it for the very first time. “Alexander.”

Alec doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Magnus, at the space between them that is too large for strangers who have just met, and which belongs only to two people who once knew each other well.

Serendipity laughs at Alec now; it sounds like the dull hum of neon light in a desert. It sounds like a hundred unanswered phone calls stretching back years.

“Alec -?”

“Sorry, this is - this is weird, I’m being weird,” Alec blurts. “I didn’t, uh - I really didn’t expect to see you, especially - especially here . I mean-” He squeezes his fingers tightly behind his back to stop himself from talking with his hands. “What, uh, what are you doing out here? I thought you still lived in L.A.?”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Where to start?” he says softly, “I had some car trouble. The tire blew like a mile back and I swerved off the road and hit the fence. It won’t start now, which is something of a mild nuisance - because apparently we’re so deep in the ass-end of nowhere that I can’t get a mechanic to look at it until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest - but not as much of a nuisance as the meeting I will definitely miss if I’m stranded out here for the next God-forsaken twenty-four hours.”

Alec’s eyes flick to the highway, as if he might be able to see a mile into the distance and find the 1970 Dodge Challenger that Magnus had, far too many years ago and long-since sold for scrap, wrecked upon the roadside. It is, of course, too dark to see much of anything.

“I don’t even know if I’ll be able to call a cab out here,” Magnus continues, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “And I’m far too old to be hitch-hiking. The thrill of climbing into a potential serial killer’s car lost its appeal some decades ago.” With a brush of his fingers, he flicks away hair from his temple and huffs. “I suppose if I started walking now, I might reach Salt Lake by, I don’t know, Friday morning at best.”

Alec’s eyes snap back to Magnus. “You’re heading East?” he asks, far too eagerly. “Are you coming home?”

Something minute pinches in Magnus’ expression at that word. Home . Alec doesn’t miss it.

Magnus shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and he looks away, but there’s nothing there to pretend to be looking at. “No, not quite. If I had the time to drop by and see everyone, I would, but - I’m due in Baltimore in four days for a meeting with our investors.” He smiles wryly to himself. “And I thought it would be, oh, I don’t know, meditative or something equally asinine to make the drive across the country myself, rather than fly. See the sights. Enjoy being off-grid. Which, in hindsight, was very, very stupid.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Magnus shrugs. “Wait, I suppose. There’s not much else I can do. My cell phone is out of battery and I used up the last of my change on the payphone, so it looks like I’m stuck here until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Alec says awkwardly.

“Yeah,” agrees Magnus.

In the glow of the gas station, reality trembles, hollowing out the shadows on Magnus’ face and flickering across the back of Alec’s knuckles. The motion of coming and going calls Alec back to the road and he glances back at his rental car.

It makes sense to offer Magnus a lift. Alec is heading in that direction, and he has an empty passenger seat and a working heater in the car, and a Bureau credit card in his back pocket.

It makes sense, and yet, he still hesitates.

“Well,” Magnus announces, “I don’t want to keep you. I might as well see what sort of coffee this place has on offer if I’m to be stuck here until tomorrow. I don’t suppose I could interest you in a drink before you go -”

“I’m actually on my way back to D.C.,” Alec says, thumbing over his shoulder at the car. He wets his lower lip with his tongue. “Baltimore’s not that far of a detour, so I, uh. I could give you a lift. If you want.”

“If I want?” Magnus repeats.

Alec swallows and nods. “If you want.”

Magnus’ face softens and he smiles at Alec. “Well, I’m not going to say no, am I? Although I don’t think I’m going to get my deposit back on my car.”

He looks over Alec’s shoulder at the rental. His expression changes, and if Alec were a kind stranger offering a ride to a man in trouble in the middle of the night, perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

But they’re not strangers, and in Magnus’ eyes, there is something Alec can’t quite place. It seems a little wistful. A little sad.

He says, “I would like that very much, Agent Lightwood.”

interlude

It’s 1985 and a man stands on the edge of the sidewalk, watching as a car turns right at the end of the street and disappears. He waits, half-expecting it to come back, circling around the block and pulling up beside him, the window already rolled down, but it doesn’t.

Ten years pass, and it doesn’t, and the man has to live with it.

Empty spaces and hands on the steering wheel and loneliness and want . In the end, that’s what everything boils down to.

I want you to come back. I want to see you again. I wanted you to stay.  

This is the rhythm Alec knows well, played out in the key of highways.

I want something I still don’t have a name for.

second chord

The soundtrack to night-driving is a composition of three things: the car heater as it puffs out warm air; the rental wheezing in the cold, coughing and spluttering with seasonal flu; and the deep stretch of silence.

Usually, Alec welcomes the silence.  

In the passenger seat, Magnus shrugs out of his overcoat and tosses it into the backseat, scrubbing his hands together in front of his mouth as he wills circulation back into his fingers. His shirt, open at the throat, looks thin and flimsy and hardly warm enough for a Midwest winter, but the soft shimmer of the satin is devoid of the harsh shadows that cut across Alec’s chest like the black line of a seatbelt.

Alec forces himself to look away. Keep your eyes on the road, he tells himself. And think of something to say before he thinks you’ve forgotten how to talk entirely. He fiddles with the dial on the radio until he finds the company of static, but it morphs all too quickly into Wham!’s Last Christmas .

Alec grumbles below his breath.

“Still a Grinch, I see,” Magnus says with a smirk. “Where’s your festive cheer?”

Alec returns both his hands to the wheel. “It’s too early for Christmas songs,” he replies, “Thanksgiving was literally three days ago and it’s not even December yet.”

“Are you saying the dulcet tones of George Michael don’t do it for you?”

“I prefer Mariah Carey,” Alec mutters. It makes Magnus laugh.

Alec glances at him from the corner of his eye as Magnus begins tapping his finger to the beat of the song against the door handle.

Alec, too, feels restless, but in a different way. He can’t stop looking, stealing glances at Magnus in the rearview mirror. Perhaps he is a trick of the light. Maybe Alec has been driving too long without a break and now he’s seeing people from his past who shouldn’t be here - but are.

Nothing that happens on the road is real, after all.

He digs his fingernail into the skin of his thumb and begins picking.

He’s lived this moment before; he knows he has. Him and Magnus alone in the front seat of a car and Alec’s tongue heavy in his mouth with all the things he doesn’t know how to say, and all the things he couldn’t say ten years ago, because he wasn’t brave enough then.

Hell, he’s hardly brave enough now. He wonders if Magnus remembers any of it.

The space between them is too large for small talk. Conversations that begin with All I Want For Christmas Is You is overrated though, now that you mention it , or so, how is your mother?, or even do you remember the last day we saw each other? are not enough to bridge the gap carved out by a decade of silence.

The thought stretches Alec so painfully thin. He picks at his thumbnail until it begins to sting, then winces, and draws it to his mouth to soothe it with his tongue.

“So,” Magnus begins, in the same instance. He’s still drumming his fingers to the beat of the radio, but now he’s slightly out of time. “What are you doing all the way out here in Idaho?”

Alec could laugh. “I was in Portland,” he says, “Local P.D. request FBI consultation on a case, so. Yeah. Turned out they didn’t need my help.”

“And they made you drive all the way out there?” Magnus asks, and Alec nods. “Sounds grim.” He stops tapping and runs his index finger across the dark polish on his thumb in thought. “Are you still living at home?”

Alec clenches his hands on the steering wheel. “No, I - I moved,” he says. “Uh, not long after I graduated the Academy, actually, but only to D.C.”

“Ah,” Magnus remarks. He pauses for a moment long enough to become awkward. “Still close enough to see your mom on the weekends, though.”

Alec nods again. Close enough , yes , but he doesn’t say it out loud. Close enough for New England ghosts to haunt every intersection between the city and his parents’ big white house in the country whenever he makes the drive upstate.

In ten years, he’s barely moved fifty miles, and Magnus -

Well. The same cannot be said for Magnus.  

Magnus clears his throat, louder than the hum of the radio. “And your parents?” he asks. “Isabelle?” He scans the horizon, fixed on the markings in the road disappearing beneath the wheels of the car. “How are they? Well, I hope?”

“Same as always,” Alec shrugs. “Overbearing. Dad’s retired now, and Iz moved to New York for work last year. Max is in college, so mom’s started questioning him about his life choices instead of mine.”

“Only took thirty-five years,” Magnus chuckles. “How is your mom? Are you seeing them for the holidays?”

Alec makes a noise that amounts to yeah, something like that .

What he doesn’t say is this: his parents’ marriage has been strained a while now - not as many years as Magnus has been gone, but close enough - and Alec is thirty years too old to be used as ammunition, or worse, a bartering tool in a messy ending. The divorce is only a matter of time now.

If only the road continued on forever, he would not have to go back home for the holidays. He wouldn’t have to sit through another Christmas of icy silences and thinly-veiled insults and his mother trying to butter him up while his father does the same to Isabelle. He wouldn’t have to lie awake in his childhood bedroom and listen to his parents screaming at each other downstairs, all the while wishing for the tap-tap-tap of pebbles thrown against his window, begging for it to be open.

A lot has changed since Magnus last saw him, and Alec didn’t have to move across the country for that.

A lot has changed since Alec stood on the sidewalk and watched Magnus’ car turn the corner at the end of the street for the very last time and not come back.

A semi-truck appears in the distance: first, as a pin-prick of light, and then as two beams of headlights striking the highway and the growl of its engine. The whole car rumbles and Alec grips tight to the steering wheel as the headlights blind him and shapes dance across his eyes. The light bleaches through Magnus’ dark hair and streaks across the skin visible beneath the open collar of his shirt; he holds his hand over his brow and winces.

The truck is thunder: a brief jolt and a flash, and then it’s gone, an aftershock of red light disappearing in the rearview mirror.

For a while, there is only silence. A mile, maybe more. Long past the truck vanishing from view, its light fading into the dark; and it’s the sort of silence that is thick and heavy and awkward.

At the five mile mark, Magnus inhales and turns in his seat to look at Alec.

“So, the FBI,” he says, like he has an obligation to fill the quiet, because letting it stew is somehow worse. “What’s that like? Maryse must be proud.”

“Yeah,” Alec mumbles. “She is.”

“It suits you, you know? Alec Lightwood, Special Agent. Not that I didn’t always know that it would.”

Alec’s mouth twitches, a smile in another lifetime. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Magnus gestures with his hand. There are rings on his fingers that fail to catch the thin and distant light, but his fingers, long and slender, draw focus.

“You’re smart. Logical. Far too severe for your own good, which I imagine serves you well in law enforcement. You’ve always had a keen sense of justice,” he explains. His voice softens. “You know I’ve always thought that about you.”

Alec swallows thickly. “Magnus, you don’t have to -”

“And besides,” Magnus interrupts. “I always knew you’d look good in a suit.”

Alec looks down at himself. “What, even a suit off the rack?”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything.”

Shakily, Alec laughs under his breath, but he relaxes his hands on the wheel and his knuckles fade from white back to pink. He lets the tense line in his shoulders fall flat.

“I don’t really have anyone to give me advice on what I should be wearing anymore,” he admits. “Or what colour ties match my -”

“Complexion?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Green. It’s dark green,” Magnus says. He smiles to himself, amused by something far back in time. “Do you remember that time when-”

“Yes,” Alec says. Yes, of course I remember. I haven’t forgotten a single thing . “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I still have that tie, the one you picked out for me that Christmas.”

“And the pocket square? They were a matching set -”

“Still the only pocket square I own,” says Alec.  

Magnus chuckles to himself, swiping his thumb across his lower lip in thought. The nostalgia becomes him; his expression softens with the memory of something fond.

The same cannot be said for Alec.

If only pocket squares could be metaphors for other things. For years gone by and silences that were once not this awkward and filled with jilted conversation. Or for a place once frequented but now abandoned; or a past that Alec still calls his now .

Alec is too clumsy at this; he doesn’t know how to step back into a space once occupied with ease, making smalltalk and laughing about Christmases in 1979 as if they were yesterday and they haven’t gone ten years without talking.

He’s not like Magnus; he couldn’t drop everything and leave it all behind. He didn’t get to move on. He had nowhere to go, trapped in this endless back-and-forth of travelling, always returning to the very same place once departed.  

interlude

On a postcard never sent:

What is worse: the separation, or the place where we will meet again, afterwards, that looks and feels like nowhere and is no longer familiar?

I miss you. I am afraid that I will no longer know you when I see you again.

third chord

Two motel room doors. Two identical rooms with identical twin beds and box-set TVs with only five channels and VCRs that don’t really work. Two sets of keys, although the weight of the fob in Alec’s hand feels more like brass than cheap white plastic.

He’s been here before: a shared dorm room, long, long ago. And then, after that, two houses on the same suburban street, sharing the same zip code. And then, finally, two cities, half a world apart.

He and Magnus, half a lifetime spent apart.

Alec did not notice the growing distance until it was too late; in hindsight, he’s not sure if that hurts more or less, to be blindsided by a farawayness he never saw coming. But here, now, there’s five-and-a-half feet of space between his shoulder and Magnus’, standing in front of their respective motel room doors, and happenstance has crossed their lines again.

Alec looks down at the key in his hand and then back up.

Beside him, Magnus casts a long and lonely shadow, thin and black as it stretches back into the dark. The wind ruffles his hair and plunders the pockets of his coat in an act of midnight robbery. The cold has chapped his lips already and he grumbles below his breath as he jams his key into the lock with frost-bitten fingers.

Alec doesn’t mean to be looking, but he is. He’s not sure he’s looked away since Magnus stepped out of that phone booth, as if slipping through a gap in time connecting two unrelated places that somehow ended up overlapped.

Magnus’ door clicks and he pushes it open with a soft, “aha!”, flipping on the light inside. The light tumbles out of the room - cheap, yellow, glaring - and Magnus bends down to grab his bag from his feet.

He pauses, then, in his open doorway.

“Well, then,” he says, looking at Alec with a half smile. “Until tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Yeah,” says Alec. He clenches the key in his palm until the metal digs into his fingers. If Magnus notices, he doesn’t let on. “Listen, Magnus. About what happened, when you left-”

“I’m glad, you know,” Magnus interrupts. “For whatever serendipitous force brought you to that gas station tonight. It’s good to see you. I mean it.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Alec replies. “I didn’t think - I didn’t think that day was going to be goodbye. I didn’t realise. If I’d known, Magnus ...”

“I didn’t either,” replies Magnus. His voice becomes softer. His eyes, too. Apologetic in a way that might take Alec years to unravel - or seconds. “But these things happen. You can’t stay stuck in one place forever, Agent Lightwood.”

Alec nods stiffly but says nothing.

Magnus offers him another smile, leaning heavily on his door frame.

“Alexander?” he asks, as if oblivious.

Alec squeezes the key tighter in his hand. “Yeah?”

A pause, then. Deliberate and weighted, and for a moment, Alec wonders if Magnus is going to answer the question that hasn’t been asked.

(Do you remember the day you left?)

(Let’s not talk about it. Let’s not talk. It’s in the past and we’re both different people now.)

But, instead:

“I’ll see you in the morning, Alec,” he says. “Goodnight. And thank you, again.”

The door closes and the light vanishes, and Alec is left suddenly in the darkness, gazing at the space once occupied. The night around him is cold. A whisper sets heavily upon his tongue but goes unspoken.

Everything always goes unspoken.

interlude

Somewhere between here and 1985, there is a man who doesn’t regret letting his feelings go unsaid. There is a man who moved on with his life; a man who doesn’t live in a moment years ago, with someone else’s hand playing idly in his hair.

There is a man who meets an old friend at a gas station in rural Idaho and it doesn’t hurt in a way he can’t ever explain.

Alec wishes that he knew him.

fourth chord

It’s always night, on the road.

As with endless highways and endless diners, other things begin to repeat themselves too. Alec prefers driving at night. It’s quiet; he can hear himself think; he can run red lights without being pulled over, without anybody in the world seeing him at all. He affords himself this one little thrill, the knowledge that the power to swerve off the road is clenched in his fists.

A fuel tanker passes the car on the opposite side of the highway, the sound of its exhaust like a fog horn parting thick cloud; for a moment, the low hum of the radio is wiped from existence. Alec eases the car over into the middle of the lane with the barest adjustment of the wheel, avoiding the spray of wet grit kicked up by the truck’s wheel arches. As the rumble fades, the melody of late-night jazz begins anew.

He glances sideways at Magnus in the passenger seat. His temple rests against the window and his eyes are closed but he’s not asleep; Alec can tell by the way he’s drawing his thumb in tiny concentric circles against his index finger again, as if deep in thought.

It was always a tell of his.

There is so much of him that hasn’t changed. So much of him that has crossed the threshold from Alec’s memory and fanned out into reality, and Alec is not quite sure where it all meets and blends together. Magnus is half a stranger and half a man ten years younger than he is now, with expensive clothes and the same aftershave and a twinkle in his eye and a strange, unspoken grief on his face whenever he thinks Alec isn’t looking.

But Alec is always looking.

There are memories in the footwell and on the dashboard and in the usually-unoccupied passenger seat of his rental car. Memories that Alec often revisits on other long and inconsequential journeys as a way to pass the time as the odometer climbs.

Magnus is always the main feature of those memories.

It’s 1978 and Alec is a junior in college and Magnus is stumbling into a lecture hall half-an-hour late with a thermos in his hand. He’s wearing the shortest shorts Alec has ever seen, and he’s slumping into the seat next to Alec, whispering in Alec’s ear that he’s so hungover he’s about to revisit Thanksgiving dinner.

Then, it’s 1981 and Magnus is trading secrets with Isabelle at a drive-in movie theater while Alec buys the popcorn; and he’s flattering Maryse’s cooking while leant across the kitchen island, chin in his hand; and he’s slamming the door to his and Alec’s shared dorm, before sneaking back in an hour later, only to find Alec waiting up for him with an apology at the ready.

It’s 1982 and he’s laughing. He’s giving Alec the grand tour of his mother’s home, three streets down from the house where Alec’s parents live. I can’t believe it took moving away to college for us to meet , he says to Alec. We’ve lived this close for so long and we didn’t even know.

It’s 1984 and he’s curling his hand over the back of Alec’s neck, feeling out the knobs in Alec’s spine. His breath is warm against Alec’s jaw as he whispers gentle words into Alec’s ear.

It’s 1985 and he’s packing up his car for the very last time.

Yesterday is tangled in Magnus’ hair. Memories twist time out of alignment and rearrange it into something, and someone, that Alec does not recognise. Ahead of them, in the distance, on the horizon, is a year from a decade ago.  

But here in the car, moonlight makes crosses on Magnus’ body. He is beautiful, still. Older, more refined, more improbable , but the composition of him is something that makes Alec’s heart ache as if he’s eighteen again and they’ve only just met.

The mole above his eyebrow is too familiar.

The lines around his eyes that appeared only after his mother passed. Alec remembers that summer well. He remembers listening to Magnus cry as he stood in Magnus’ kitchen doing the dishes that had been neglected for a week.

The map of his hands. A journey that Alec never took but longed for. Longed for and left to gather dust, like an atlas tucked away on the highest shelf of a bookcase.

In the dark, Magnus cracks open one eye, as if aware of being scrutinised. Alec turns his attention back to the road, but it is too late. He’s been caught.

“What is it?” Magnus asks, and his voice is smooth and rich and fills the car like music, even so shortly after waking. “Are we out of gas already?”

“No,” says Alec. “We’ll be fine for a while.”

“Hungry, then? We could stop for a late dinner. Or early breakfast. I’m not entirely sure what time it is, but I can always eat.”

Alec doesn’t reply, but he presses his mouth into a thin line.

Magnus’ eyes narrow. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

Magnus scoffs. “You’ve always been many things, Alec, but able to lie to me is not one of them.” He laughs a little. “You think I’ve forgotten the look on your face when you’re trying not to spill your heart?”

No , Alec thinks. No, of course you haven’t. You should’ve, but you haven’t. You should’ve, because then at least one of us could say they moved on.

Alec exhales through his nose and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances in the rearview mirror, but there’s nothing behind them for miles. Much like pocket squares, perhaps that is a metaphor too.

“You never called,” he says, trying to sound casual.

Immediately, Magnus tenses. He shifts in his seat and sits up a little straighter, angling himself to look at Alec.

“I did,” he says, “At the start. You never answered.”

“You were in L.A. The time zones -”

“Oh, come on,” Magnus laughs. “You could’ve called me, you had my number. I know you did, because I wrote it down for you and left it on your bedside table, the day I moved.”

Alec squeezes his eyes closed; for a brief moment of respite, the road ahead of him vanishes. He thinks about letting go of the wheel at 90 miles per hour - not because he wants to, but because the thought of picking up the phone and hearing Magnus’ voice on the other end was always something that felt like driving his car into a ditch.

It’s the fear of impact. It’s the old hurt of being abandoned. It’s the longing to have run after Magnus’ car and asked to go with him that day in 1985. It’s all such a blur. Alec cannot sift between it all.

Magnus sighs heavily, knocking his head back against the seat. He looks at Alec from the corner of his eye and studies him at length.

“Maybe we should stop,” he says slowly. “The next town, find a diner. Get some food.”

“It’s fine. I’d prefer to keep driving,” Alec says, “If we keep stopping, you won’t make your meeting in time.”

Magnus frowns.

You clearly want to talk about it , Alec imagines him saying. Evidently, there are things that went unsaid.  

Magnus says none of those things. His phone begins to ring and it shatters the strange tension in the front seat, splitting it like a sudden burst of lightning. Magnus twists around and reaches into the backseat, rummaging through his bag. He returns with a cellphone in his hand, pulling out the antenna and flipping it open.

He meets Alec’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he presses it to his ear.

“Magnus, speaking.”

Magnus listens to the voice on the other end of the line and taps his fingers on his knee. He makes a low noise of disapproval to whomever he’s speaking.

“Yes, yes, Raphael, I know,” he says. “My battery died and I didn’t have a chance to charge it - do you know how much payphones cost? Do I look like the sort of person who carries change in his pocket?” A brief pause. “Don’t answer that.”

Alec reaches for the dial on the radio, intending to turn the volume down, but Magnus’ free hand darts out and swats his fingers away.

He mouths the word no and returns to his phone call, but Alec’s hand remains outstretched.

There’s a tingle in his fingertips, a short spark of static that leapt from Magnus to him, and he stares down at his hand as if he’s been burned.

And it makes Alec realise, oh.

So you’re lonely -lonely.

“I’ll be in Baltimore in four days. I ran into an old friend who offered me a lift,” Magnus continues into his phone. He listens to the other speaker for a moment, glancing briefly at Alec’s hand and frowning. “You’re lucky I phoned you at all after all that car trouble. It was a courtesy only.”

The radio briefly breaks into static before the song resumes again. Magnus begins drumming his fingers on his leg, listening intently to his phone call. He uhms and ahs and says something about investors and capital and shareholders and begins talking numbers that are too big for Alec to really understand.

He opens up the glove box and pulls out an old diner napkin that Alec shoved in there three states ago, and scribbles down a note, but he has to tap his pen against his thigh for the ink to flow.

Alec curls his hand into a fist and rests it on his thigh, but the tingle doesn’t go away. He listens to Magnus talk - this whole other person that Alec doesn’t know, but who he was clearly always meant to be - but all he can think about is how long he has gone without being touched.

Do you know? he thinks. Do you know that the last person who touched me was you? Do you realise at all?

interlude

Driving is like running. The rhythm of the road; the splattering of rain against the windshield; the thrum of a heartbeat as the speedometer tips over ninety. Clear head. Relentless motion.

Forward, forward, forward, always and forever. Try to keep up. Don’t stop. Keep going. Don’t look back.

fifth chord

The diner is the first sign of civilisation that Alec has seen in over a hundred miles - and it is the same diner as it always is, an eminent glow on the 3AM horizon that creeps closer and closer like a spaceship hovering over the fields and drawing circles in the wheat and the barley.

It draws circles around Alec too, this singular moment in time. This microcosm that exists in the form of red leather seats and bright, fluorescent light, and the same empty parking lot and abandoned phonebooth on the highway verge. The waitress changes; sometimes, the group of teenagers in the booth at the back is an old couple embarking on a long trip south before they get too old to make the drive; and instead of a man at the bar watching the baseball, every few miles there will be an off-duty sheriff nursing a cup of diner coffee.

In the end, it’s all the same. A small pocket universe that Alec has crossed a thousand times in a thousand different rental cars.

Perhaps the people in the diner do not exist outside of it. Perhaps they are like pictures on a TV screen that cease to be once the lights have gone off and the static has fizzled and died.

Perhaps they exist only because Alec and Magnus are passing through, creating the world around them as they go. The Midwest has that quality about it.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate diner food,” Magnus says as Alec holds the door open for him and the bell jingles above their heads. “L.A. is on a health kick right now. Everything is kale. Try ordering a steak at any restaurant within a half-mile of downtown and they’ll have the bouncer throw you out on the sidewalk with your drink still in your hand.”

“Not sure they know what kale is out here,” Alec murmurs, leading the way to a booth by the window. He slides onto the bench as Magnus slumps down across from him, dramatically throwing his head back and closing his eyes. “You’re probably safe here.”

Magnus cracks open one eye to look at Alec. Beneath the table, his toes nudge against Alec’s, and then he shifts so that their knees knock together too. He throws a grin at Alec and expects a volley.

Alec tucks a smile into the corner of his mouth and rolls his eyes. He feels fragile, but he’s always been good at acting like he’s not. He picks up the menu and pretends like he doesn’t already know it like the back of his hand.

The waitress approaches their table with a megawatt smile that only brightens when Magnus turns his focus on her, casting her in spotlight. She laughs, tucks her hair behind her ear, and asks where they’re from. Magnus says Los Angeles. The waitress tells him she has a dream of becoming a singer and moving out West, seeing Hollywood and all that .

Alec has never been, but there was a summer back when Alec was in college, where Isabelle decided to follow a boy to California, swept up in the promise of love and adventure and new opportunities. Jace and Alec had protested, their mother had expressly forbid it, but Izzy had gone anyway, and it had ended in heartbreak six months later, as these things always do.

“Everybody in L.A. is from somewhere else,” Izzy had told him, when she came home for Christmas and Alec picked her up at the airport, her life packed up into suitcases in tow. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’re drawn there because of all the - you know, all the sparkle. The glamour, Alec. But really, people there are just running away from somewhere else. Somewhere they don’t really want to be.”

“You don’t want to be here?” Alec had asked.

Izzy shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s more … you don’t realise what was good in the place you left until you’re somewhere else. But then you’re too far to phone, or it costs too much to get a plane ticket, or you just don’t want to give people back home the satisfaction of knowing that they were right.”

Back in the diner, the waitress scribbles down their order on her notepad, pours Alec a coffee, and then tells Magnus she’ll be right back with his seltzer water.

Alec can’t help himself. “Seltzer water,” he murmurs. “And you say you don’t fit in in Los Angeles.”

Magnus laughs. “I didn’t say that .”

The diner coffee is cheap and watery; the burger Alec gets has no bacon, but too many gherkins soaked in brine. The fries are soggy, left bathing in grease all evening, but the waitress brings them an extra portion at no extra charge, because she mistakes Magnus’ friendly conversation for flirtation. Her number is tucked on a napkin beneath the plate.

Magnus rolls his eyes as he shows Alec, but he’s too good a person to crumple it up and toss it to the side. Instead, he slides the napkin into the pocket of his jacket, a keepsake. A souvenir of someone else’s dreams for the future. In that sense, it almost seems precious.  

“What?” Magnus asks when he notices Alec staring. “What’s the matter?”

Alec turns his attention back to his food, pulling out a soggy gherkin from his burger and draping it across the edge of his plate. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?”

Alec’s eyes dart to the pocket of Magnus’ jacket and then away again.

“Alec,” Magnus gently scolds. His smile becomes sympathetic. “Just ask me what you want to ask.”

“Are you gonna call her?”

Magnus shrugs. “Probably not. But who knows. Sometimes the people you meet by accident re-enter your life further down the line and become important. I don’t know where her story might take her.”

“What about your story?”

“My story?”

Alec nods, but says nothing.

Magnus leans forward across the table. “You know my story, Alec.”

A man lights a cigarette at the table two rows behind them; he draws smoke into his lungs and it escapes through his nose, a thin grey stream falling upwards, towards the tiled ceiling. Alec watches him tap the filter on the ashtray in the middle of his table and a clump of ash disintegrates from the lit end; it lands silently, like snow. Like dust on the highway.

Magnus follows Alec’s line of sight and turns in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at the man. When he looks back, he has one eyebrow raised expectantly.

The smell of cigarette smoke fills the diner - acrid, bitter, and faintly earthy. It takes Alec back to college, to sitting out on the back porch of Magnus’ mother’s house before Magnus sold it because he couldn’t bear to look at it any more. He can picture the pack of Morley's tucked beneath Magnus’ thigh. He can still remember the way the unlit cigarette bobbed between Magnus’ teeth as he told his secrets to both Alec and the dark.

“I quit, you know,” says Magnus, in the present. “They say it’s bad for you.”

“I always told you it was.”

Magnus smirks at him and leans forward again, his elbows resting on the table. He steals a limp fry from Alec’s plate and pops it into his mouth. “I listened, didn’t I?” He nods over his shoulder towards the cigarette-smoking man. “What do you think his story is?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think his story is? Why is he here, alone at a diner in the back-end of Wyoming, past midnight in the depths of November? Smoking a cigarette? He must have a story.”

Alec’s never really thought about it. He’s always imagined the inhabitants of the diner as a backdrop, not as characters in their own story.

He looks harder at the man now: he’s older than both Alec and Magnus, salt-and-pepper hair thinning at the back. Once handsome, perhaps, but the years have stretched out his face and made his jaw sag. He’s wearing an ill-fitting suit, his shirt rumpled and his tie missing, the top button of his collar undone. He takes a deep puff of his cigarette, looks at it, and then extinguishes the lit end, grinding it into the ashtray.

“I don’t know,” Alec says slowly, looking back at Magnus. “Some sort of business trip?”

Magnus’ mouth lifts at the corners, drawing Alec in. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. You see how he’s fingertips aren’t yellow? He’s clearly not a smoker, but he’s stressed enough to do it now.” Magnus reaches across the table and taps his finger against Alec’s fourth knuckle on his left hand. “And he’s not wearing a wedding ring, although looks like he was until recently. You see the mark?”

Alec steals a glance at the man, and then shuffles forward on the bench, so that he might drop his voice low and conspiratorial.

“Divorced, then?” he proposes.

“Maybe,” Magnus grins, “Or cheating, and he’s about to go back home and face his wife and pretend like his fishing trip with the guys from the office didn’t turn up much success, so they’re going to try again next weekend. He’s probably never fished in his life.”

Alec laughs then, loud enough to draw some attention. The sound is foreign in his mouth and a flush surges up the back of his neck as he sinks lower in his seat, hunching his shoulders and biting down on his smile.

Magnus looks delighted; in his eyes, Alec sees the reflection of the fluorescent lights above their heads, laid out like stars.

“You just made all that up from looking at him?” Alec asks.

Magnus beams at him. He reaches out and touches Alec’s fourth knuckle again. “Why, of course,” he says, and then he nods his chin towards the sheriff sat alone at the bar, making smalltalk with the waitress. “Now, how about him?”

sixth chord

The sun rises over the endless Nebraskan fields in shards of light.

Alec adjusts the rearview mirror. He will remember this moment later in figments of pale winter blue, snow-hazed pink, and November sky through the passenger window as Magnus gazes out across the passing countryside: a blank canvas for a painter to fill with bodies.

The color changes depending on where Alec chooses to angle the reflection of the mirror. Slightly to the left, and Magnus’ hands are stained in a pale wavering indigo, a purple so rare that it is only ever seen in the fleeting hour between twilight and sunrise. Move the mirror to the right, and that colour becomes orange, then gold.

Magnus swipes his hand across the condensation forming on the inside of the window, smearing colour across the landscape, but the story he might paint is hidden from view. Alec knows the start and he knows the middle - the brushstrokes the ones Alec remembers, but it’s the details that differ now -  and it’s the end of the story that is vague and undefined in sepia.

Alec thinks about cigarettes again. He wants to ask Magnus who it was that finally got him to quit. Or when exactly he started drinking seltzer water instead of shitty beer from Walmart, or decided that listening to the dial tone while waiting for Alec to pick up the phone was too much.

‘Let’s start the morning right with some ‘old but gold’ ,’ announces the radio. ‘ We’re going back twelve years to 1983 with this first track …’

Magnus makes a nose of protest in the passenger seat. The indigo has already faded from his hands, moving on to become something else, something more.

Faithfully by Journey begins to play. Alec recognises the song; in much the same way that a breath of fresh air on a cold winter morning can take him back to another place and another time, the first note paints a picture in his memories.

“This song played at Isabelle’s quincea ñ era,” he remarks. “D’you remember?”

“I remember,” Magnus says, tipping his head back against the seat and staring up at the roof of the car. He closes his eyes and basks in the light of the early morning sun. His smile grows gold. “That was the summer she dragged us all to see them in concert, wasn’t it? Jace had me make a tape for her, for the party. She played it on repeat all night.” Magnus pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I also remember asking you to dance to this.”

Alec remembers that too. “Dad didn’t like that. He was pissed.”

”I’m not surprised. He tolerated me, at best. He was clearly jealous.”

Alec huffs on a laugh. “Jealous? How’s that, exactly?”

“Mhm, jealous,” Magnus reminisces. “Specifically of when I spun you around and dropped you on your ass in the grass and you laughed like I’d never heard you laugh before.”

Alec’s neck grows warm, a flush curling around his throat. He pinches at the skin between his thumb and forefinger where his hands both rest on the wheel.

“I was drunk,” he says, like an excuse. “I don’t remember much after that.”

That’s a lie. He was drunk, but he remembers being sprawled out across the grass and staring at the sky and laughing, until Magnus dropped down beside him, his hands planted either side of Alec’s head as he bent over him, and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. And he had laughed it off like it was nothing, pulling Alec back to his feet, but Alec spent the rest of the summer picking that feeling out of his teeth.

Magnus turns his head to gaze out the window again. The curve of his smile speaks of fondness, of a quieted sense of longing and looking back. He seems at peace.

“I was drunk too,” he says, after a beat, to the countryside.

And oh, Alec wants that. He covets that like he covets touch. To be able to look back and not feel all this … regret.

Isabelle’s fifteenth birthday was the first and only time they kissed. Magnus probably doesn’t even remember that night, not beyond the dancing, the beer, the spinning around and around in dizzying circles. There’s no way he would remember a kiss that wasn’t really a kiss.

Alec never once told him how he wanted to do it again.

That was the problem, in the end.

interlude

“You haven’t moved on?” says a man, once, in a bar. He’s tall and handsome, with curly blonde hair and large hands that Alec has imagined once or twice upon his chest, although it never makes his heart leap like it should.

His name is Andrew. He works in the building next door to the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington. They met at a coffee cart on the corner of the block, and this, now, is their third date.

Alec had thought it was going well.

“What?” says Alec, turning to look at Andrew, leant beside him at the bar. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t moved on from whoever it is that you loved first,” says Andrew. He pulls his American Express from his wallet and passes it to the bartender to settle their tab, but they’ve only had one drink so far. “And you know, that’s okay. I get it. The first is always different, especially when it gets left unfinished. But I can’t see this working between us if you’re still in that place. You’re a good guy, Alec, but I deserve more than that.”

seventh chord

“Take the next left.”

Alec scowls at the road before turning to look at Magnus. He is bent over an atlas he found beneath the passenger seat - it’s not Alec’s and must’ve been left behind by whoever rented the car before him. The pages are dog-eared and coffee ring-stained, and Magnus’ finger is pressed against the thin line of the highway that divides Nebraska in two.

“What? Why? This is the quickest way.”

Magnus glances up, a look of mischief on his face. He grins at Alec.

“There’s something I want to see and we’ll be passing right by. Seems like a shame to miss it while we’re here.”

“What is it?”

Magnus’ tongue pokes out between his teeth as his smile broadens. He mimes locking his mouth with an invisible key, tucking it into his shirt pocket.

Alec huffs. “Magnus, we’re in Nebraska. All they have here is grass. And nothing. And more grass, and more nothing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Magnus folds the atlas up and sets it on his lap. He pats it with his hands. “What’s so wrong with a little spontaneity?”

“Uh, the fact that you have to be in Baltimore in three days? For an important meeting?” Alec says, gesturing with his flat palm at the road ahead. “You know I’m still on the clock, right? This is Bureau time you want to waste.”

“It’ll be an hour’s detour. We can afford it.”

“ Magnus .”

Magnus just grins at him. It’s the same grin that used to get Alec into so much trouble back in college; it leans against his doorframe with arms folded and a come-hither look in its eyes, and Alec has never been able to say no. Not to Magnus.

Magnus laughs. “Wow, they really did shove that stick right on up your ass at Quantico, didn’t they?”

Alec glares at him, but Magnus reaches out and pats Alec on the forearm, gently curling his fingers around Alec’s wrist. His touch, unfairly, is warm.

“Come on. The turning’s coming up,” he says. “Time to make a decision, Agent Lightwood. You don’t always have to play by the rules. Live a little.”

Alec rolls his eyes, but flicks the turn signal and merges into the outside lane, slowing as the turning approaches. Magnus beams at him and his laughter is buoyant, delighted as he claps Alec on the shoulder. His hand lingers, fingers pressing into Alec’s shirt, thumb against Alec’s pulse point.

Alec takes the turning.

He takes the turning and he wishes, only once, that Magnus might tell him exactly what those rules are. For a situation like this, he wonders, when you’re in the front seat of a car on an endless highway with a man you haven’t seen in years and who, once upon a time, you would’ve followed anywhere.

Although, in the end, not everywhere.  

A sign on the roadside welcomes them to Alliance, Nebraska, but instead of houses and street lamps, it’s grass that stretches for miles in every flat direction, endless swathes of frostbitten green. The road, now, is dirt and dust, and in the distance, a single white building and a cluster of standing stones appear as a landmark on the horizon.

Alec slows the car, but as the stones come into focus, he realises they’re not stones at all.

“Are those … cars ?” Alec asks, squinting into the distance. He looks sharply at Magnus. “Magnus, what -?”

Magnus holds up the atlas, his finger pressed against a roadside attraction labelled Carhenge .

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Alec says.

“Stonehenge replicated entirely out of cars, you mean?”

“Yes. That .”

“Well, it’s not as exciting as the World’s Biggest Ball of Paint , sure,” Magnus grins. “But when in Rome, Alexander. When in Rome.”

Alec pulls off the road, passing by the visitor’s sign that reads: Carhenge and Car Art Reserve. Welcome! The parking lot, little more than a field worn thin by tire treads, is scarred by muddy trenches that have frozen solid in the night and not yet thawed, and the rental’s suspension works hard to navigate them.

Alec huffs as he pulls up the handbrake and cuts the engine, but Magnus is already twisting in his seat to reach for his coat. He shoots Alec a cavalier grin as he opens the car door and tumbles out into the cold, and the blast of icy-cold air hits Alec square in the face.

Alec grimaces, but in front of the car, Magnus knocks his knuckles against the hood and gestures for Alec to follow him. Alec grumbles and pats himself down for his keys-wallet-ID-gun , before grabbing his own coat and shoving open the driver’s door.

The only other vehicle in the parking lot is a campervan, shiny and white and sparkling in the winter sunlight, either a midlife crisis or an early retirement investment. An older couple - a man and a woman - are standing in front of it, peering over a large DSLR camera. He’s in socks and sandals and she has binoculars looped around her neck, and if the weather was any warmer, Alec is sure they would both be in cargo shorts too.

“What attracts people to places like this?” Alec mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning up the collar of his overcoat as he hurries after Magnus. He hunches his shoulders, but the wind feels like it’s gusting through him, with nothing to stop or hinder it across the plains. “Why would you drive all the way out here to see … this ?”

“It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey, Alexander,” Magnus teases, walking backwards so that he can face Alec. “Why do we do anything without purpose? Because it’s there, and because we can.”

Behind him, the large circle of cars stands out of the landscape, spray-painted grey to look even less like standing stones. Alec grits his teeth.

“It’s about those little moments that break up a long drive,” Magnus continues, nudging Alec’s arm. “Or making small and inconsequential memories that can be revisited whenever one needs something slightly absurd to fall back on. It’s something to do with another person, even if that person is insistent on being a grouch the entire time we’re here-”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Alec grumbles. “Let’s just hurry up and look because it’s fucking freezing out here and I wanna get back in the car.”

Alec’s dress shoes sink straight into the mud as they traipse across the grass towards the circle of cars; the squelch-squelch-squelch of his feet is loud enough to be heard over the wind. Along the horizon, the sun is weeping yellow, low in the sky and sinking moment by moment towards sunset, and the shadows that stretch out lengthways from the stones-that-are-not-stones are long and warped.

Alec stops when his toes meet one such shadow and he looks up at the stack of cars towering over him. He tilts his head to the side, but it looks no better from an angle. Magnus steps away from him, meandering over towards an information sign.

“ ‘Carhenge is formed from vintage American automobiles, all covered with gray spray paint,’ ” he reads out. “‘ Built by Jim Reinders, it was dedicated at the June 1987 summer solstice in memory of his father. ’ Huh. How about that.”

“My dad would kill me,” Alec mutters.

“Oh, yes, mine too,” says Magnus. He bends down and squints at the smaller text on the sign. “‘ Carhenge consists of 39 automobiles arranged in a circle measuring about 96 feet in diameter.’ ”

“That seems excessive.”

“I think it’s strangely compelling, actually,” Magnus says. “There’s something about roadside Americana that has its own distinct charm. It’s a product of human eccentricities and I like that.”

“Oh yeah, and what are you seeing?” Alec says, gesturing with his hand. “Because all I see is a 15ft tall metal monstrosity.”

Magnus wanders back over to him, pressing up against Alec’s arm for the sake of warmth. He folds his arms across his chest, shoving his hands under his arms, and huffs out warm air that forms white clouds. He gazes up at the monolith above them.

“Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Alexander,” he says. He frowns then, studying the twisted shapes of metal and fibreglass as if they’re some extraordinary work of art kept behind velvet ropes and a glass case and only allowed to be looked upon for a fleeting moment, and not an old car barely spared from rusting. “Michelangelo despised the roof of the Sistine Chapel, and yet it’s one of the most impressive feats of Renaissance art that still exists.”

“ Magnus ,” Alec presses.

“Mhm?”

Alec pauses. He studies Magnus’ face in profile: the line of his nose, the sharp cut of his jaw, the purse of his lips as he contemplates some deeper meaning that passes Alec by. High in his cheeks, the cold paints his skin red.

Alec thinks he understands a little, then. Nobody really comes to Alliance, Nebraska to see thirty-nine vintage cars spray painted grey and stacked together like some prehistoric monument from halfway across the world. There are other things worth looking at.

Alec shrinks down into the collar of his coat. “Michelangelo is overrated anyway,” he grumbles.

interlude

Here is the creation of a new memory: the orange-gold of a sunset, the cold metal of a rental car against the back of Alec’s thighs, and the warmth of a cheap coffee in his hands, steam rising and obscuring the face. The sky, shifting into navy, into darkness, into the pitting of stars as the temperature plummets and each breath becomes a plume of smoke rising heavenward.

Here, sat together on the hood of the car, Magnus touches him. Not an accidental brush of the fingers or a friendly hand on the arm while driving, but instead, Magnus tips his head to the side, letting his temple rest on Alec’s shoulder.

Here, Magnus’ whispered name crosses Alec’s lips. A question posed to the night, painful and tender and purple like a bruise (‘ what are you doing? ’), but Magnus doesn’t reply. He hums and turns his head and presses his nose to Alec’s coat.

Alec’s doesn’t dare move. Magnus’ hair tickles his jaw, and Alec wants to turn his head and press his nose there and breathe him in, but he doesn’t. Ten years ago, maybe. But not now.

So, he looks up, and he exhales as the last fragments of the sun shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. The night sky, in its infiniteness, mirrors the high plains of the Midwest: how endless, how deep, how black it all is, away from the city.

How less lonely it is with another body tucked against his shoulder. How much it hurts.

eighth chord

They find a cheap motel, afterwards, on the outskirts of the Alliance city limits. This time, there’s only one room left. One room with two twin beds made up in ugly floral sheets, and a TV without cable, and a minifridge, because that’s how it always is; how it’s meant to be; how it was, once, years ago.

Standing in the doorway of the room, Alec thinks back to their college dorm. He thinks about being eighteen and away from his parents’ home for the very first time - only one city over, but far enough, far enough to breathe - and Magnus crashing into that room, laden with boxes and a bright smile.

He thinks, aged eighteen, God, he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen .

He thinks, aged thirty-something, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.  

Magnus, in the present, slumps down on the bed furthest from the door with a heavy sigh and immediately toes off his shoes and flings off his coat. His suitcase is beside him on the bed, but Alec’s bag - Alec’s bag is still clenched tightly in his fingers.

He doesn’t move from the doorway. He can still feel Magnus’ head against his shoulder, Magnus’ weight against his side, and he’s not sure he’s taken a proper breath since; but then Magnus looks up and catches his eye and tilts his head as if to say, what next, Alexander?

He offers Alec a smile which Alec can’t return.

Alec swallows thickly and nudges the door closed with his hip. He pads over to the other bed, his feet sinking into the plush carpet and leaving tracks, and he sets his bag down on the very end of the mattress, and -

What next, Alexander?

There was never a what next . That’s the problem; it’s always been the problem. Alec, afraid to put a name to the feelings in his chest and step outside his comfort zone, and Magnus, unwilling to push him. This is the point they always reached: the touches, the glances, the wondering. The waiting for someone to do something. Around and around again, until Magnus couldn’t do it anymore.

This is always the point. The moment, repeated, just like the highway. Just like the diner.

Magnus exhales and cards a hand through his hair, combing it back against his head. He looks away from Alec, eyes drifting across the room until they settle on the cheap plywood door that leads to the ensuite.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces, and then he’s up, grabbing a towel off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

The shutting of the bathroom door is too soft and too careful, and Alec sinks down onto the end of his bed and rests his head in his hands. He closes his eyes and focuses on the outline of his badge in his jacket pocket, digging into his chest. The weight of his service weapon on his hip. The scratchy linen of the bed, the stains on the ceiling, the fuzzy TV as it cycles back and forth through the few sparse channels, even though the remote is on the bedside table and out of Alec’s reach.

He tries not to listen to the sound of rushing water through the walls.  

He goes to shower, after. When Magnus emerges from the bathroom with wet hair and a freshly-scrubbed face, there are no words exchanged as Alec passes him by.

The bathroom is small and full of steam, windowless and ventless and hot like a sauna and that’s definitely a fire hazard. Alec peels out of his suit and tugs the tie from his collar. His undershirt goes next, and then his belt, which hits the floor with a heavy clank. He stares at himself in the mirror but the reflection that stares back at him is blurred by condensation, and Alec’s finger is drawn to it, if only to leave a mark.

He wonders what Magnus would say if Alec told him of how he would write Magnus’ name in the steam on his mirror in the days after he left, standing in front of it to watch until it faded.

And it faded every time, until Alec stopped doing it.

He steps out of his pants and underwear, a puddle of creased suiting on the floor, and climbs into the shower, turning the dial up as hot as it goes. He stands beneath the spray until it scalds his skin pink, and then, once done, sits on the edge of the tub with a towel wrapped around his waist and finds himself craving a cigarette. He doesn’t smoke, not really. He just needs something to do with his hands.

When he leaves the bathroom, the TV is quiet and the light is off. A faint, electric glow escapes the bottom of the curtains, the same blue colour as the NO VACANCIES sign that overlooks the parking lot outside.

Magnus has his back to the bathroom door, his hands tucked beneath the pillow where he rests his head. He’s not asleep yet; Alec can tell from his breathing, not yet slowed. He will be able to count every long second that Alec spends staring at him, watching the rise and fall of his body beneath the covers, and he will be able to hear the moment Alec sighs and turns and leaves, padding across the room to his own empty bed.

Alec has lost count of the number of times he’s rolled over in the dark of a shuttered room that smells of mothballs and stale cigarette smoke, and reached for something that’s never been there. That hasn’t been there for years.

His mattress dips in the middle with the weight of one body. The pillow scratches at his cheek. He sets his service weapon on the bedside table, within easy reach, but hides his badge within the pocket of his jacket, out of sight but not quite out of mind. This is how it always is.

He listens to the rustle of blankets from the other bed and wonders, briefly, if Magnus has turned to look at him in the dark. He wonders what Magnus’ expression might be, and if Magnus stares at him now with the same sort of regret that Alec fails to hide.  

He is still in love with Magnus. He never stopped being in love with Magnus. This, too, is still the same.

interlude

In a wealth of human experience, the worst, by far, is what if .

ninth chord

Magnus taps his fingers against the car door, beating out an inconsistent rhythm. Alec knows it’s not a love song, but it could be something similar - a song about lost chances or maybe second chances. Sometimes, it’s difficult to distinguish between the two.

‘ THE PEOPLE OF IOWA WELCOME YOU ,’ reads a passing road sign, and it catches Magnus’ attention for a moment long enough to falter his rhythm. ‘ FIELDS OF OPPORTUNITIES. ’

There is little else to distinguish the crossing of the state line: the fields still stretch in endless directions, swathed in a fog the colour of glass. They set off late from the motel this morning because Magnus overslept and then insisted on breakfast, and refused to ask for the cheque until he had seen Alec consume something other than filter coffee.

He had offered to drive too, but Alec remembers what his driving is like: one arm propped on the wheel and the other fiddling with the radio, eyes barely on the road because, to Magnus, highways are straight lines from point A to point B and he has no time for speed traps or taking corners slowly or braking .

Alec, meanwhile, always has his hands at ten and two.

“Alexander, can I ask you something?”

Alec reaches for the dial of the radio and turns it down; this time, Magnus doesn’t try to stop him.

“I’m not stopping at another Carhenge,” Alec says. “Once is enough.”

Magnus rolls his eyes and continues tapping his finger against the car door.

“No,” he says, “No, I’ve seen my fill, I think.”

“But?”

Magnus smiles a little. “What makes you think there’s a but?”

“Because you haven’t said a word since I told you there’s no way in Hell you’re driving,” Alec chuckles. “And you’ve been thinking about something. I can tell. You do this thing with your hand -” He mimics the rubbing of his thumb and forefinger together, and then the touching of his ear. “And then you touch your ear. You used to have that piercing, remember? You’d always fiddle with it when something was on your mind.”

Magnus tugs gently at his earlobe. “I didn’t think I was so easy to read.”

“You’re not,” Alec smiles, “I’ve just known you too long. Or, uh. Knew you too long.”

Magnus hums at that. He begins spinning one of his fingers around his forefinger.

“Do you think I’ve changed? Since then?”

Alec shrugs. He’s never been that good of a liar, not in front of Magnus. And Magnus knows that; he told Alec as much, two days ago  “A bit. It would be weird if you hadn’t.”

“Hm,” Magnus considers. “You’ve changed, you know. And it’s like the strangest sense of deja-vu, because I know I know you, and yet there are these little details, these little things that seem slightly off. That I don’t recognise and I don’t know where they came from.” Abruptly, he stops fiddling with his ring and curls his fingers into the palm of his hand. He smiles wryly to himself. “And why should I? You don’t stay the same person your whole life.”

“I don’t think I’ve changed,” Alec murmurs, chewing on his lip. “I’m pretty much the same person I was back then.”

Magnus shakes his head, his smile fading. “That’s not true. I can see it in your face. You laugh more. You roll your eyes at me. Tell me no. You didn’t used to do that and I would drag you into so much shit , Alec. God, I was such a bad influence on you back then.” He pauses then, and his expression sobers. “But then, sometimes, when I catch you looking at me now, you seem ...”

He trails off, searching for the words with a flick of his hand. Alec doesn’t know what he means.

“I seem like what?” he asks.

“You seem so sad .”

Alec laughs in disbelief. “Sad? What - Magnus - I’m not sad, what do I have to be sad about?”

Magnus runs his thumb over his lower lip in thought. “That’s what I wanted to ask. Last night, in that motel room, I wondered - well. I wanted to ask if you resented me, after I left.”

Alec’s hands clench on the wheel. “If I resented you?” he repeats carefully. “Magnus, I didn’t resent you. Where’s this come from? What - what sort of question is that?”

“A genuine one,” says Magnus. “Just humour me a little. I want to know.”

Alec’s heart thumps in his chest. He forces himself to stay focused on the road. “Why are you asking about this now?”

“Why not two days ago when I found you at that gas station, you mean?”

No , Alec thinks. Not then. Before. Ten years ago, maybe.

Why didn’t you ask me then?

“Yeah,” Alec lies. “Something like that.”

Magnus frowns. “Do you not want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Do you?”

Magnus hesitates. He presses his mouth into a flat line and with his clenched fists, he taps his knuckles against the glass of the passenger window. The beat is one-two three-four , like a pair of heartbeats.

“I want to make sure you know why I had to go,” he says, eventually. “You understand that, right?”

“Right,” says Alec, unconvincingly.

Magnus huffs and leans his head into his hand, rubbing at his temple. When he continues, his words are addressed to the horizon and the straight line that leads them there and disappears into a singular point in time and space.

“I know I hurt you, Alec,” he says. “And I think you’re still hurt, in a way, because you’re both the most obtuse person I’ve ever met and yet the only person who I was always able to - who I can always see . And ... can I be honest here?”

Alec nods, but says nothing.

“Right, well,” Magnus continues. “How do I explain this? It’s … it’s frustrating . Sometimes. The way you keep looking at me out the corner of your eye like it causes you suffering to do so but you can’t help yourself. The way you didn’t pick up any of my phone calls, back then. The way we just … the way we just ended. Snuffed out like a candle.”

“But you’re the one who left , Magnus,” Alec interjects. “You’re the one who - it wasn’t me. I didn’t decide that.”

“I didn’t want to be stuck there. I wanted a career, Alec, I wanted to see what else there is ,” Magnus says, gesturing with his free hand to the open road and empty Iowan landscape. He sounds weary. “And there is so much else, so much more than a nice house in a nice neighbourhood with a white-picket fence and a dog and two-point-five kids. I couldn’t wait around for you to - I didn’t want to live the life my mom lived. She never left that place, not once. The same four walls, the same dead-end Middle American town until the end of her days. And that ... that was too small for me.”

He talks about getting out the same way painters talk about muses, the same way a traveler searches for God in the landscape: something they had to see before they died. A holy calling.

He always has.

Perhaps Alec is the ghost lingering at those New England intersections that keeps Magnus far and away from home. Alec, too afraid to cross over the threshold of a highway, destined to haunt the same small town for the rest of his life.

Too afraid to wander so far from home that he might not be allowed back. Too afraid to say something that he can’t recant, even if it’s the truth.  

Alec chews on the inside of his cheek. “Didn’t you ever ... didn’t you ever think about that sort of life? With the house, and the yard, and the dog?” he begins. “Just a little? Just a bit?”

Magnus shakes his head. “I didn’t want that,” he murmurs. “It’s not me. You know that. And after my mother passed and I sold the house, I - God, sometimes I would sit on the front porch and watch all the cars go by, passing through that town like it was nothing, like it wasn’t even a blip on their map, and I would think the world moves on without you . It doesn’t care if you don’t catch up. It doesn’t care if you’re - if you’re waiting for someone to say something they never want to say.”

He glances at Alec as he says it, and Alec realises then that he knows.

Magnus knows. Perhaps he’s known a while; perhaps he’s known since they were young that Alec loves him but refuses to say it. It is Alec’s worst kept secret, after all.

“I had to get out, Alec,” Magnus continues. “Sometimes I thought, if I stayed, I’d suffocate.”

I was suffocating too , Alec thinks. A gay man in the early 80s didn’t get to breathe . That’s just how it was.

Magnus, of course, already knows that. Alec would only be preaching to the choir if he said it aloud.

Instead, he mumbles, “I wanted to say it.”

“What was that?”

“I wanted to say it,” Alec repeats. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek and wishes he could squeeze his eyes closed for just a moment - but there’s the road. There’s always the road. “I just - I couldn’t. Not then. But I wanted to say it. The thing you were waiting for. From me.”

Magnus’ mouth falls open a fraction, as if, somehow, he is surprised by such a revelation. Alec feels Magnus’ stare boring into the side of his face and he fights every muscle in his body not to turn and look back, because he knows exactly what he’ll find in Magnus’ eyes and he’s not sure he can stomach it.

He has looked at Alec this way before. Hell, a thousand times before. He’s trying to understand Alec - why here and why now, why are you finally saying something after all these years of pulling me along at the other end of a string, leaving me hoping and desperate and in love with someone who couldn’t ever say it back - but Alec is not that complicated.

He’s just scared. Scared of change. Scared of veering off the side of the highway that he has driven all his life, even though a part of him wants to know what it feels like. A part of him longs for the impact because, at least then, it will all be over.

And Magnus -

Magnus has always been so difficult to pin down, so close to chewing through his own foot to get away (and Alec had always hoped he’d never quite manage it, so that he might stay with Alec, forever, in some selfish vision of the future). It’s inside of him, that need to wander and see the world and meet new people and learn from them and be better and be something . The need to throw the roadmap out the window at high speed.

“Was that -” Alec begins, but clears his throat again. “Was that not enough? For you to stay, I mean?”

Magnus’ expression softens. His shoulders slump and his hand falls away from his temple and his mouth curves upwards at the corner and he says nothing. In his eyes, however, Alec finds an answer.

Sometimes, you cannot wait to be loved at someone else’s pace. Sometimes, you deserve more than that. I deserved more than that.

And maybe -

And maybe I’m still waiting.

interlude

Another postcard, this time purchased from a roadside gas station and then left crumpled in the glove box of a rental car:

I loved you then. I love you now. I still don’t know how to say it.

tenth chord

The day Magnus left was a Sunday. The beginning of August, 1985. The sun was bright that morning, harsh on the roof of Magnus’ new car as he piled boxes and suitcases into the trunk.  

Alec had not understood what ending meant until he was standing on the sidewalk and watching Magnus pack up his life into ten square feet. He had not understood that some endings aren’t peaceful or satisfying or tie up all the loose threads of a story tangled by the writer; some endings are excoriations. They leave you raw and wounded.

The realisation, now, is that letting Magnus go a second time will be a worse experience than the first. This time, Alec already knows what it’s going to feel like.

In the rental car, the heater works hard to circulate warm air into the front seat. The windshield wipers battle against the thick blanket of fog that has rolled in across Lake Michigan and which obscures the signposts for Chicago from view. Frost covers rural Illinois in a comb of silver, not quite yet snow, but soon. Soon enough, the country will be white and glistening in the low sunlight as far as the eye can see.  

Magnus has his coat draped over him like a blanket, his arms backwards through the sleeves and his head resting against the window. He hasn’t slept, but he’s been quiet for a while now, watching the world pass by with little commentary, save for when a song to which he knows the words plays on the radio.

On the side of the road, timber-frame houses disappear in and out of existence, reappearing in various states of disrepair. A barn, an old farmhouse, a disused gas station, a tiny church built on stilts that extends out over a frozen lake on a wooden walkway.

Magnus makes a noise of interest as they pass it by, turning in his seat to look back at it as it vanishes into the fog.

“Did you see that?” he asks. These are the first words he’s said to Alec in nearly a hundred miles. “That church.”

Alec glances in the rearview mirror but, as always, they are the only car on the road and the fog swallows up the passing seconds behind them. He’s not sure how long they’ve been on this road without a turning, nothing but an undeviated line for miles, and sooner or later, the end of the road is going to take them by surprise.

Alec takes his foot off the gas and presses down on the brake instead, and the car lurches to a near-stop. Magnus jolts forward in his seat, his seat belt cutting into his chest and stopping his momentum. He turns to stare at Alec, but Alec throws his arm over the back of his seat, knocks the gearstick into reverse, and spins the car into a three-point U-turn.

Magnus sits up in his seat, his coat slipping down from his shoulders and onto the floor.

“Baltimore not on the cards anymore?” Magnus asks, as Alec turns the car around and begins driving back the way they came. “Alec, what’s going on?”

Alec leans forward over the steering wheel, squinting out into the fog. The shape of the gas station reforms out of white cloud, and then, beside it, the shimmer of the frozen lake and the small church that sits atop it. A place for prayer amidst the smell of petrol fumes and gasoline and road dust.

A traveller’s chapel , Alec notes. It seems apt.

The church is small and squat and built of dark, gnarled wood, falling apart at the seams. From a distance, it seems almost black, but the need to pull off the road possesses Alec and he pulls into the parking lot of the gas station, before locking the handbrake.

Once parked, he turns to look at Magnus, both hands still clenched on the wheel. The radio crackles with white noise, interspersed with the tune of a Christmas song that Alec doesn’t recognise. Magnus reaches out and turns the volume down.

There’s never really been a need for words.

Alec unclips his seatbelt first. He doesn’t pat himself down for keys-wallet-ID-gun . He grabs his coat from the backseat and leaps out into the cold, and doesn’t look back when he hears the passenger door slam and Magnus follow after him, albeit at a distance.  

What Alec finds is this: the wind is brittle and the walkway that leads out over the lake creaks and groans beneath Alec’s weight, but doesn’t make a noise for Magnus. On the highway behind them, a truck rumbles past, but the fog is so deep that Alec cannot see it, save for the glow of its headlights. There is a small placard nailed to the outside of the church that reads: Visit Your Roadside Chapel and a big red arrow points down at the doorway.

Alec reaches for the doorknob and gives it a twist. Behind him, he can feel Magnus watching him, arms folded across his chest to ward off the cold, in silence. He says nothing to Alec, no witty remark about the FBI’s predilection for breaking and entering, no tired smile, no weary remark about how he’s tired of waiting, which they both know means far more than it seems.

The door to the church is not locked and it opens with a fair shove, and out spills the smell of damp wood and dust and old smoke. Magnus coughs lightly, wafting his hand in front of his mouth, but Alec steps inside.

The church itself is small and cramped, barely wider than the span of Alec’s arms from wall to wall, and the cold sweeps through the gaps in the walls, carrying with it the earthy smell of burning. There are no church pews, but a padded piece of wood for kneeling in prayer sits beneath a floor-to-ceiling cross, and bible verses are scratched into the plywood walls in a messy hand. Empty beer cans and extinguished cigarettes litter the floor, and cobwebs are strung like garlands above Alec’s head, which he reaches up to swipe away.

A row of candles stand where the altar should be. Soot still clings to the wicks, as if freshly extinguished.

Alec steps forward and his feet crunch on dried leaves that have blown in through the door. He lifts his foot and looks down and finds a crumpled receipt stuck to the sole of his shoe, grey with running ink and dozens of footprints that have come before Alec’s. The date on the receipt is fifteen years ago. It was issued in Dallas, Texas.

This is a space of comings and goings. Of passing throughs. The afterimages of a thousand travellers linger here like memories and, carved into the cross above Alec’s head, he notices the words: what is more important to the traveller, the journey or the destination?

The silence sings, or maybe it hisses, like the wind rustling through the endless miles of wheatfields between here and where they’ve come from.

What is more important to the traveller, the fact that we got lost along the way, or that we made it back here, in the end, and met again?

Alec looks back over his shoulder, and Magnus is there, standing in the open doorway, waiting. His nose is red with the cold. The light behind him casts him in the pale yellow of a winter twilight. He is watching Alec with an expression that Alec doesn’t understand.

“Magnus?” Alec asks, low and gentle.

“Yes?” he replies.

“Do you have a lighter?”

Magnus’ mouth tips upwards at the corner. “I said I quit, remember?” he says, but he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a shiny, silver Zippo lighter, engraved with his initials. He places it in Alec’s outstretched hand, but his touch lingers against Alec’s wrist and the staccato of his pulse. “Here.”

Alec turns to the candles and flicks his thumb along the lighter. The flame is summoned into existence, its light dancing across Alec’s thumbnail as he lights the wick of the tallest candle.

He lights it for his mother, and then, once it catches, he lights another for Izzy, and then one for Jace and Max and his father. He recites the Catholic rotes his grandmother taught him beneath his breath, in Spanish, a whisper. Then, a prayer for Magnus, and for his mother too, wherever she might be.

And lastly, a prayer for himself, aged eighteen and away from home for the very first time. Aged twenty-three and in his graduation gown, Magus’ mortarboard on his head and Magnus’ arm around his shoulders, laughing in his ear. Aged ten years younger than he is now and standing on the sidewalk of his parents’ house, watching Magnus’ car pull away.

Magnus joins him at his side, his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. An inch of space exists between their shoulders, but, even now, Alec can feel the warmth of him through his coat.

Alec has missed this. He will miss it again, he’s all too sure, but maybe it’s okay to have it only for a moment.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it has to be.

“Alexander?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said yesterday,” Magnus says quietly. He tugs on the sleeve of Alec’s coat and turns Alec to face him. His eyes are bright - not wet, but earnest - and drop to Alec’s lips before returning upwards. “That it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. You know that, right?”

He squeezes Alec’s arm. He wants Alec to understand something that still remains out-of-focus.

“What do you mean?” Alec asks.

“I am sorry for the way we left things,” Magnus says, “And I’m sorry that it hurt more than I realised it would. I really am. But it doesn’t have to end the same way this time. You can change the way you remember it. Make it mean something, something fond that you can look back on. You can make it good, if you want.”  

Alec frowns. They’re a day away from Baltimore. In forty-eight hours, Alec will be back home in D.C., and in a week, Magnus will return to L.A. and the life he has built there, where he drinks seltzer water and no longer smokes and talks a mile-a-minute on an expensive cell phone about investments and equity and big-ticket numbers, and is loved by Alec at a distance.

It’s not like the highway extends into the sea. All roads eventually end, and this one must too, amounting to nothing more than four days in a nondescript rental car with Christmas music playing on the radio, but -

This doesn’t have to end the same way this time.

“Doesn’t it?” Alec asks, unable to help himself.

Magnus shakes his head and lets go of Alec’s arm. He takes a step forward and lifts the last unlit candle, holding its wick to the flame of another until it catches.

“No,” he says. “No, it doesn’t.”

interlude

Nothing that happens on the road is real. This is what Alec tells himself between diners and gas stations and faded markings down the centre of the highway.

I can love you now, while the engine’s still running. And you might love me too, while the engine’s still running. Sometimes I think that you do, when I look at you from the corner of my eye.

In the distance, Chicago rises from the fog, lit up in one thousand pin-pricks of light. It makes the world glow in the colour of cities and concrete and it feels a bit like a dream after so long passing through nowheres.

If we drive far enough, we might make it back to the place we once called ‘now’. If we drive fast enough, maybe that day will end differently and you’ll stay.

The speedometer tips over ninety and the countryside blurs into rooftops and stop lights and traffic backed up across the bridge that spans the highway. Streetlights line the side of the road and pass across the rental car in flashes of strobe and yellow.

“I don’t want you to stay there,” says Magnus, in one such patch of light. Sometimes, it’s like he can read Alec’s mind. “I want you to write a different ending, Alec. I want you to want it.”

eleventh chord

Chicago is behind them as they cross into Indiana with the stroke of midnight, a dull orange glow that seems too bright for the eyes after so many repeated nights driving in near blackness.

Their destination is getting closer, and Alec eyes each passing road sign that counts down the miles to Cleveland, then Pittsburgh, then Baltimore, then home with a heaviness in his heart that beats a slow rhythm.

It’s the rhythm that he knows - that lonely beat that matches the roll of the odometer on the dashboard - and yet it seems too fast now, accelerating towards an end point at which he has a choice to make.  

He tries to match it, that rhythm. He tries to strike a chord with the bouncing of his leg in the footwell, with the tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances across at the passenger seat to see if Magnus is looking back at him, but he’s not - he’s staring ahead through the windshield and holding himself unnaturally still.

Alec wants to slow down below the speed limit; put his foot on the brake; stall the car. Drive it off the side of the road and into a ditch and then shrug and say, guess we’re stranded for another night ‘til the tow-truck can get here . And maybe that’s dishonest - or too honest, because the thought of spending the night in the car together, crowded around the heater as if it’s a bonfire keeping them warm, does something strange to Alec’s insides - but the relentless momentum if the car is no longer a balm on his nerves.

He can’t help but think about what lies in wait at the end of the road. Another goodbye. A polite smile and a parting hug and some kind and empty and wistful words; longing and loneliness and more of the same heartbreak, made worse by the fact he knows, now, what they could’ve had, if things had ended differently the first time.

Alec doesn’t want to leave this car; he wants to keep Magnus here forever, the two of them trapped in this rocking motion of roads and highways, where Magnus tells him over and over again that it doesn’t have to end and Alec believes him.

Alec wants to keep driving off the very edge of the continent and into the Atlantic Ocean. He wants to arrive in Baltimore and say, take me with you . He thinks about grabbing Magnus’ hand when he steps out of the car, and saying, don’t leave me behind this time. Take me with you. Take me somewhere that isn’t here. I’ve had enough of coming and going back to the same place as before. You’re right about that. You’ve always been right about me.

Magnus shifts in the passenger seat, clearing his throat.

“We should probably find a motel. It’s getting late,” he says. He doesn’t need to say it, because Alec is already thinking it: tonight is the last night. Tomorrow, Alec will be in his own bed, and Magnus, in some fancy hotel room paid for on a corporate credit card. “We both need a good night’s sleep. For tomorrow.”

“Right,” Alec echoes. He clenches his jaw. “Tomorrow.”

The air in the car is thick and heavy, so Alec reaches for the radio to try and suffocate his own thoughts. He skips through the stations until he finds one that sticks, and then turns up the volume. The voice of a man quoting late-night scripture fills the front seat:

‘So, flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord for a pure heart.’

Magnus exhales through his nose and runs his palms up and down his legs, digging his fingers into his thighs. His eyes catch Alec’s in the rearview mirror.

A decision, then. Alec has seen this look before.

“I really think we need to find a motel,” Magnus says again, more forcibly this time. “Let’s check the map. Can you pull over?”

“Huh?” says Alec, “Just switch the light on, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Pick somewhere that sounds good and tell me which exit I need to take.”

“Alec,” Magnus insists. “Pull over.”

Alec looks at him, confused. “What? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Really. I just need you to stop driving, please.”

“Okay, uh. Okay. Hang on, I’ll just -” The turn signal flashes and Alec steers the car off the side of the highway and onto the grassy verge. The tires sink into the mud and the car jostles them from side to side until, finally, coming to a stand still.

Magnus unclips his seatbelt and reaches for the glove box, retrieving the atlas from inside. He spreads it out on the dashboard between them, running his fingers down the page until he finds where they are, and then flicks on the cabin light above their heads.

The car becomes an island, then. The sky is clear and the road behind them is almost empty, and the world outside is completely black and they are floating in an endless void. And all that exists is Magnus leaning across the gearstick and grabbing Alec’s hand and pressing his fingertip to a point on the map and saying, “there.”

“There?” asks Alec, looking up at Magnus’ face. His voice is a whisper now. “What’s there? A motel?”

“A motel,” Magnus agrees, shifting forward on his seat, closer to Alec. His grip on Alec’s wrist is vice-tight, his rings cold against Alec’s skin. “What do you think?”

Alec pauses. There is an unasked question here, hidden in the silence between words. It’s a proposition and Alec wants to get the answer right.

But Alec also wants to kiss him. He can smell Magnus’ cologne, the aftershave patted onto the slope of his jaw in the bathroom of a cheap motel that morning. He can feel the heat of him. He can feel the flutter of Magnus’ pulse where Magnus’ thumb is pressed insistently against his skin.

He wants to kiss him and muster the courage he could never find before, and he wants to say fuck it . Give him that moment of undoing, or redoing, or whatever the fuck it is that he wants the last few years to have meant.

He’s pretty sure that’s what Magnus wants too.

“Alexander?”

Kiss me now while the engine’s still running.

“I don’t want this to end.”

“I know you don’t,” says Magnus. “I don’t either.”

“No. No, Magnus, you don’t know. You don’t - you can’t ,” Alec insists. “You can’t know because I never said anything. That’s the whole point. I never said anything, even though we both knew how I felt. We both knew. And despite all that, we still didn’t do anything about it because in the end, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. I loved you and I think you loved me and it didn’t matter.”

He and Magnus exist in a not-time. This place isn’t real; Alec can speak to these feelings and not be beholden to them in the morning, or at the end of the road, or wherever it is that they’re heading. Not if he doesn’t want to.

But he does want. He wants more than one man with a body can bear.

I loved you then but it didn’t matter. But it matters now because I can say it. Because we have circled around and found each other again after all this time and that -

That has to mean something.

Magnus’ hand relaxes on Alec’s wrist; his fingertips brush across the back of Alec’s knuckles, across the roadmap between them on the console. It is tentative and questioning and even now, still says, you can drive away if you need to.

Alec inhales deeply. He shakes his head.

He meets Magnus’ eyes on purpose.

“I was afraid that the next time you walked into my life, I wouldn’t know how we fit together,” he whispers. “I was worried that something inside of me, inside of you, would’ve changed, because things always change after this long, but - it hasn’t.”

Beneath Alec’s palm, Washington lies hidden. In the dark, the paper rustles.

“You haven’t, Magnus. Not when it comes to me.”

interlude

The radio sings, ‘It will never be the same, baby.

We will always be the same, baby.’

twelfth chord

Alec’s hand shakes as he fumbles with the key in the motel room door.

Magnus stands a half step behind him, his breath forming white clouds that float and dissipate over Alec’s shoulder. The smell of his aftershave carries. There’s a deliberate space left between their bodies, greater than the distance that has existed between them in the car for the last four days.

It’s the furthest they’ve been apart since Alec approached that phone booth back in Idaho.

“Fuck,” Alec mutters, as the key sticks in the lock and refuses to turn. His palm is sweaty and anticipation licks up the side of his throat where the collar of his shirt is too tight. “Sorry, just give me a sec-”

Magnus leans over his shoulder and takes the key from him, sliding it into the lock with ease. The door clicks, and then swings open.

This motel room is just like all the rest: two beds, one TV, the oddly stained carpet. Thin plywood walls. A single light that plunges the whole room into that low-res yellow of cheap nighttime lodgings.

Alec places both their bags on one of the beds, exhales, and then, when he turns back, Magnus is standing against the closed door. His head is tilted back, his chin aloft, and his arms are folded across his chest, the sleeves of his coat tight around his arms.

His eyes are dark and molten. Where Alec is an unlit cigarette, he is the match.

And that’s enough. All things end and all endings are terrible in their own way, and Alec doesn’t know why he shouldn’t lean into the inevitable if it’s something he can’t avoid.

He abandons the bags and steps towards Magnus, grabs him by the lapels of his overcoat, and kisses him.

Immediately, Magnus opens his mouth to Alec; the sound he makes into the kiss has the hairs on the back of Alec’s neck standing on end. They stagger back against the door with a thud , and Magnus grabs at Alec’s coat, shoving it from his shoulders, then pulling Alec’s shirt out of his belt, his hands slipping beneath Alec’s undershirt so that he can feel skin.

Something rattles around inside of Alec and maybe it’s his heart come loose at last. He kisses Magnus ever deeper for it; his chest aches; his heart aches. He should’ve kissed Magnus sooner, and yet it feels like this is the only moment in time and space where it’s meant to happen: some dingy motel in rural America where it’s just the two of them and Alec has made a choice where he refuses to let this separation be the same as the last.

They’ve never needed to speak. The span of time hasn’t changed the connection between them; Alec could be his twenty-three year old self; he could be his eighteen year old self; his self from five days ago, picking up the keys to a rental car in the backwoods of Oregon state - he would still be in love with Magnus, whether or not he has said it out loud.

Alec cups the sides of Magnus’ jaw and tilts his head back, deepening the kiss. Magnus’ tongue presses into his mouth, his hand flat against the small of Alec’s back, his fingers pressed against Alec’s spine. He pulls Alec closer until their bodies are flush.

And oh, it’s so easy for Alec to lose himself to the push and pull of it: the lick of Magnus’ tongue, the pliance of his mouth. His hands are so warm as they settle on the slope of Alec’s waist.

Alec feels like he’s standing in the middle of a highway, staring down the headlights of an oncoming truck, willing it to move first or be moved . His heart is pounding loudly in his chest. The light is so bright that he is blind to everything else.

Is this driving off the edge of the road or is this the impact?

The kiss leads to the bed. The bed leads to shucked clothes and kicked-off shoes and Alec tossing his badge and service weapon blindly onto the bedside table as Magnus kisses down his throat and the blood rushes to Alec’s head.

Magnus pins him back against the starchy motel pillows, one hand splayed on Alec’s chest - stay still, don’t move - while his other hand cups Alec’s hip and his thumb slips into the band of Alec’s underwear.

No. It is the destination.

Magnus runs his hands down the inside of Alec’s legs, his palms smoothing across Alec’s thighs. His eyes meet Alec’s as he presses his mouth against Alec’s knee.

Alec’s eyes fall closed.

He wants to say something about endings, to gasp, to whisper it. He wants to ask what happens next: if he is to leave Magnus on the side of the road in Baltimore tomorrow and never hear from him again; or if Magnus will fly back to Los Angeles in a week’s time and only look back on this moment as one of those pocket memories of his, something fond to warm him on colder nights.

Alec doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be an uncalled telephone number in Magnus’ diary again; he doesn’t want to stop here , with Magnus’ mouth slowly kissing up his inner thigh. He cannot let Magnus slip through his fingers a second time, so he reaches out and pulls Magnus towards him, up the length of his body, crushing his mouth against Magnus’ and swallowing Magnus’ untethered gasp. He kisses Magnus’ jaw, and then the side of Magnus’ neck, and then he presses his nose to Magnus’ shoulder and breathes him in.

He says nothing, but he has to screw tight his eyes to stop himself from doing something stupid, like letting a stray tear roll down his cheek and wet the pillow. Magnus wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, words whispered in Alec’s ear that he’s been waiting ten years to hear and which Magnus thinks must all be said in one night.

Alec is too old for messes of the heart like this, but maybe that’s the problem: how long they’ve delayed this particular end, to the point that neither of them know how to exist in a world after .

interlude

The final postcard never sent:

“The boy in the yellow shirt walks like there is all the room in the world. I am standing on the edge of what is an ending world.” 2

I read this in a book that Catarina leant me. I think it’s about us, or at least it’s about me, the first time I laid eyes on you.

Come to L.A.

thirteenth chord

Alec wakes up alone in the bed, his arm outstretched across the mattress, his hand palm-up to the ceiling. There is an ache in his legs, bruises scattered across his thighs like the shattered glass of a windshield spread across the road. The smell of sex hangs heavy both in the air and on his skin where sweat has dried and not been scrubbed away, and when he tries to speak, his voice is hoarse and raspy.

Beside him on the bed, the pillow is cooling - but not yet cold.

Disappointment curls in Alec’s gut, but in his head - well, that’s empty, devoid of the constant noise that has existed there for the past few days, if not years. He hasn’t noticed until now that it mimics the sound of a car engine, a forever rumble.

There is simplicity to the silence now. The carpet is cold when Alec’s feet hit the floor, a draught slicing beneath the bed. Magnus’ suitcase is gone from the other bed; his clothes gathered from the floor. The smell of his cologne has faded, replaced by the musty smell of floral bedsheets and mothballs and wallpaper that has absorbed the smoke of a hundred cigarettes.

The only evidence of Magnus being here is his absence.

His absence - and the way Alec’s mouth tingles when he brings his fingers up to touch his lower lip.

Alec brushes his teeth to the sound of the faucet running, water gushing down the drain. He splashes his face and dresses in the crumpled clothes from yesterday that still smell like the front seat of the rental car and shakes carpet fibres out of his overcoat where it still lies by the door.

Keys. Wallet. ID. Gun. He moves through the motions on autopilot, patting his pockets and then his chest as he mentally tallies up the parts of himself worth collecting - but then stops. Standing in the middle of the motel room with his bag in his hand, he turns to look at the unmade bed, the sheets kicked into a pile, a backdrop to a journey he has taken so many times before.

The difference, now, is in the details. It feels significant. It’s worth remembering.  

Crossing to the window, he throws open the curtains and sunlight streams into the room, flooding every dark corner. Alec squints against the light, raising his hand to his face to shield his eyes. A faint sheen of frost forms fractals on the outside of the glass and, beyond that, the roof of the rental car, the prelude to the first snow of winter.

Leant against the side of the car is Magnus.

Alec inhales deeply, his breath clouding upon the window. The cold draws down into his lungs - a sharp ache inside of him that he holds for a count - and then he exhales. Deflates. Sinks back into a rhythm that is both familiar and somehow different to the one he has known for so long, as if the world now beats in imperfect time.

Magnus is propped against the hood of the car with his eyes closed and his head tipped back to catch the sun, and he doesn’t stir when Alec shuts the motel room door behind him and the gravel of the parking lot crunches beneath his shoes. On the side of Magnus’ neck, there is a hickey bitten darkly into his skin. It’s the colour of rare indigo.

Alec doesn’t feel the need to avert his gaze now.

“Have you ever been on a roadtrip?” Magnus asks, opening his eyes when he feels Alec’s shadow cross his body.

Alec frowns at him as he bends down to grab Magnus’ suitcase, before tossing both their bags into the backseat. “Isn’t this a roadtrip?”

Magnus waves his hand aimlessly. “No, this is serendipity, Alexander. I’m talking about a comprehensive tour of all the worst diner coffee in the continental United States. Hiking in the Grand Canyon. Exploring the redwood forests of the Pacific Northwest.” He looks at Alec and smiles a coy smile, pushing away from the car. “You know, in Indiana, they have the World’s Largest Ball of Paint? I’d like to see that sometime. All the best roadside Americana that the country has to offer.”

Alec rounds the car to the driver’s door, opens it, but doesn’t get in. He leans his arms on the roof of the car and Magnus, on the other side, turns to face him.

“But Baltimore,” says Alec.

Magnus’ smile softens. “But Baltimore,” he agrees, across the span of the roof. He glances at his watch. “Providing we don’t hit gridlock outside the city, I should be right on time for my meeting and Raphael won’t have the pleasure of removing my head from my shoulders. You always were excellent at keeping me punctual.”

Alec smiles quietly, ducking his head. “Yeah, well, one of us had to live in the real world.”

He climbs into the car and Magnus follows, folding himself into the passenger seat and draping his coat across his lap. He buckles himself in and then leans back to look at Alec as Alec slots the key into the ignition.

“What?” Alec asks. He reaches up to touch his neck, in the same place where the bruise forms on Magnus’ throat, but can’t find any tenderness. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Magnus says gently. “No, not at all. I was just thinking that sometimes the real world is rather overrated. In my experience, the longer one can put off returning to it, the better.”

Alec turns the key and the car splutters into life. The heater blows warm air into the front seat, condensing upon the windshield, and when Alec reaches out to direct the flow of air downwards, Magnus covers Alec’s hand with his.

It’s a reflection of the night before, but without the urgency.

Magnus curls his fingers around Alec’s hand and brushes his thumb over Alec’s knuckles. Then, he brings Alec’s hand up to his mouth and presses his lips to Alec’s fingers, his eyes falling closed and his eyelashes casting feathered shadows on his face.

Alec holds his breath. He waits for Magnus to say something, to say so let’s not go back to the real world yet because I’m happy here , but he doesn’t.

Happy is too vague a concept. Not that Alec isn’t happy here, in this particular not-real moment, but it’s a feeling that belongs to strange, liminal motels and repeated diners. It is hard to grasp, and harder still to fathom how it might slip into the spaces occupied by a life back in the city at the end of the road.

Magnus sets Alec’s hand down on the gearstick between them, and settles back into his seat, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. He tips his seat back and rests his head against the window as Alec puts the car into reverse.

The road is quiet but not deserted. Alec knows that they will meet traffic before too long, but, for a moment, he imagines the highway stretching beyond the horizon and continuing into the sky, winter-blue and endlessly deep, leading above and beyond the curve of the Earth.

There’s a very thin dusting of snow on the hard shoulder, and the sun, shockingly bright, refracts off it with a white glare. It’s the sort of daylight that possesses Alec, that fills him up and makes him feel separate from his body.

If Alec rolled down the window, that daylight would spill in and flood the car, crisp and cold and foreign. But here in the warmth, he unspools a story in his half-awake mind: him and Magnus and the unending road. If they stop moving, they’ll die. If they stop driving, they’ll die. There was a Keanu Reeves movie about that recently , Alec thinks. It probably didn’t end well.  

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Alec glances sideways at Magnus. “What happened to quitting?”

“Oh, I did,” says Magnus. He produces an unopened pack of Morley’s from the folds of his coat and inspects it curiously. “But I got this from the motel reception this morning on a whim and it feels like a waste otherwise.”

Alec rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says, but he cracks open the driver’s window and the cold rushes in. The wind ruffles through his hair, funneled by the cuffs of his jacket up the length of his sleeves and into his coat. A shiver ripples down his spine and he grimaces.

Beside him, Magnus pulls a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth and cups his hand around his lighter as he lights it, before holding it out to Alec.

“I haven’t smoked in years,” Alec says, but he takes the cigarette anyway and taps the lit end against the ashtray on the console. “You can’t laugh.”

Magnus lights a second cigarette, the clink of his lighter sharp, like metal. He draws in a deep breath, pulling smoke down into his lungs, and then exhales. The grey plume rises towards the roof, only to be sucked suddenly out of the open window.

Magnus coughs, clearing his throat, and takes the cigarette from his mouth, only to pull a face at it.

“Tastes like what I imagine licking the floor of that motel would be like,” he says, before stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. He frowns at the packet in his hand, before throwing it into the glove box. “Let’s stop at the next gas station. I need something to wash that out of my mouth.”

“Okay,” says Alec, unable to stop himself from smiling. His cigarette warms his fingers. His stomach growls at the thought of cheap diner coffee and a greasy bacon burger for breakfast. He presses his foot down on the gas and shifts the engine up a gear.

A passing road sign reads: Baltimore, 405 km . About a five hour drive.

Alec will miss this rental car.

interlude

In the dark of a motel on the night before, Magnus’ eyes are almost black. Alec studies him from across the pillow, their noses nearly touching. Magnus’ hand, splayed on Alec’s ribs, draws gentle circles into Alec’s skin, while Alec’s ankle lies tangled with both of Magnus’ legs.

Magnus’ body is warm. It’s rhythm is familiar in the way that it matches Alec: how he moves, how he breathes, how the sound of his heartbeat disturbs the silence of the motel room.

If Magnus were to speak, he would say, ‘something is only beautiful because it does not last forever .’ But he does not speak, so Alec cannot say back, ‘ that’s not true. You’ve always been beautiful .’

Instead, he leans forward and he kisses Magnus and he earns a soft groan for his troubles as Magnus curves into him like the other side of a parenthesis, ‘til now unpaired.

Magnus’ hand slides upwards, cupping the back of Alec’s head. His thumb caresses the shell of Alec’s ear and the soft hair above it.

He pulls himself against Alec’s chest, his other hand trapped between them, pressed over Alec’s heart.

He kisses Alec back.

outro

The woman in the apartment above Alec’s has Christmas lights in her window: red and green flash in alternating patterns and Mariah Carey’s faint warble can be heard from the sidewalk as Alec gazes up at his building and allows himself to watch, if only for a moment.

His bag is heavy on his shoulder and his suit is stiff across his back; the thought of a shower is calling him home, but he wants to linger outside a little longer. The cold is sharp against his face and draws a red flush to his cheeks. His breath escapes him in white clouds, tumbling upwards. Baltimore lingers on his skin with the memory of a parting kiss.  

He is, now, alone.

On his doorstep, his neighbour has left him an early Christmas card; she has done the same for the last few years, concerned for the young man who lives alone and never has his family visit once December comes around. As Alec unlocks his front door, he slips his finger beneath the seal of the envelope and tears it open, and the message inside is the same as it always is, wishing him and his loved ones well for the holidays.

He places the card on the sideboard by the door as he toes off his shoes, and wanders into his living room, dumping his bag on the floor as he goes.

The stillness in his apartment is strange: the air is musty, the windows unopened for nearly two weeks now, and while there’s no dust on his coffee table yet, the scattered paperwork and unwashed coffee mug are somehow disturbed by his presence.

There are dishes in his kitchen sink and his bed is still unmade; the space is exactly as he left it, and returning to it feels a little like disembarking an airplane after a long journey spent cramped in one mindset, and now having to reacclimatise to solid ground.

Alec is not sure why he expected his apartment to be changed. Even in some small way, like the rotating characters at a diner, or the different coloured carpet at each roadside motel, or the occupancy of his passenger seat by a man he thought he’d never see again, he hoped for something new. Something welcomed but unrecognised, symbolic of a new start or, perhaps, a second chance.

Oh. Maybe he’s the one a little changed, then.

It’s not about the destination , after all , he tells himself, reaching for the remote to turn the TV on for background noise. It’s about the journey.

Briefly, he wonders if this happens every time: if each successive back-and-forth across America wears him down just a little, like the treads on car tires, and it’s only now that he has changed enough to notice that he no longer fits into the routine once occupied with ease. In his footsteps, he brings the liminality of the road into his own apartment, the threshold moment between one state of being and the next.

And Alec is okay with that.

He locks his service weapon in the safe on his desk. Loosens his tie. Pulls a bent postcard from Carhenge, Nebraska, a receipt from a gas station just outside of Baltimore, and a nearly-full pack of Morley’s from his jacket pocket and sets them all on the coffee table, before throwing his coat over the back of the couch to take to the dry cleaners tomorrow.

His suit jacket goes next - two days old and creased around the elbows - and then his belt, a heavy thunk on the floor, before he pads into the bathroom and turns on the shower so that the water might have time to heat up before he gets in.

He strips down to his underwear and wanders back out into his living room, and it’s then that he notices the red flashing light on his answering machine: a voicemail.

He hits the play button - ‘ you have three unread messages ,’ says the disembodied voice - and he pours himself a glass of water as he listens first to Jace ramble on about not coming home for the holidays, and then to his mother discuss her plans to visit her solicitor next week.

Alec empties his glass and sets it in the sink to be washed later. He heads back to the bathroom, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders, and the answering machine beeps to signify the final message.

‘ Alexander, it’s me. ’

Alec stops and turns to stare at his answering machine as if it might come alive in front of him.

‘ You’re probably not even back in D.C. yet, but - well ,’ says Magnus. ‘ I made it on time to the meeting, in case you’re interested. I’m never going to hear the end of it from Rafael, of course, and he’s never going to let me drive anywhere alone again, but it’s looking like we’ll be able to close a deal before Christmas. It sounds like I’m going to be back and forth between L.A. and Baltimore a lot next quarter.’  

In the background, Alec can hear the sound of people, of a bustling street, of taxi cabs blasting their horns as Magnus tries to hail one down.

‘ But I all that aside, this couldn’t wait and, I suppose, serendipity can only get you so far.’

Alec reaches for the handset, poised above the redial button, but then something in Magnus’ tone changes. In his words, Alec can hear the sound of his smile.

‘ How far is the drive from Los Angeles to Indiana?’ Magnus asks. ‘No, wait, how far is the drive from Baltimore to Indiana? I’ve been thinking a little more about the World’s Biggest Ball of Paint. Perhaps you’d like to see it with me.’

The beat of Alec’s heart shifts in its rhythm once again. He holds his breath. He imagines himself taking a step over that imaginary threshold.  

‘There are too many things I haven’t told you yet. ’

*****

“They have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there - and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see.”

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

#ninwrites #malecsanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #474

Top Ten Characters Who Came Back from the Dead

I am stunned – stunned! – that I’ve not done this one before. I mean, come on! It’s right there.

So there’s obviously a thematic resonance going on here. This weekend – the weekend you’re meant to be reading this – is famous where I come from because of a story where someone came back from the dead. Unlike other holidays – Christmas, Halloween, the release of a Star War – I’ve actually been a little slow off the mark in making lists that celebrate Easter. I’ve done eggs and bunnies, but incredibly I’ve never done resurrections, which really is the day’s whole deal. I mean, if you get down to brass tacks, it’s kinda the big selling point of the entire religion really. I hesitate to say “USP” because, well, it’s been done elsewhere, but it’s still supposed to be one of the big Christian takeaways (there’s definitely a chain of Christian takeaways in the States, isn’t there?).

Anyway, resurrection. It’s actually more common than you might think. Certainly in terms of comics there are probably more characters who’ve “died and come back” than have never “died” at all. But! And this is where I get pernickety. Most characters who “die” don’t actually die. Take Batman for instance: he’s shot in the face by Darkseid, and then Superman ups and finds his charred corpse, but – shocker! – he’s not actually dead, he was just sent back in time, where he Quantum Leaps his way back to the present day, accumulating enough Omega Energy with each leap that by the time he reaches the present day he’s blow a hole in reality. Or something, I’ve not read that story for quite a few years. Anyway: he wasn’t dead. Neither was Sherlock Holmes, or for that matter Dirty Den. Generally speaking, if someone dies in a story and then reappears, they’re not dead. Not really.

So this list here is supposed to be people who actually died. Now, even here, it’s debatable; I mean, is E.T. dead, or does his body just go into some kind of hibernation? If Optimus Prime’s brainwaves survive, does he ever really die? Is a clone someone coming back to life or not? It’s all a bit wishy-washy really, which kind of makes sense when you’re talking about resurrection. And let’s not get onto the chief resurrector, the Doctor; do they die every time they regenerate? Or is the regeneration itself a way of staving off death? When David Tennant turned into Matt Smith, did the Tennant-Doctor die? “I don’t want to go,” and all that; there’s always a subtle (or not-so-subtle) change in personality. Does that count? Well, for the purposes of this list, I’ve kinda decided it doesn’t. But it’s an interesting discussion to have, if you’re a big old nerd like me.

So yeah: people who have died – properly, I suppose – and then come back to life. That’s the list. No fakery, to mistaken identity, no alternate universe shenanigans; they were dead but they got better (no Chev Chelios either; sorry, Stath stans). No zombies either! Or vampires! They’re not undead; they were dead, and now they’re alive again. That’s the rule. Also I’ve seriously tried to limit comic book characters. And I’m sure there are some big omissions (like, I know there’s one from Game of Thrones that’s not on here, but that’s because I’ve not seen that far into the show yet; I know, I know). But I reckon these are the best at being back.

Optimus Prime (Transformers franchise, from about 1987): OP is the OG when it comes to coming back to life. Dying and then stopping being dead is pretty much his thing. Technically the first time he came back from the dead was in the original animation; famously being offed by Megatron in The Transformers: The Movie (1986), he came back to life a year later. Subsequent media have frequently killed him and brought him back, even in the live-action movies, but I want to talk about the comics. Because the original Marvel run killed off Optimus at a similar time as the cartoon; he’s blown up in slightly contrived circumstances, but his brain is saved on a floppy disk. Two years later he has his body rebuilt and his brain restored and he’s off to the races once more. Then in 1991, when facing down planet-eating mega-bastard Unicron, he sacrifices himself again, but this time his personality has begun to merge with that of his ostensibly-human companion Hi-Q. Hi-Q/Prime is converted/rebuilt into a new body, and he wins the war. So there you go: even in this one sliver of continued continuity – not including off-shoots or spin-offs, let alone other iterations of the overall franchise – Optimus Prime died and came back to life twice. Beat that, Easter.

E.T. (E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, 1982): not much to say here that we don’t already know from the Book of Spielberg. E.T., doddery little alien magic-man, grows sicker and sicker as he’s stuck on Earth, until in a thrillingly-edited set-piece he seems to expire, human doctors unable to help him. “I know you’re gone,” says best bud Elliot, “because I don’t know what to feel.” But then! His heart glows! His colour returns! And he positively yells, “E.T. phone hooooooome!” – and Elliot’s euphoric laugh is just devastating. The whole sequence – what is it, ten minutes? Fifteen? – is masterful in every way, from the technical to the performative to the emotional. Bloody magic is what it is.

Gandalf (The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, 1954): Gandalf the Grey famously leads the Fellowship of the Ring across the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, where he faces off against a Balrog. After a bit of “you shall not pass” and all that, they both fall from the bridge, battling each other on the way down, before both perishing at the bottom. Gandalf, though, is not really Gandalf, but Olórin, one of the Maiar – basically a kind of angel, I guess. He is returned to Earth by the powers-that-be to complete his mission, and is promoted to Gandalf the White, supplanting the corrupt wizard Saruman. This new iteration of Gandalf is a bit more serious and steadfast, although he does retain his fascination with hobbits. Regardless, he gets a terrific death scene and a triumphant resurrection, and how it ties into Tolkien’s wider mythology is interesting.

Superman (DC Comics, 1993): comic book characters die and come back all the time; it’s pretty much a staple of the medium. I guess Jean Grey/Phoenix is probably the most famous, but they’ve all done at some point (even if, like in my Batman example earlier, sometimes they don’t actually die). Anyway, Superman died, very famously, after getting into a tremendous barney with genetically-engineered super-git Doomsday (as famously, and atrociously, depicted in Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice). The whole “Death of Superman” arc is interesting and entertaining as an example of mid-nineties big-panel EXTREME storytelling: as the issues tick down to the fateful scrap in Metropolis, the number of panels-per-page is reduced until the final issue is basically just full of splash pages. It’s a terrific, exhilarating rumble, really selling the heft of the confrontation. Interestingly, the comic spends a lot of time afterwards dealing with life without Superman, as a raft of imitators/wannabe successors emerge from the woodwork; these include the best-ever Superboy, Conner Kent, and Steel, who’s basically Superman meets Iron Man. Eventually, of course, Superman comes back, his body essentially having been sent to a Kryptonian day spa to recuperate; he emerges clad in black and with a mullet, so death obviously has some lasting repercussions. Overall, it’s a whopping arc with long-term consequences, and whilst it’s easy to make Christ parallels when discussing Superman, this story doesn’t really hew that way (unlike the Snyder-verse which really goes all-in on that plot point, much to the films’ detriment). One of the better aspects is how, even in death, Superman is an inspiration, which in itself has a long trail; leading, eventually, to Batman’s famous withering diss, “the last time you inspired someone was when you where dead.” Anyway, I’ve gone on about this far too long.

Spock (Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, 1984): let’s start by acknowledging just how great Spock’s death is in Wrath of Khan. As a plot point within the film, as a piece of staging and performance, and as a landmark moment in this franchise, it was seminal; a death for the ages (as an aside, it’s crazy to think Star Trek as a whole was only sixteen years old when Spock died; the MCU was eleven when Tony Stark clicked the bucket). Anyway, they built an entire film around how to bring him back, and Spock as we know him is absent for much of it; a presence looming over everything as he rapidly ages, going through his Vulcan super-puberty and everything. It’s actually a rather sombre film as Kirk’s son is killed and the Enterprise blows up; bringing back Spock comes with a very real cost. Trek III is not one of the top-tier films – in the loose trilogy that comprises Khan, Spock, and The Voyage Home it’s certainly the weakest – but it’s still pretty good, often underrated. And, of course, it brings back Spock, which is nice.

Agent Coulson (Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., 2013): Coulson’s death in Avengers comes as a huge shock, one of the fan-favourite characters being brutally offed in surprising fashion. In a film chock full of super-people, it’s the ordinary guy who buys it tragically. However, did any of us really think he was dead-dead? And so barely a year later he pops back up in the TV series Agents of SHIELD. However, his reincarnation became a recurring plot point; his references to spending time in Tahiti (“It’s a magical place”) becoming increasingly sinister as we come to understand even he doesn’t know how he’s back up and running. The eventual truth – Nick Fury using painful and transformative alien tech to basically bring Coulson back to life – may be a bit underwhelming, but it gave Clark Gregg a lot of meat to chew on dramatically speaking, and it underscored a lot of his character development going forward (especially when he, yes, died again, and then sort-of came back, twice).

Buffy Summers (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 2001): full disclosure: I never watched Buffy religiously. I think I just missed it at the start and it was only when all my friends were talking about how great it was that I started tuning in more regularly. Weirdly, I think the most I watched it was around the time Buffy died and came back. It’s fascinating, really, and full credit to the show for the way they explored it; in a series full of magic, the afterlife, and the undead, bringing a character back to life isn’t too shocking. Willow, Buffy’s witchy mate, resurrects her with magic; but in an excellent twist, it turns out that she was in Heaven, and is super pissed off to be pulled out of paradise and stuck back on Earth, leading to her feeling depressed and alienated all season. That’s a great hook for bringing a character back, and leads to some meaty stuff for Sarah Michelle Geller to do.

Agent Smith (The Matrix Reloaded, 2003): do you ever feel that The Matrix has slipped from popular culture a little bit? Twenty years ago it was ascendent, rivalling Lord of the Rings for the title of “the new Star Wars”. Everyone was copying it. but now hardly anyone talks about it. probably because it hasn’t had a multimedia shelf-life comprising dozens of games and spin-off shows. Maybe the new film will change that. But I digress; Hugo Weaving is tremendous as Agent Smith in the first film, and is exploded at the end (spoilers) by Keanu Reeves’ Neo. Unsurprisingly – especially as he’s, well, just bits of code – he’s back in the sequel. However, he’s now been corrupted; he becomes, basically, a virus, self-replicating and threatening not just our heroes but the Matrix itself. This builds across two films, as Neo has to fight dozens of Smiths in the famous “Burly Brawl”, before the final conflict in The Matrix Revolutions when it seems everyone in the program has been Smithed. It offers Weaving a lot of scenery to chew on and makes for some great set-piece battles, even if the films themselves are a little disappointing.

Olaf (Frozen II, 2019): let’s not beat around the bush here – Olaf carks it in Frozen II. Okay, maybe Elsa dies; maybe Anna dies in the first film. They’re frozen, right, but I feel like it’s “magic ice” and there’s something going on there. Do they come back to life or were they ever really dead? Anyway, Elsa is effectively “gone” but we get a protracted death scene for the comic relief talking snowman. He literally fades away, slowly dying in Anna’s arms, and melts into a flurry of snow that blows away. People talk about Bambi’s mum all the time, but mark my words; “Olaf’s death” is going to be cited as a major traumatic incident for twenty-year-olds in 2030. His resurrection, truth be told, is slightly less great, Elsa just straight-up bringing him back to life, reminding us that “water has memory” to let us know that it’s the same Olaf and he remembers everything (including, presumably, dying? That’s creepy). And that, to be honest, is where I draw the line; sentient wind and rock monsters I can handle, but we all know homeopathy is bollocks.

Emperor Palpatine (Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, 2019): look, I hate this. But let’s deal with it anyway, because I have a funny feeling it’s going to lead to some quite interesting stories being told in spin-off Star Wars fiction. I personally feel quite strongly that Palpatine should have stayed dead. And maybe he did? We are led to believe that the Palpatine we see in Rise is a clone; there are jars of stilted Snokes floating in the background. He’s all knackered and broken, eyes blackened and fingers dropping off; clearly he’s not well. So is he really the same character at all? Is his Sith essence somehow fed into this new body, the way Prime’s mind is downloaded from a floppy disk (“run prime.exe”)? Let’s say it counts, let’s say he’s the same slimy Palps we know and love. He is, at least, a sinister presence, and like I say, the whys and wherefores of how he came to be back is quite interesting. There’s a fascinating story to be told about the rise of Snoke and the seduction of Ben Solo – a more interesting story than anything told in The Rise of Skywalker, for starters. Moff Gideon in The Mandalorian seems to be researching cloning and seeks to extract midichlorians from a Force-sensitive being; are we to conclude that this in service of making a new body for the Emperor? All this – stuff hinted at but not explored in the film itself – is, like I say, interesting if not outright fascinating. And I agree, there is a certain degree of circularity in bringing back the series’ Big Bad for the final instalment. But I still feel, hand on heart, that it undoes a lot of the victory of Return of the Jedi (as did The Force Awakens, if I’m honest), as well as throwing away all the development of Rey and Kylo in The Last Jedi. So: Palpatine is cool, his presence and backstory in Rise of Skywalker is suitably creepy and interesting, but on the whole it’s crap and they shouldn’t have brought him back. The end.

Ten people who definitely died and definitely un-died! What could be more Easter-y? Honourable mention goes to the episode of Red Dwarf where Rimmer changes history and ends up not being a hologram, only to accidentally blow himself up in the final seconds.

#top ten #dead characters #alive characters #easter #back from the dead #resurrection

[blissfulparker]

12 days of Christmas→day.5 T.H

Summary→when tom plans on proposing to you Christmas day and comes back 12 days before, what happens when untold feelings come back up

Warnings→ jealousy, fluff

A/n→i might not be super active next week but i will take my time with this series along with happiness is a butterfly

When Harrison walked into the new flat that he shared with Harry, he let out a  sigh of relief one that made his head hurt. He didn’t like how he was acting strange around tom, lying to him. he didn’t like how he was gonna try and kiss you before Tom got home. He felt guilty, so guilty for doing that to the both of you.

Can’t make it today, sorry!

Harrison sent the message to prevent any more awkwardness from happening. You were going to be Tom’s wife, he remembered. He tried to keep that in his head so it wouldn’t get ahead of him.

“Hey harry?” He called out and he walked out of his room with his computer in one hand and mug in the other.

“Yeah what’s up?” He sat his computer down and walked over to the coffee pot to get more coffee.

“If you had a girlfriend and another guy had a crush on her, what would you do?” He took a seat at the counter and Harry shrugged.

“Not quite sure, I mean...if he was making a move on her then I’d be a little pissed but If he just thought she was pretty? Wouldn’t find it that intimidating.” He shrugs as he adds milk into the coffee to give it more flavor. Harrison let’s out a sigh knowing truly what he did was wrong. “Why? Is it something with Amanda?” He asked and Harrison just shook his head.

“No, it’s nothing.” He reaches for his phone as just a distraction. He just stares blankly at his home screen and Harry comes back over to his computer.

“Wait…” he takes a sip and then sets the mug down. “This isn’t about (y/n), is it?” He asked and Harrison froze. “Haz, Toms gonna—“ he starts and Harrison rubs his temples.

“I know, I know.” He groans and Harry turns his full attention to him.

“So what happened? You were like completely over her for what? Two years? What happened now?” He asked and Harrison thinks of all the things that went so good but so wrong. Maybe it was the first day tom left. That day in October you were so emotional and held onto Harrison for comfort.

“I love you.” You mumbled into Toms sweatshirt as him and Harry were getting onto a plane to Chicago to do comic con and then taking another one to Ohio and would be gone until December. No break, no coming home for a weekend. Nothing. You’d be spending two months away and you two weren’t exactly use to super long distance. Even when he did Spider-Man he’d take you along and come home as much as he can. You would be able to come vist too, that was always a plus.

“I love you more.” He kisses your cheek and you melt into he kiss. You’re already dressed in his clothes to remember him when he’s gone. You wear his maroon hoodie and some old sweats that he couldn’t fit into anymore when he got big for Spider-Man. You wore those clothes like they were the best damn outfit anyone could give you.

“Promise to call me every night? Remember to take care of yourself okay? Brush your teeth, drink plenty of water, eat enough carbs and calories, remember to stretch—“ now you were just talking to hold onto him for a little longer.

“Babe, I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll call you every night and I promise I’ll do all of those things.” He rubs your shoulder and you feel your eyes water up again.

“I know, I know.” You kiss his jaw and play with his hoodie. “I’ll just miss you ‘tis all.” You try and smile and he nods.

“I’ll miss you too, so much.” He pulls you in for a soft kiss. “Lemme go say bye to Haz.” He softly smiles and goes over to his best mate.

The two hug each other and give a pat on the back. Harrison looks over and sees you giving a hug to Harry before he leaves. Harry was just like a brother to you, always. But Harrison, you could tell him anything without feeling judged.

“Take care of her mate.” Tom whispered into his ear and Harrison nodded.

“Of course.” He nods and tom gives him a smile before going back to you. He watches as you and Tom have a bond like no other, one he’s never seen before. One he wishes and hopes he has one day. Maybe with you or maybe with someone of his own.

He walks over to take you as he hears the sound of Toms flight being boarded. You calm yourself as you go into Harrison’s side. Tom never felt jealous of Harrison and you, he never felt the need to.

“I miss him already.” You wrap your arms around Harrison. You don’t even notice his heart speeding up and how he stiffened at your touch.

That was possibly the first time, for no reason at all, his feelings for you started coming back.

“Tom being gone happened I guess. It was just her and I and maybe I did get a little jealous that tom had her. She’s perfect and she’s beautiful. Maybe it felt good to feel like I was in a relationship with her for a little bit. Even if she didn’t feel anything back.” Harrison shrugged and Harry nodded.

“So her personality got the best of you?” Harry asked and haz nodded.

“Yeah, I guess. We’d be like cuddling and she’d just miss him and I was there. It’d feel so good, so perfect and then Tom would call and she’d jump up and smile and giggle with him.” He says in an almost disappointed voice.

“This is my favorite part.” You laid on Harrison’s chest as you two watched a movie. A Christmas movie in November. It was a perfect night for you. Popcorn, Christmas movie, curling up with some blankets and a friend.

“Yeah?” Harrison looked down and saw your excitement. Your eyes lit up and you stared at the screen.

“Yeah.” You spoke softly as you focused. The sound of your phone going off made you hop up, distracting yourself from the scene and going to see who it is.

“Tom...!” Haz would hear your excitement as you held the phone back from your face so you can see. You give Harrison your signature “I’ll be back” look and mouthing before leaving the room to talk to your boyfriend.

It was a simple thing that made Harrison snap back into the reality of you not being his. You were not his but you were toms. And you and tom were perfect for each other.

“Look, I know she’s perfect in a lot of ways and tom choose good. But her and Tom...they’re perfect for each other. You’ll find a girl just like her I promise.” Harry rubbed his shoulders and Harrison nodded. It was true, he would find someone like you. No, that girl wasn’t Amanda, it wasn’t some past hook up he had, he just had to be gentle and patient. And that’s what he had to be, patient because you were perfect for Tom and soon next year he’d be the best man at your wedding and give a speech of how wonderful you all truly are. He wouldn’t lie in that speech either, it’d be the most genuine speech he’s ever told and anyone would be lucky to have you. Anyone.

Tom was very lucky and he knew that but it was just sometimes Harrison wished it was him who went out last minute two days before Christmas to get the white elephant gift for the party and ran into you. It was selfish and maybe he wouldn’t run into you because that wasn’t his faith but Tom did and he’d never forget that night he came home bragging about you.

“I’m back!” Tom shouts as he tries to hold presents in his hands. Yes he had the people at the mall wrap them, he sucked at wrapping no matter how many people tried to teach him.

“What gifts you buy?” Harry looked up as he too was living with the both of you at the time.

“Sam and his girlfriend a gift, mum a gift from all of us because we forgot that, the gift for the white elephant party and oh a new ps4 controller for us.” He sets them all down and pulls the controller out of the bag for it to be taken by Harry. “And I think I just met the love of my life.” Tom places his hands on his hips. As he catches his breath.

“Yeah right, you said that two weeks ago at the club. She just wanted you to buy her a drink!” Harry reminded him and haz took the presents and organized them.

“Oh yeah?” He asked and tom nodded.

“Yeah.” He goes for his water and takes a sip before smiling a little.

“We were both rushing around the store and I ran into her completely by accident. She dropped her coffee can you believe this? it’s like a movie! Anyways she told me it was fine and I said no let me get you a new one so we went over to the coffee bean and I got her a new coffee and she told me she forgot presents for her sister and a party and I was like ‘no way me too!’ And then she told me how Christmas break this year was hard because she just got done helping to write a script for a movie and so I was like “I’m an actor” and she said she noticed me but didn’t want to say anything to make it akward but she liked my movies and then I told her how pretty she was and gave her my number and she gave me hers and then she paid for my gifts when we were in Macy’s and so I told her let me pay her back and now I’m taking her to dinner after Christmas.” Tom proudly states and the boys look at him in shock. Tom scrambles to pull out his phone and pull up your Instagram that you gave him. The winter theme ended up matching your personality.

“A film student. Graduates this year. You sure she’ll have time for you mate.” Haz teases but you were really pretty. You ice skating, you setting up a tree, you making cookies, you volunteered at the animal shelter, you were almost made up. Simply like some guys fantasy that came to life. So gorgeous and so perfect.

“Shut up. She’s pretty isn’t she?” He put his phone away and the boys nodded.

“Yeah, she is. So I don’t know what she’s doing wasting her time with you.” Harry teased and tom tackled the boy on the couch and that caused Harrison to join and pull them off.

That night was the spark to something life changing for Tom and Harrison knew that. He knew that he’ll find someone but not you.

12 days of Christmas Taglist: @bibby-baby​ @spideylovin​ @wonderland-londonboy​ @peter-man-parker​ @sleepingthestral​ @spiderbibby​ @thevelvetseries​ @simplylia​ @sighbastian​

Permanent Taglist: @angelsparkers​ @dahliaspidey​ @parkersvibes​ @itssss-a-bean @ppkrtingle​ @myfinalwords​ @bocaul @tinyplanet-explorers @sincerlyfan @softbaby-tom @awesomeblackcottontail @rosebeegraham @stormyholland @unicorn-princess-1999 @spideyyypeter​ @marshyrebelcloud​ @oh-epiphany @yeahimcrying @highlydisfunctional1 @disgustangg​ @pterstingle @quacksonhq @starlightparker @reblogsfics @tomsrebeleyebrow​ @dreamyyholland

#tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland fic #tom holland smut #tom holland fan fic #tom holland x you #imagine tom holland

[sleepykittypaws]

The Christmas House

Original Air Date: November 23, 2020 (Hallmark) Where to Watch?: Hallmark will replay it multiple times this season, and for every season in perpetuity

It's impossible to review Hallmark's The Christmas House without noting that this time last year, then-Crown Media CEO Bill Abbott was personally taking phone calls from a SPLC-designated hate group, and pulling a Zola ad showing two brides chastely kissing from his network, at that hate group's behest. The ensuing firestorm of well-earned criticism following Abbott's bad judgement, is, without question, what brought us to today, with Abbott ousted, a woman of color, Wonya Lucas, now at Hallmark's helm, and a still totally G-rated holiday lineup that now regularly features former Hallmark no-gos like, interracial romance and LGBTQ+ inclusion, improving Hallmark's abysmal diversity record, one movie at a time. 

So, even though Hallmark had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century, it's still hard not to be at least a little emotional that they're finally joining us here. The bigots are still having online temper tantrums about losing their all-white, all-straight safe space, but Hallmark's holiday ratings are up 7% year-over-year—a significant jump in a world where cable subscriptions are declining by 10-15% annually.

Now, what that progress looks like on a network known for being “clean,” conservative and about as unwilling to take risks as any channel on the planet, is another story. Frequent Hallmark star, and out gay actor, Jonathan Bennett, has been tirelessly talking about The Christmas House, since the day it went into production. And Bennett brings a lot of energy to this ensemble story, written by co-star Robert Buckley, of a family getting together to decorate their home one more time before it's sold. 

Buckley and Bennett play the sons of Sharon Lawrence and Treat Williams, a recently retired couple struggling with that fundamental shift in their relationship. Buckley is the star of a ridiculous court show, Handsome Justice, of which we luckily get to see a clip, and Bennett, a baker, and his husband, played by Brad Harder, are waiting to hear about an adoption, after several previous disappointments. 

Bennett and Buckley bring more humor than is normal for Hallmark to their portrayal of loving, competitive brothers, who clearly enjoy ribbing each other.

How conservative was past hallmark, you ask? Well, that Buckley's girl-next-door love interest is divorced, not widowed, is still a somewhat shocking twist in that world, as is the fact that both Buckley and Bennett are "allowed" to sport some facial scruff, rather than be clean shaven. Oh, and that the family next door is (gasp) Latino, is also something we likely wouldn't have seen in the Hallmark of yore. All of which is just mind-blowing, since those “days of yore” for this TV network were [checks notes]…2019, not 1968.

Lawrence and Williams are believable as a long term couple, and their life-change struggle to re-center their relationship feels real, but the way it's revealed is almost as anti-climactic as its resolution. The movie laid very unsubtle hints along the way—all storytelling progress aside, Hallmark movies are still written so you can half watch and not a miss a thing, allowing folks to join 20 minutes in, or do the dishes and come back without being confused—that Williams and Lawrence's wanting to have "one last Christmas" was about more than just downsizing in retirement. 

When Lawrence told the story of the clearly-actually-brand-new-and-from-Homegoods Santa pot, and what it meant to her, I thought Williams was going to later accidentally break Checkov's sentimental teapot and, in her anger, Lawrence would blurt out something about that's why they were separating, shocking their grown sons. 

And, honestly, as predictable as that would have been, it would probably have had more impact than what did happen…Lawrence just casually telling Buckley while stringing lights, and then nobody really mentioning it again, excepting oblique references during a single conversation between the brothers, and then Lawrence just announces at breakfast that they're not doing that after all.

Definitely feels like Hallmark's aversion to conflict in its stories is one of those provisions that is still firmly in place. (We saw a similar unwillingness to commit to actual marital difficulties, despite that being the central plot point, in Cranberry Christmas.)

Which is too bad, because Lawrence and Williams being much better than the actors usually used for these parent roles, could have handled a more realistic story well, and brought some real emotional beats to the movie.

As expected, Buckley's romance with Ana Ayora was the definite A-plot here, but why did their memory lane rekindling catalyst have to be close-up magic, the worst of all entertainment options? Was there no mime troop they could have been teenage members of? When it comes to magic, and jazz, I'm like Indiana Jones and snakes…Why'd it have to be magic?

Also, no way that 29-year-old guy they have playing "teenage" Mike grows up to be Robert Buckley. Nope! They definitely had to soft focus all the mostly unnecessary flashback scenes so that those actors, easily less than a decade younger than our leads, didn't quite look their age. 

And, c'mon, Buckley, who, again, is the star of his own TV show, gives the love of his life a necklace he bought…in high school? For real? I'm surprised we couldn't see her neck turn green in real time. At least get a gal a little upgrade. Sheesh! 

The whole rival real estate agent thing went nowhere. And what was that subplot even supposed to be about? Would have much rather seen a scene from the Handsome Justice episode where Buckley's character defended a dog accused of murder, than that whole waste of time. 

On the other hand, loved the Grift body spray mentions, and so glad we go to see that ad. Hallmark doesn't do subtle—"But will they get it?" is basically the network's motto—but this is one case of subtext just being text that worked.

Oh and, how did his parents buy a house on the Hudson river just by selling a nice, but fairly average, suburban home? Sure, they said it was a fixer upper, but anything on the water is gonna be way more pricey than where they were, and you've still got to have the cash to do the fixing. Also, you know the old adage about how nothing soothes a struggling marriage like a whole house renovation project, amirite?

Speaking of money…Why didn't Buckley just buy his folks the house right away if he didn't want to see it go? I mean, even if he's only a mid-level TV star, this wasn't some extravegent manse, and certainly wouldn't be an unusual thing for a well-off child to do for their middle-class parents. Why all the rigamarole with the weird guy and the rescinded offer? And, like, what was that all about? So many stories I'd have rather seen from this talented cast than some of the filler we actually got.

Harder didn't get nearly enough to do, but he and Bennett had decent chemistry and they got most of the best lines. The joke about "Will we decorate like this for our kids," and Bennett's emphatic, "No," cut the tension of an emotional scene well, with perfect timing, making it actually, laugh out loud funny—a Hallmark rarity. And when Harder appears in doorway after hearing from the adoption agency, and Bennett knows just by looking at his face what the call said, I got emotional.

That all the couples in this one got to kiss, including Bennett and Harder, is important. With the specter of last year's Zola debacle absolutely lingering over the entire movie, it's hard to think of a better, actual example of #LoveWins, than that moment.

I also teared up when we saw Bennett and Harder's family at the end, not only because it was a long overdue Hallmark milestone, but also because Harder's real-life son, Kael, played he and Bennett's on-screen adopted child, and is just so stinking cute.

Am I giving this bonus points for finally having an LGBTQ+ storyline, even if it was pretty far from the foreground? For sure. But Buckley and Bennett also brought humor and heart to this one, of a variety not usually found on Hallmark, and Lawrence and Williams also upped the ante on the quality here. Notable that Hallmark also sprung for two actual, name-brand holiday songs, so they were willing to spend a little bit of extra cash on this effort, which says more about their “commitment to diversity” than years of empty promises ever did.

Would have liked House even more, if Hallmark had been brave enough to swap the storylines; Bennett falling in love the boy next door, and Buckley and his bride waiting to hear about adoption, but barring that, do wish it had been bit more of a true ensemble (i.e. all three love stories had equal weight).

Despite quibbles, I'm still putting this on top of the 2020 Hallmark heap, at least for the moment, because I laughed, I cried and I felt good about the progress that has been made, no matter how long overdue it is.

As I've said so many times, representation really does matter, particularly on a channel like Hallmark, which caters to exactly the audience that most needs to see LGBTQ+ people laughing, living and loving, just like every other family.

Representation really can change lives. It opens hearts and minds. It can help those struggling within themselves feel seen and worthy. Really can not underestimate how transformative these normalizing glimpses can be, particularly for a network like Hallmark, with a large "conservative" audience. 

"Conservative" is in quotes, because there's nothing genuinely conservative about human rights, and respect for those unlike you. Empathy and acceptance for others should be a baseline standard for living in a society—not a political statement. 

No one has the right to deny someone else's humanity, and someone's choice to hold hate in their heart deserves no respect from Hallmark, or society at large. Really hopeful that some kid out there who feels excluded and awful about themself because their family and upbringing has told them everything they're feeling is wrong and sinful, can now see representation like this on their family's safe space TV channel, and know it's going to be OK.

It's a small step, but it's definitely a good one, and I'm really looking forward to the actual lead LGBTQ+ holiday romances coming soon, like Hulu's Happiest Season (Nov. 25), Lifetime's The Christmas Setup (Dec. 12) and Paramount Network's Dashing in December (Dec. 13), and hoping Hallmark joins that club in 2021.

Until then…

Final Judgement: 3 Paws Up

[natsspammityspamspamham]

Dino Watches Anime (Oct 26)

Recently Completed!

Tokyo Godfathers

Score: 10/10

There’s a reason why I gave this such a rare high rating. When I was watching it, I was internally like, “*excitement noises* I have not been this excited over an anime in such a long time, let alone for an anime movie. EVERYONE SHUT UP SO I CAN WATCH THIS EVEN IF I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY’RE SAYING.”

It’s not often that you come across really good movies, let alone masterpieces like this movie. The art is so good, the story made me feel like it was Christmas in October, and the characters really made me connect. 

I know the subtitles used a whole lot of gay slurs and things like that, but Hana (the trans character in this tale) is treated well if we get past that huge hurdle. She truly owns up to herself. She doesn’t care what she’s called. She gets mad at people who misgender her. She gets mad if she’s forced to go to a men’s facility. She wants people to call her “an old hag” rather than “an old coot”. She just wants to be a mother even if she isn’t “biologically a woman” who can bear children. So when she comes across this kid, she thinks, “I will finally be a mother!” These are issues that real people face. These are issues that cisgendered people take for granted.

Madhouse really knocked it out of the park. Satoshi Kon is one of the biggest creators and directors in anime history. He’s known for horror and psychological works like Perfect Blue, Paprika, and Millennium Actress. I never expected him to be this good at making a movie that could move my soul like this. The characters were so far from perfect, yet I wanted the best for each of them. The way it handled everything was masterful. The dialogue worked so well and was witty, the voice actors (despite the main three not being in anything else for the most part) were so good at giving life to their characters, and the art blew me away in 2019 even though this was released in 2003. The only thing I didn’t quite like as much was the score during some parts of the movie, but it was subjectively good and just wasn’t to my taste (the Noragami soundtrack wasn’t a fav of mine either). 

Just... watch the movie. If you can watch it around Christmas. It’s good for you.

Saiunkoku Monogatari

Score: 7.4/10 

Yes, I binge-watched all 39 episodes in two days, what’s it to ya?! In reality, I just boosted the speed of the video.

Me throughout this show: Why do you all have triangle heads? What’s with that?

Okay, it’s the art style, and a lot of shoujo anime go with the concept that it looks good. Once you get over the art hurdle making me believe this was created in the early 2000s despite it being 3 years younger than Tokyo Godfathers, this turns out to be a really nice show. I just can’t believe they’re BOTH from Madhouse. 

Remember Snow White with the Red Hair? Remember Akatsuki no Yona? If you liked those shows, you’re going to like this one... except it relies more on the political plot. It’s mostly about a woman wanting to pursue her dreams of being a politician in a male-dominated world. She’s entasked with helping this mess of a king to get his act together, and as much as I can try to prove that it’s surprisingly progressive (given the art and genre), I think that’d be spoiling it a little. The only character that actually bothered me was the prince who was voiced by Tomokazu Seki who honestly was a bit annoying and sounded so fake for me. However, this anime made me appreciate Hikaru Midorikawa’s voice as well as Houko Kuwashima who I’ve only heard voicing dead moms and only a few good characters here and there. Seriously, both of their voices are great. Toshiyuki Morikawa sounds good too, but we already knew that. I don’t like the OP or ED (or a whole lot of the music), but that’s the case for a lot of these 2005-era anime. Just like a lot of the anime on MAL, I do think this is an underrated show, but it does have its pitfalls if you’re just craving for a quick shoujo without any politics.

Full Metal Panic: Second Raid

Score: 7/10

I binge-watched this entire season while my parents were out for dinner and something else. It only took me a couple of hours because I boosted the speed.

I wanted to get a gif specifically from this season, so this one will have to do. So much wasted potential will this character (who’s one of two twins). I know they were trying to play the whole “twincest” thing, but I’m personally not a fan. They provided some cool fight scenes even at a certain cringe cost. The fact that Kyoto Animation animated this bumped the art from a 3 to an 8. It’s crazy how much the quality jumped after a new studio took over. Unfortunately, they didn’t take care of the next season. I know the main ship in the series is pretty clear, but this season made it closer to canon (too bad it took around 13 years to make the next season).

Kara no Kyoukai (movies: 5, 6, 7)

Score:  Part Five: 7.5/10 Part Six: 5.8/10 Part Seven: 8.2/10

Not gonna lie, I watched the first four movies over a year ago and retained nothing. I had to read the Wikia to assist me and to begin with, I watched this to get into the “Type-Moon” universe (which consists of this and the Fate nonsense stuff), Yuki Kajiura’s score, and Maaya Sakamoto and Kenichi Suzumura voicing a couple. The score would probably change if I’d watched them regularly, but I digress because I watched movies 5-7 in one afternoon. Ufotable was pretty good at animating this and the voice acting worked really well. Yuki Kajiura’s music didn’t hit well at first when I was first watching the first few movies over a year ago because it wasn’t what I envisioned the score being, but once you get into the mood and mindset, it adds so much to the story. Although, I still really didn’t like part six. I thought it was a complete flop because I just want to get rid of anyone who believes i*cest is an okay thing. This isn’t Alabama. Go home. Not else to say here because this took so much commitment that I doubt anyone would watch it.

Paranoia Agent

Score: 8.6/10

With spoopy month coming to a close (already?!) I watched this anime earlier this month, but I forgot to write about it. That’s partly because there’s so much to unpack here. This was a thriller, psychological, horror anime by Satoshi Kon. That’s right, the first anime above was also done with him in the director’s seat. This anime was smart. There’s a reason why Robin Williams likes it! It was scary in the best of ways. It revealed a part of society that we see all the time but don’t talk about (especially in Japanese society where emotions are better kept concealed). Just the opening alone made me feel uneasy. The OP and ED were simplistic yet worked. I binge-watched the whole series because it was that gripping. 

It was a little confusing at times, but that’s also because that’s just a common thing with horror anime. That suspense keeps us going. It keeps us on the edge of our seats. Who’s going to be the next victim of Shounen Bat? Episode 8 came out of nowhere for me, and I liked it. There were several scenes that sent shivers down my spine in the best way possible. It isn’t always “scary”, but it gives suspense.

Aoi Bungaku

This one is going to be reviewed a little differently. Since it has specific arcs, I’m going to review them as such!

Ningen Shikkaku: 8.2/10

We start off with a bang. Osamu Dazai was a man of suffering. This story really shows that. In this story, we see a man who’s desperate to know what makes him human. We see this through the eyes of a fictional character, but I personally view this as a semi-autobiography.

The art was chilling. The voice acting from Masato Sakai was surprisingly good. A lot of the time, voice acting from live-action actors just aren’t that great. Every time you think this character will get back on his feet, he falls deeper and deeper. It truly did make me wonder what made me human.

Sakura no Mori no Mankai no Shita: 3.9/10

That moment when the only thing that saves this arc is Nana Mizuki’s singing. Seriously, her jazz songs were awesome. Can’t say that about the rest. I mean, the art is good, but it’s Madhouse so most of their stuff is already good. The story wasn’t that original. Mind you, this was probably during a period where foreign influence was strong, and I haven’t read the original story, but... this is basically Salome (the opera) with some differences. Both have a crazy woman with a fixation over lifeless decapitated heads. Both have men that are captivated with her beauty so they give her what she wants because of that reason alone, they both murder religious people (monk/shrine maiden and a prophet), and both eventually realize that women can be crazy when they demand a lifeless head because you know, that’s just a red flag. Above all, it suffers from tonal shifts. You can’t have a woman turning moe then demand you bring her another head to play with. You can’t have Masato Sakai playing another main character that doesn’t fit him! Seriously, he doesn’t have the voice of a brute and just couldn’t do it. Overall, this arc was a mess, and I’m glad it was one of the shorter ones.

Kokoro: 7.6/10

This looked like a masterpiece compared to the last arc. I haven’t read Kokoro, but this made me go, “Huh, I don’t remember this happening.” That’s because they chose a certain part of the book (near the end apparently) and just went off that and created its own anime-original episode. Despite that, it was pretty good! There were some screaming discrepancies which did hurt its impression (because it made it feel out of place to the point where even I, as an uneducated anime viewer, could clearly see).

(I think this is from Kokoro but I might be wrong)

Hashire, Melos!: 8.9/10

Would you look at that? It’s the best arc of the series. Hashire, Melos was great. It had me going from beginning to end, and it’s the only arc that doesn’t have Masato Sakai playing the lead character. The art, the pacing, the storytelling, the story, the sound, the voice acting, and the art direction complemented each other so well. It made me far more interested in the original. 

The Spider’s Thread: 6.6/10

If you look really close, you’ll notice that the creator of Bleach took over character design for this! It was okay. I found that it was a little cliche and lacklustre. Mamo is around so much that you probably have to do more than that to keep my attention, and this had the art going for it too. It just wasn’t that interesting. A heartless murderer is sent to hell after being executed. Moral of the story: Don’t be an asshole. Alright. Nice. I do understand that Ryuunosuke Akutagawa was one of the main establishers of the whole “Japanese Short Story” thing, but after seeing it so many times, I just didn’t get that same chill.

Hell Screen: 6.9/10 

Another Akutagawa short story! This one had far more of an impact because this one hit closer to Akutagawa’s heart. Knowing the history of this piece of writing, you can see his desperation to stay relevant and true to his craft. It’s about a painter who wants to paint the town but finds out the city isn’t the bright light he sees in his mind. Everything goes ablaze. The art for this is stunning. I probably would’ve enjoyed this story more if it was placed in the middle of the series run rather than being the last story. 

Recently Started

Africa no Salaryman

The animation for this is terrible. There is no way around it. However, at least it’s funny. Still, close to being on the chopping block. It has the papa lion who’s played by Akio Ohtsuka, the straight-man middle lizard played by Kenjirou Tsuda, and the scumbag toucan played by Hiro Shimono. Yes, they all play Hero Academia villains. The jokes are pretty good for me.

Given

Oh, would you look at that? It’s a music anime. *inhales* Music anime is a double-edged sword for me. I like having music interpreted and portrayed through one of my favourite mediums, but I don’t like them playing off music as some sort of easy gimmick and a joke. It’s like a shonen montage. “Let’s just have this guy train for two minutes and become a demigod”. But when you put an instrument into someone’s hand and demand the same, it sends me to another plane of angriness.  So far, the romance is kind of cute... but Mafuyu kind of annoys me since his role in the BL dynamic is so clear just by his voice. Same with Uchida. You can only play so many thugs a season. Kyou? Good. Chika? Good. This guy? Good, but don’t do them all back-to-back! I don’t like the BL dynamic being so basic. However, my mind can be changed if done right.

Shinsekai Yori

Very interesting premise, their eyes are cute, and I’m a sucker for these so I’m gonna stick with it.

#dino watches anime #given #shinsekai yori #aoi bungaku #dazai osamu #natsume souseki #akutagawa ryuunosuke #ango sakaguchi #full metal panic #kara no kyoukai #saiunkoku monogatari #tokyo godfathers

[etlunainmorte]

❄❄❄

***

*Old - Fashioned Peanut - Butter Cookies*

*Ingredients

2 cups creamy peanut butter ( not the all - natural variety )

1½ cups granulated sugar

½ cup packed light brown sugar

2 large eggs

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

½ teaspoon kosher salt

*How to Make It

Step 1

Heat oven to 350° F.

Step 2

Using an electric mixer, beat the peanut butter and sugars on medium - high speed until fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes. Reduce speed to low and beat in the eggs, baking soda, vanilla, and salt.

Step 3

Roll heaping tablespoonfuls of the dough into balls and place on parchment - lined baking sheets, spacing them 2 inches apart. With a lightly floured fork, press the dough to a ⅜ - inch thickness, making a crisscross pattern on top of each cookie.

Step 4

Bake, rotating the baking sheets halfway through, until the edges are set, 10 to 12 minutes. Cool slightly on the baking sheets, then transfer to wire racks to cool completely. Store the cookies in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 5 days.

***

❄ Three Wishes ❄

***

II

***

You were blissfully unaware of this but, V prepared for your very first date the entire night before the big day that he almost drove Griffon to sheer insanity.

Picking out clothes and accessories for him and teaching him stuff he, more or less, already knew regarding the opposite gender, the bird worked hard to the bone just to make his master look good in front of you. He wanted his master to give a nice first impression, after all.

But, then again, since V started living separately from Dante and Vergil for a month ( the younger brother always made him clean the eternally messy shop, while the older twin and him knew each other too well to the point of awkwardness and, sometimes, hostility ), he only managed to buy a few pieces of clothing with the money he has earned as an independent Devil Hunter. Meaning, there wasn't too much clothing to choose from in the first place. Well, at least right then. He could earn money faster than his two bickering brothers, anyway, and he has proven it more than a decent amount of times already.

So, he has no other choice but to go along with a decent and smart casual wear, which consisted of a simple white button down shirt, black pants, and a pair of black boots ( with the extremely cold weather going ballistic on his thin and bony frame, he has to set aside the sandals for a while ). Completing his look with a knitted pullover and a black parka, he made his way towards your house, which was not really that far, since he now practically lived next to you.

Approximately five minutes before eight in the morning, V was sitting there on the sofa, waiting for you to come down. And when you finally did, boy, was he really surprised. Clad in a light - colored coat worn over a gingham dress, black leggings, and a pair of boots, you looked truly lovely in V's eyes.

You smiled brightly as V greeted you, and after receiving something from your loving grandmother that she made, herself, you two finally took off.

*

The Red Grave shopping district, despite the cold weather, was packed with people of all ages. Children, teens, and adults, each and everyone of them walked about the place, going to different boutiques, eating at restaurants, or just simply looking around. And most of them were already buying Christmas presents.

V had different plans for you, however. He bought tickets to that latest installment of a long - running space opera saga, after all, which, he rightfully thought, was one of your favorite movie genres. Now, you found this completely normal, since movies like that were really in demand as of the moment. What really surprised you was the quality of tickets he bought for the two of you.

"Umm, V, Star Wars is that way." You gently reminded him after grabbing your popcorn, jelly beans, and (F/F) frappe from the snack bar.

V only smiled at you. "I know, dear." He told you as he guided you towards the opposite direction were lesser people were going: the Director's Club, of all places.

Director's Club?! You thought hysterically. But, tickets there are way too expensive!

And he was totally not kidding around! You were going to watch Star Wars there!

"This,... is unreal,..." You gasped in wonder as you finally entered the prestigious theatre house and took a seat in one of the lounge chairs that has the perfect distance from the huge screen. Since few people could afford tickets to the Director's Club, the place, itself, was refreshingly calm. And it was perfect.

"Hmm?" V hummed in question as he settled down next to you and wore his 3D glasses.

You shook your head and gave him a smile. "Nothing."

The movie, itself, was wonderful. You smiled at the little jokes, became emotional at the drama, and gasped at the wonderfully choreographed fight scenes between the heroine and the villain. It was,... very good,...

... however, for the third time since the movie started, you heard that weird noise coming from your left side as if something huge was just pumped out of a clogged drain. The noise was not that loud, actually, but the quietness around you made it seem like it was really loud in your ears. And so, you made the wrong decision to turn and,...

V's eyes widened as he felt something soft and warm cling to his left arm, and he was surprised to see you looking up at him with a worried look on your face.

"V," you whispered. " ... someone is,... s - someone,... they're,..."

The poet furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as he followed your line of sight, and when he finally saw what you were talking about, a soft curse escaped his lips.

For there, on your left, were two young lovers shamelessly kissing and totally ignoring the movie.

V clicked his tongue in annoyance. These young people,...

"Dear, can we switch places?" V asked, and a few moments later, as the teen lovers were still doing their thing, they were startled when something forcefully dropped right in front of them. "Apologies." The poet said with a sadistic smile, his left hand firmly holding the cane that startled them, his eyes still focused on the screen. "My hand,... slipped."

You were still laughing about it an hour later after the movie wrapped as you recalled how the teen couple reacted ( they scrambled away from V and out of the cinema in utter fear of the tattooed poet ). And V? He seriously breathed a sigh of relief. It was a good thing that your experience to your first movie with him was not entirely ruined because of them. For, if it did, only God or the Devil knows what he will do to them,...

After the cinema, he brought you to a restaurant to have lunch. Then, when you still have enough time, you asked V to accompany you to the Music Store to buy something.

And all throughout your quality time with him, you were not aware of the eyes that were observing you and V from afar,...

"Ah, I've been looking all over for this!" You happily exclaimed as you took out the piece of Mozart's Ah Vous Dirai - je, Maman from your shopping bag. "Thank you so much for going with me, V."

"No," the poet answered with a gentle smile as he twirled his metal cane. " ... thank you,... for indulging my,... little,... request."

Once again, you felt yourself blushing before the man and slightly turned away. Why does he always make you feel that way?!

Before you could embarrass yourself even further, you took out the thing that your grandmother gave you. It was a jar of peanut butter cookies that she baked, herself.

"This is for you." You told him with a shy smile as you handed him the jar of homemade cookies. "Gran told me to give it to you. I hope you like it."

"Why, thank you so much." V answered graciously. "And I'm sure I will! Would you mind if I take a bite now?"

"Oh, of course, not! Go ahead."

Feeling excited upon receiving something homemade for the first time ever, V eagerly opened the jar and took one cookie, its wonderful aroma filling his nostrils.

However, before he could even take a single bite, someone scoffed from behind him. You and V turned and saw, to your utter shock,...

"How awfully domestic is that?!"

***

❄ @la-vita , @clevermentalitybeliever , and @birdgirl69 . ❄

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P.S. Let me know if you want to be tagged for the latest chapters.😁😁😁

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❄❄❄

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#devil may cry 5 #vitale sparda #three wishes #v x reader #v x you #chapter 2 #just the two of us ( ? )

[halcyon-travesty-blog]

I HAVE SEEN THE NEW DRAGONS MOVIE!!!

I’ve just seen what might be the best movie ever (I don’t live in the States so earlier release!!) and need to process my emotions and discuss discussable points through this rant post, so fairly obvious warning: 

SPOILER WARNING SPOILER WARNING SPOILER WARNING SPOILER WARNING SPOILER WARNING

Alright, you have been warned. 

PS: an edited, spoiler-free version may be posted later

THE HIDDEN WORLD IS AMAZING! Such a beautiful story, a more-than-fitting conclusion to the epic tale of dragons, vikings, love, loss, leadership, growing up, acceptance, strength, becoming who you were always meant to be, and, perhaps most importantly, learning to let go and stand on your own.

I’ll try and sort aspects of the movie by paragraph but this is pretty much just a therapeutic emotional outpouring so here we go. 

First cab off the rank (although it may be obvious), the animation was incredible. The village, the Hidden World, every island and ship and dragon and outfit enriched with vivid colour and intricate detail. The outfits were a particular highlight for me (a la my post a few months ago about their battle suits - they look even better on the big screen); even the updates for characters like Valka and Eret were great. The obvious question I guess is: was the Hidden World itself worth it? A HUGE YES. I thought maybe it would remind me of another other-worldly movie (e.g. James Cameron’s Avatar), but it didn’t; all I could think about was how beautiful the world’s design was, with all the colours and lights, waterfalls and chasms and crystals and, of course, dragons. 

Grimmel was a good villain, nothing ridiculously ground-breaking or whatever, but not a bad bad guy by any means in my opinion. There were also three warlords who had employed him whose roles were very minor and pretty much just a way for him to discover that (prank!) he hadn’t killed all the Night Furies after all. The movie isn’t really about the villain though, he’s more of a plot advancer, a catalyst if you will. 

The Stoick and lil baby Hiccup flashbacks are gorgeous and serve almost as a form of conscience and inspiration for Hiccup: a monologue on love (sparked by a cute “are you gonna get us a new mom?”) that Hiccup recalls when considering letting Toothless go be with his love, the Light Fury, is particularly poignant. 

The Dragon Riders are wonderful and hilarious once again, and a particular highlight of the movie for me was how they were learning to work together more, a la Race to the Edge, especially (sobs) without their dragons. Astrid and Hiccup have many great moments together once again. For those wondering who won between Rufflout and Rufflegs: Ruffnut says she can’t choose between Snotlout’s ego (“I don’t know if he’ll ever love me more than he’ll love himself) and Fishlegs’s meek nerdiness, but at the Hiccstrid wedding says (or maybe jokes) that she chooses Fishlegs because she “likes sensitive guys.” The replacement of TJ Miller is nothing to worry about: it’s noticeable if you listen closely, but definitely not a problem. Ruffnut’s prisoner monologue is a comedic highlight, Tuffnut’s “boy talks” in regard to marriage! (more on that later) are also great, Fishlegs is pretty much just Fishlegs and Snotlout’s banter with Eret and Valka are fun. Our teenage adventurers have grown up, and with growing up comes responsibility, something I’ll explore more in...

Mature Chief Issues (TM)! Hiccup is a young chief with many balls to juggle: raiding trapper ships and rescuing dragons, a dragon overpopulation crisis on Berk, managing viking and dragon priorities, his relationship with Astrid (and the possibility of marriage), threats from enemies across the seas (and the target he has inadvertently made Berk), the legacy of his father (considered one of the greatest chiefs of all time), and (perhaps most importantly) his own self-esteem, acceptance and self-worth, fundamentally the question of his worth without Toothless. This is one of the reasons why I (and many others I suspect) love this franchise so: it deals with mature issues like responsibility and leadership in a meaningful and realistic way. When Hiccup says they’re all going to pack up and leave in search of the Hidden World, he faces opposition and doubt, and as the film progresses he must further contend with the conflict with Grimmel (and events such as Ruffnut getting left behind at the base) and Toothless’s budding relationship with the Light Fury. 

A lot of people have been complaining that the Light Fury has been ‘feminised’, and that she shouldn’t look like she does from a zoological standpoint. I read a particularly good post a while ago by a tumblr user who was a zoologist or something like that (no disrespect intended, just can’t remember exactly); if you can find it I recommend the read. I agree with the points made in those arguments, but can’t help thinking that her design is beautiful, and her personality is definitely not weakened. She glistens in the moonlight and fights with incredible strength and can turn invisible at will for goodness sake. Their love is sweet and wholesome and makes for a breathtaking flight sequence and a funny scene reminiscent of the Hiccup-Toothless bonding and drawing scene in HTTYD1. The dragon babies are cute (although I don’t understand why they’re each blotchy black and white when Night and Light Furies are apparently the same species, so therefore based on gender the kids should be one or the other, but anyway) and the Light Fury provides Toothless with someone to spend his life with in the Hidden World when the dragons go away.

Yes, it happens. We knew it would. “There were dragons when I was a boy” sent me into a flurry of tears, and Hiccup and Toothless’s reunion with their kids at the end of the movie was...I don’t really know what to say. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. The dragons go because, as Hiccup says, “The world doesn’t deserve you”. More enemies would rise to fill Grimmel’s place, and dragons will never be truly safe unless they disappear. I think most movie-goers will know deep down that humans and dragons aren’t going to end up living in the Hidden World together like Hiccup suggests; it is, quite simply, not meant to be. Toothless leaving allows him to complete his journey of becoming, in terms of being an alpha and literally standing (flying) on his own (with a self-functioning prosthetic tail). Toothless leaving is also the final step in Hiccup’s becoming, as he learns that he is strong, can stand on his own and lead, even without his faithful dragon by his side. It is hard, as Astrid says, but he can do it, because he has always been a great viking, and has the support of his friends and family. Letting go takes courage and maturity, but can sometimes be the only way you can become who you are meant to be. Hiccup and Toothless’s parallel journeys are truly something to behold. There is a lot more I would like to say on this, but at the current moment I believe I lack the eloquence to do so. In summary, the moment is beautiful and everything you don’t want it to be. 

On a happier note, THERE’S A HICCSTRID WEDDING!!!!!!! Following much jest and uncertainty (aka foreshadowing) throughout the film, Hiccup and Astrid have a beautiful winter wedding with the whole village present. Gobber cries, Snotlout cries, Fishlegs cries, I cry, you cry, everyone cries. Astrid’s hair is left down, the bride and groom wear white (don’t think vikings actually did wear white but they look awesome so whatever), there’s a couple of traditional viking things and then comes love then comes marriage then comes BABY IN A BABY CARRIAGE!!!!

The auburn-haired girl, perhaps 7 or 8 years old, and the blond-haired boy, maybe 5 or 6, joined their mother and (bearded!) father on an unexplained boat journey to the entrance to the Hidden World, where they meet up with Toothless, the Light Fury and their children and we come full circle, with the kids holding out their hands and Toothless leaning in, an image we know and love all too well. They fly together, we the audience are promised that dragons did exist and may return someday when the world is worthy of them, and the movie ends. 

One of my favourite things about this franchise will always be its maturity and the beauty in simplicity (aka a story of growing up and letting go). I can tell you from the bottom of my heart that this is one of the most beautiful movies I have ever seen and I literally feel privileged to have experienced this story. I cannot recommend it enough and intend to see it again sometime in the next week. More posts and analysis and etcetera will come (apologies for the hiatus - exams and Christmas and yes hectic), especially after it is released in more countries, and I hope everyone loves this film as much as I did. 

#httyd3 #httyd 3 #how to train your dragon 3 #how to train your dragon: the hidden world #the hidden world #my heart #tears #hiccup #toothless #hiccstrid #astrid #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #SPOILERS #httyd 3 spoilers #the hidden world spoilers #httyd 3 review #the hidden world review #ruffnut #tuffnut #snotlout #fishlegs #night fury #light fury #valka #eret #gobber #stoick #stoick the vast #dragons #dreamworks

[hufflly-puffs]

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Chapter 22: St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

“The instrument tinkled into life at once with rhythmic clinking noises. Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued from the minuscule silver tube at the top. Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brow furrowed. After a few seconds, the tiny puffs became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and coiled in the air … a serpent’s head grew out of the end of it, opening its mouth wide. Harry wondered whether the instrument was confirming his story: he looked eagerly at Dumbledore for a sign that he was right, but Dumbledore did not look up. ‘Naturally, naturally,’ murmured Dumbledore apparently to himself, still observing the stream of smoke without the slightest sign of surprise. ‘But in essence divided?’” – I don’t think it is ever explained what exactly this instrument is, but this, along with Dumbledore’s question from which perspective Harry saw the attack on Mr. Weasley, confirms that by now Dumbledore knows or at least suspects about the Horcruxes. He might had suspected it since book 2 and the Riddle Diary and the way it worked. By now though it is confirmed to him that Harry is a Horcrux as well, which would explain we he could see through Nagini’s eyes, as all the Horcruxes and Voldemort are connected. This would also explain why Dumbledore refuses to even look at Harry, though he did ignore him ever since the start of the summer, so while Harry’s knowledge about the attack confirms his theory Dumbledore must have known for much longer. Which would also explain his emotional distance: he didn’t want to get to close to the boy he knew had to die.

“Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard behind Harry and Ron. He emerged from it carrying a blackened old kettle, which he placed carefully on his desk. He raised his wand and murmured, ‘Portus!’ For a moment the kettle trembled, glowing with an odd blue light; then it quivered to rest, as solidly black as ever.” – I like the idea of Dumbledore having a cupboard of random things he can turn into Portkeys at any given time should he need one.

“At once, Harry’s scar burned white-hot, as though the old wound had burst open again – and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, he would like nothing better than to strike – to bite – to sink his fangs into the man before him –“ – We know that Voldemort never possessed Harry here, and that obviously Dumbledore was never in real danger to get attacked by Harry through him. So I think another reason why Dumbledore ignored Harry was because he might had suspected that his view would be enough to re-connect Harry and Voldemort and that perhaps this time Voldemort would be aware of the connection, using it against Harry, the way he ultimately does at the end of this book.

“[…] Sirius was hurrying towards them all, looking anxious. He was unshaven and still in his day clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.” – I think Harry noticed that Sirius didn’t do well, but never the full impact of it, because he was too young to understand. There are clear signs that Sirius was depressed, and also had maniac episodes, which would explain his reckless behaviour in the Ministry. Mental health is something that is largely not addressed in the Wizarding World. When we enter St. Mungos there are several floors for all kind of specific injuries and diseases, but no psychotherapeutic ward. In the next chapter we see the Longbottoms and Gilderoy Lockhart, who are both not in their right mind, but in both cases this is caused through magic, and treated as such (irreversible spell damage). Harry clearly suffers from PTSD as well, but never gets the help he needs.

“‘Your father knew what he was getting into and he won’t thank you for messing things up for the Order!’ said Sirius, equally angry. ‘This is how it is – this is why you’re not in the Order – you don’t understand – there are things worth dying for!’ ‘Easy for you to say, stuck here!’ bellowed Fred. ‘I don’t see you risking your neck!’ The little colour remaining in Sirius’s face drained from it. He looked for a moment as though he would quite like to hit Fred, but when he spoke, it was in a voice of determined calm.” – Low blow, Fred. And it hits right where it will hurt Sirius the most, confirming that he is useless and no help, while everyone else risks their life for the cause. Which again will lead to his downfall in the end.

Sirius dismisses Harry’s worries that there might be something wrong with him, and he is the one who attacked Mr. Weasley somehow. Either Sirius really thinks there is nothing to it, that Harry is just under shock, or he knew something was up and didn’t want Harry to worry. Somehow I can’t imagine that Dumbledore would have shared his theory that Harry is a Horcrux with Sirius, because Sirius would have known what that meant for Harry’s life as well. I really think Snape was the only one who knew besides Dumbledore, because Dumbledore trusted him to see the bigger picture. But it is also interesting to see how different this scene is portrayed in the movie adaption. It is then that Sirius tells Harry that you can’t just categorize people into Death Eaters and good people, meaning that even good people like Harry have a dark side, and that it matters what we choose to act on. In the book this line refers to Umbridge, meaning that even though she isn’t a Death Eater she can still be a bad person. Two very different interpretations of the same sentence.

“They had arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge & Dowse Ltd. The place had a shabby, miserable air; the window displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with their wigs askew, standing at random and modelling fashions at least ten years out of date.” – As if Harry even would know what is fashion. The kid still wears his cousin’s old clothes, despite owning a small fortune.

“Harry thought how absurd it was for Tonks to expect the dummy to hear her talking so quietly through a sheet of glass, with buses rumbling along behind her and all the racket of a street full of shoppers. Then he reminded himself that dummies couldn’t hear anyway.” – How did you ever manage to get through life? (Then again, this could have been me, wondering about the very same thing)

“‘Doctors?’ said Ron, looking startled. ‘Those Muggle nutters that cut people up? Nah, they’re Healers.’” – This kind of reminds me of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (aka the best Star Trek movie) and Bones utter horror when he learns how doctors used to treat their patients in the past (“Now, put away your butcher's knives and let me save this patient before it's too late!”).

“A harassed-looking wizard was holding his small daughter tightly by the ankle while she flapped around his head using the immensely large, feathery wings that had sprouted right out through the back of her romper suit. ‘Fourth floor,’ said the witch, in a bored voice, without asking, and the man disappeared through the double doors beside the desk, holding his daughter like an oddly shaped balloon. ‘Next!’” – This is what they should have used their CGI for, just saying.

‘We’ll wait outside, Molly,’ Tonks said. ‘Arthur won’t want too many visitors at once … it ought to be just the family first.’ Mad-Eye growled his approval of this idea and set himself with his back against the corridor wall, his magical eye spinning in all directions. Harry drew back, too, but Mrs Weasley reached out a hand and pushed him through the door, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, Harry, Arthur wants to thank you.’” – It is interesting how Harry doesn’t see himself as part of the Weasley family, despite Molly saying he is like a son to her. We already saw this with him questioning where he would spend his Christmas holidays, because Ron had forgotten to invite him, not naturally assuming he would spend the holidays with the Weasleys. Harry only acknowledges Sirius as his family and at times like these feels like an intruder to the Weasley family.

“‘A werewolf?’ whispered Mrs Weasley, looking alarmed. ‘Is he safe in a public ward? Shouldn’t he be in a private room?’ ‘It’s two weeks till full moon,’ Mr Weasley reminded her quietly. ‘They’ve been talking to him this morning, the Healers, you know, trying to persuade him he’ll be able to lead an almost normal life. I said to him – didn’t mention names, of course – but I said I knew a werewolf personally, very nice man, who finds the condition quite easy to manage.’”- Mrs. Weasley immediate reaction is to see the patient who was bitten by a werewolf as a threat to her own family, especially her husband. Her first instinct is to isolate him, despite knowing a werewolf herself and the social stigma that surrounds him. Also I doubt that Lupin would say the condition is easy to manage. We know that by now there is a potion that will help him during his transformations, but it was also mentioned that only people as skilled as Snape can produce such a potion. Between his year at Hogwarts and his work for the Order Lupin probably had to manage without the potion (I assume Snape provides him the potion once again since they are both in the Order). And not everyone has access to said potion. The Magical Health System is very flawed.

It is Moody who says Voldemort possesses Harry, because assumingly not knowing about the Horcruxes (and that Harry is one) that would be the logical explanation to him. Dumbledore had to offer the Order another explanation than that though, but again I doubt anyone except Snape knew the whole truth.

#harry potter and the order of the phoenix #St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries #chapter notes #ootp

[tessatechaitea]

Team Titans #18

The original cover had Mirage holding Deathwing's torn off cock in her upraised hand.

The casual use of the phrase "Payback is a bitch" in 1994 causes me to suspect this cover is problematic. Also, Team Titans is an anagram of "A mint taste," so does that help prove my point? Anyway, it's not like Mirage hasn't not been written to seem like a terrible person. Yes, she's strong and confident and probably threatens some people's masculinity (like Terry Long, for sure!). But she's also kind of hateful and mean-spirited and takes the piss out of people just because she didn't get enough sleep. Also she raped Nightwing. I keep forgetting that not only is she a victim of rape but she's also a rapist! I suppose one doesn't forgive the other but I also suppose I would feel more empathy for her if she hadn't raped Nightwing. In fact, I'm beginning to think this whole Deathwing rapes Mirage plotwas way more thought out than just another writer using rape as a casual means for a character's emotional journey! Maybe the whole Deathwing plot was a convoluted A Christmas Carol haunting to show Mirage the error of her ways! So this cover is basically Ebenezer Scrooge leaning out of his window on Christmas morning to ask some urchin to have a turkey delivered to him for a half a crown! As if anybody in town would trust Scrooge to pay them for their services! If A Christmas Carol wanted to be more realistic, it would have the kid throw up two fingers at Scrooge and call him a cunt. Also it would have less ghosts.

My new favorite comic book panel: Terry Long defeated by a baby.

Prester Jon has arrived back on Earth in his new body. I'm not sure if the body came this way or if it was changed by his time traveling through space on his roundabout way home but Prester Jon has become the fifth member of the Elastic Four (the other members are Plastic Man, Elongated Man, Jimmy Olsen on his stretch serum, and some other chump). The ability to stretch his body into any shape translates into the power to defeat four powerful elementals. Elementals who are just trying to save the Earth, by the way. Terra's introduction into the current timeline has wreaked havoc with nature, and so she must be dealt with. But just like all heroes who can never allow for the possibility that maybe their very existence is the worst threat to the universe, Prester Jon decides to fight them. Just like when Superman learned Earth was the cause for all the trouble in the universe and he just shrugged and was all, "But it's my home, motherfuckers!" I'm sure I'm remembering that Superman story correctly. The elementals are defeated by a white panel with the word "blink" in it. Maybe Zero Hour just happened and it fixed Terra's time anomaly? I have no idea. Anyway, this is a good example of deus ex machina, nerds. It's not Arya Stark going on a multi-year journey learning how to be a deadly assassin that can wear the faces of other people and get around silently amazingly being the one that nobody at all expected to kill the Night King. And by nobody at all, I mean everybody who wasn't watching Game of Thrones and/or people who love to talk about how the book was so much better than the movie (mostly to prove that they're not as illiterate as they sound). Redwing discovers that she's growing claws to match her wings and she freaks the fuck out. Before she can maul Donna, the US Government arrives to restore order. That means they shoot her with a tranq dart and threaten to shoot everybody else with far worse. No wonder NRA members are so scared of the government! They must read comic books! Also, I mean, sure, the government can be corrupt and scary. But the people who claim they need their guns to defend against the government also seem to be the ones who don't mind that police use extreme force and who also worship the military no matter how many times it's used for illegal and immoral purposes around the world. Just, you know, as long as the people getting shot don't look like they do, or the bombs don't fall in their backyards. But if those bombs did begin falling, look out! They've got a fucking ArmaLite to protect them! Donna, Battalion, Redwing, and Nightrider are all taken into custody. The government doesn't like any of their answers to their questions (even the true ones!), so they'll probably wind up in federal prison. Also there's one of those white "blink" panels. That probably means they'll be okay somehow. Like maybe they all now fit in the timeline and the government will be able to check up on their pasts. Meanwhile, Mirage has chosen to run away from her life but Detective Dick Deathwing is on her trail!

The hat and the trench coat don't make Deathwing less conspicuous.

Deathwing follows Mirage onto a train headed toward Miami. Once the train enters a tunnel (I think that's more rape subtext!), Deathwing attacks Mirage! At the same time, the artist's eight year old takes over art duties.

The tongue hanging out of Deathwing's mouth is the chef's finger kiss of this inspired scene.

Mirage locks the unconscious Deathwing in a bathroom and shoves some used toilet paper in his mouth before taking on his identity. Conveniently, she also intercepts a communication to Nightwing telling her exactly where the bad guy's base is! Because whenever I phone somebody about meeting me at my place, and I know that person has been to my place many times, I always still ask them if they'll soon be at 1990 El Camino Real, Santa Clara, CA 95050 USA. Hopefully the next scene involving Mirage will be when she gets her nipple pierced. You know, to really nail down the Deathwing disguise! Although, will future panels showing Mirage as Deathwing make such flagrant use of nipple shots? Where does the Comics Code Authority stand on female shape-shifted nipples? I mean, they're still female, right?! If they are allowed in subsequent scenes, I can't wait to see if I'm aroused by them! Back at the Long Family Farm, a bunch of rainbow people appear to tell Terra that the Team Titans will be going home soon. Are these another Titans Team? Or are they Zero Hour precursors?! Deathwing's boss, Lazarium, steals Killowat's powers while he waits for Deathwing to arrive with Mirage. I wonder if he also stole Killowat's racism? Team Titans #18 Rating: C. This was as average as a comic book could get. When the pencils and inks seemed unrushed, the art still seemed rushed. When the pencils and inks seemed rushed, the art was fucking terrible. And I'm a terrible artist, so I can say that.

#Team Titans #DC Comics #Teen Titans #Comic Book Review

[scottielambchop]

Pitch Please: Pt. 1

The game is simple. I reach out to my friends and ask them to give me a product and a demographic. I take 30 minutes to research the product and demographic and come up with an overlaying concept. I then flesh out each concept into a full campaign.

Here goes:

Head and Shoulders for Goths

Hide the Light - When you’re a goth, your image is everything. You set yourself apart with the unique juxtaposition of dark clothes and lack of Vitamin D. But you don’t want those colors to mesh (e.g. dandruff). Head & Shoulders will keep your darks dark and your dandruff absent. We could produce full-blown print pieces focusing on the pristine shoulders of goth kids’ black shirts. Maybe use quotes from famous bands (e.g. Friday I’m in Love, etc), or lines like “Stand Out for Other Reasons.” We could change the bottle color from the traditional white and blue to all black with a red streak, especially since the bottle top and icon already somewhat resemble a face with goth/emo hair. We could also create H&S listening rooms in places like Hot Topic, Spencer’s, or malls in general. These would be self-contained kiosks with decorated in all black and dark red. Popular goth bands could play through the area and you could get your hair washed with Head & Shoulders by a professional hairstylist.

What’s This? - What does a quirky goth love more than the combination of bondage pants and tank tops? The Nightmare Before Christmas. For this TV-driven campaign, we could license the characters of the Tim Burton classic—but with a little twist. We could use the famous scenes from the movie, but without snow. And at the end, we could overlay the H&S logo over the screen. For print, we could use stills from Christmastown and Jack in the Santa costume, edit out the snow, and use copy like, “No Flakes” with the H&S logo. We could put statues of the characters of the movie in warm environments, such as Atlanta, Austin, Santa Fe (especially), and San Diego, with the H&S logo. To further drive this point, we could put these statues in snowy areas with a heating mechanism around the area so any snow in the area would melt. Thus creating an even more unique look with snow everywhere else, except around these statues of Nightmare Before Christmas characters.

Something Different - The goth look is very important. It’s more than a fashion. Goths want to do their own thing, they don’t care about what the general public has to say. Often times you’ll see them proudly wearing full garb in the middle of summer. And they like it that way. This campaign will highlight their individuality in the face of the status quo, by focusing on their unique hairstyles and colors. Most people know H&S prevents dandruff, but they don’t realize that it’s also just a really good shampoo. The print spots will feature cropped images of unique goths from the forehead up with wild hairstyles and colors with taglines like “Head & Shoulders. Above & Beyond,” “Do(o) Your Own Thing,” and “Define Your Own Look” This could also transfer well into disruptive billboards. Same style; same tags, but the hairstyles could extend outside the traditional shape of the billboards. We could also further promote individuality by creating a new line of design-inspired bottles. All breaking the traditional H&S style guide and just going all out with colors and/or bottle shapes.

Famous Monsters - This is a pretty short and sweet concept. Goths love old monster movies and TV shows. So we bring em back. Our print campaign could use characters from shows like The Addams Family and The Munsters, etc. (famous characters with black clothing) and superimpose dandruff on their shoulders. We could use taglines like, “They Were Scary for a Different Reason” For the TV spots, we could use scenes from old, Paramount monster movies and Hitchcock films. We could use “tense” scenes where characters are screaming, but instead of screaming at the actual monster or murderer, they would be afraid of dandruff on their shoulders. (This would work especially well with the scene from Psycho) For the out of home spots, we could dress up bus stops like the famous shower from Psycho and place a bottle of H&S in there. We could line subways with Munster family photos (dandruff and all) and have the logo in the corner. We could even have H&S sponsored movie nights where they play old monster movies and episodes of the Munsters and Addams Family. We could even encourage them to dress up (similar to a screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show).

H&S Pop - Maybe this is more of a personal experience, but a lot of the goths I’ve ever met have an odd affinity towards Asian culture, especially Korean Pop music, or K-Pop. So, we full-on K-Pop with this campaign. Get the elaborate pop stars, go for the crazy, epilepsy-inducing visuals, and straight-up Korean-style print spots. It would be wild, it would be different, and I’m pretty sure the goths would love it.

Gum for NRA Members

That Pop Pop Pop - When playing connect-the-dots between this product and that demographic, the first things that come to mind are the sounds. That satisfying pop that comes with both blowing a bubble and pulling the trigger. So we make an audio-centered campaign. The TV spots could be set in intense battles throughout history (Civil War, World Wars, etc.). Using Saving Private Ryan-esque cinematography, we could have the visuals go through battles (on land or by air), but before any rounds are fired, it would focus on the soldier or pilot blowing up and popping a gum bubble. Followed with a tagline like, “Lock and Load,” or “Certain Sounds Echo Through Eternity,” or something like that. Print and outdoor could also have similar images of gritty soldiers or pilots throughout history. Most of the images could be in black and white or dark coloring, but have the bubble coming out of his or her mouth a bright white, pink, or whatever the color of the gum. With the same taglines and the logo in the corner. Terrestrial/online radio would clearly be in use. Paint the same picture over audio and follow them up with the chewing gum pop. This is kind of a very loosely described campaign, but it’s the first thing I could think of.

Calm - Another thing I thought of was the raw emotion of having to use a gun. Though most situations would be high pressure, the person using the gun would also have to remain calm and collected. What does gum do? It takes the edge off to a certain extent. So why not focus on that? This campaign could go a lot of ways, but the most innocent and non-blatant way to go about it would be having it set in hunting scenarios. The TV spots would put you in the shoes of a hunter. Use the time to show the patience needed to hunt. The boring parts. The parts involving walking to different spots and tree stands. The parts where the hunter is just waiting. All while you can see the hunter is chewing on something. Suddenly a certified trophy comes across. The camera cuts to the face of the hunter. Wide-eyed, visibly shaken as he brings his rifle to his face. There’s a noise. The trophy deer or whatever gets spooked and starts running. The hunter is now sweating with the scope in his eye, the camera pans down to the hunter’s mouth as he slowly bites down on his gum to calm himself as he pulls the trigger. The hunter quietly smiles. The words “Keep Calm” comes across the screen with the name of the gum. Our radio spots could feature similar scenarios of high intensity calmed down by chewing gum. Whether it be hunting, playing sports, watching sports, protecting your family, or whatever. All ending with “Keep Calm.” The gum packaging could also come with little zen tips. Every time you take out a stick, there could be a little tip to keep calm printed on the inside of the foil.

Protect Yourself - Most people buy guns for the satisfaction of protection. They want to know, when shit goes south, they’re capable of protecting themselves and/or their families. So, what do we do? We take this same mindset and attribute it to protecting your teeth or bad breath. We can use rhetoric like “The Best Offense is a Good Defense” and “It’s Better to be Protected and Not Need it Than Need it and Not Have it.” You know, the same kind of stuff most 2A disciples spout off as a need for keeping their guns. The imagery can be a juxtaposition of grittiness with clean smiles. Sort of like the Orbit “Dirty Mouth” campaign, but with less humor. Video spots can focus on American heroes (cops, firefighters, members of the military, etc.) doing the dangerous jobs they do, with hints of clean teeth shining through. At the end of the spots, we use the tag “Keep Protected” and then talk about how the gum fights tooth decay, whitens teeth and fights bad breath. The print spots can use the exact same imagery, but be more of a focus on individual American heroes. This can be long-copy pieces profiling the heroic actions of specific individuals. In the end, we can talk about how, though it pales in comparison to these brave actions, is protecting our protectors.

Hero/Come Packing - Who doesn’t want to be a hero? Well, with this gum, you can. The campaign can make a hero out of anyone. This could be a fun, tongue-in-cheek campaign putting people in dire situations where they desperately need a stick of gum (first dates, family gatherings, etc.) and have a well prepared war-hero-type guy cut into the situation and provide a stick of gum. This could be a spokesperson-type character or we could have a different well-prepared individual come in each time. Regardless, the tagline would be “Come Packing” Print pieces could be longer, copy-driven spots focusing in great detail about the horrible situation and how this gum saved their skins. We could put up kiosks outside popular dates spots (movie theaters, romantic overlooks, bowling alleys, barcades, or wherever the hell kids go to smooch) and hand out free gum to whoever may need it. Though it may seem like this is geared towards kids and people looking for an intimate connection, I feel gun nuts would resonate with the hero character and the “Come Packing” tag.

[sleemo]

Daisy Ridley: A New Hollywood Heroine

[ scans: daisy-ridley.net | translation by @afterblossom​​ | copy edits by @sleemo​​ ]

Disclaimer: This interview was translated from English to Chinese by GRAZIA and then back to English here, so these are not direct quotes from Daisy. Please excuse any awkward sentences. Some sections were difficult to translate. If you are sharing any part of this elsewhere - please give proper credit!!

GRAZIA has an exclusive interview with the most-wanted female lead in Hollywood who is the heroine in Star Wars: The Last Jedi. People [in China] call her “Dominant Daisy” and “Naïve Ridley/Rey”. Her Rey is the first female Jedi in the 40-year history of the Star Wars franchise. She is not only a Jedi in the film itself, but outside of it as well. She is concerned about social issues and, most importantly, has stayed humble after becoming a superstar. It doesn’t sound much easier than saving the universe. 

— GRAZIA China, January 2018

Just before Christmas, the most anticipated film Star Wars: The Last Jedi held its premiere in Shanghai. If you’re wondering what it felt like to be there, besides that the film was fantastic and you need to book your tickets early, it’s that it was excruciatingly cold! I wore three layers and was still freezing after I came home. It made me shiver just seeing how dedicated Daisy Ridley was, wearing nothing but a cheongsam-style dress. Even though the cold made her cheeks pink, she still signed autographs for fans and each time she saw them pulling out their phones, she immediately stood by and smiled, showing off her white teeth and reminding us of the fluffy Jelly Cat Toothy toys.

One day ago, I still didn't think that way. The day before the premiere, GRAZIA had an exclusive interview with this new representative heroine from Hollywood, and I couldn’t help but do some research about her, besides that after being chosen as the new lead of the Star Wars franchise, she lifted weights for 5 hours every day. Here are some other fun facts about her:

• She is a strict vegan. That means milk, eggs, and even food containing these ingredients is a no-no for her;

• Before Star Wars: The Force Awakens she produced and narrated a documentary called The Eagle Huntress. This is a very feminist story about a 13-year-old Mongolian girl named Aisholpan who is trying to challenge a long-held tradition that’s only been passed down to boys over hundreds of generations. The girl learns how to hunt with an eagle with the help of her father and becomes the first eagle huntress;

• After her fame skyrocketed, she didn't move to Hollywood. She is still living in her house in London with her family;

• She has no social media, no Twitter, no Instagram, no Facebook. During the interview, she said, “I don't want to be a part of social media. It’s not good for your health.”;

• Oh, and she had a pitiful deaf and blind dog named Muffin.

Five hours prior to the exclusive shoot and interview, I reached the Shanghai Disneyland Star Wars Launch Base. I already felt myself walking through a long path, and I couldn’t help but think—not to prejudge her, but it must be a long, hard, and lonely path. Is she always hard on herself? Lifting the heaviest weights; having a dog that is difficult to care for; supporting her most vulnerable friends; walking the loneliest path; avoiding any temptations that humans like us fall prey to? Or should we describe her like a piece of iron?

Once we started the interview, my worries went away, because all these things I mentioned above didn't affect her cute, charming and playful personality. She is like the metal BB-8, doing big things but still being cute. She sat on the sofa, cupping her chin, with her big round eyes, rubbing the tip of her nose with her right thumb (she did this at least 5 times, oh poor nose) she looked to me like a husky dog, asking out loud: "Hey, how are you doing today?"

After that, she showed us some BiaoQingBao (表情包) expressions [@afterblossom​: this is the Chinese version of memes or emojis]. When we ask about the difference between JJ Abrams and Rian Johnson, she said: “JJ is like that YOYOYO kind of guy, and Rian is huhuhu. Both of them are Star Wars fans, are good directors and screenwriters, but their temperament is different. JJ is more like heng! Rian is like en~en~”

You don't get it? Let GRAZIA translate it for you: “JJ is like those ‘Hey hey hey, give me more enthusiasm!’ sort of directors. Rian is the type who would be smoking a cigar, leisurely doing his crossword puzzles. JJ is more capricious, Rian is more steady.” Please don't praise us for our cleverness, because if you saw her snapping her fingers, crossing her legs pretending to smoke, you would totally get what she meant.

Her musical background meant that she would sometimes sing during our photo shoot in her free time. She is bright like the sun, unlike Rey, who is an orphan and a scavenger with a depressing story. "Rey is very patient, I am very stubborn. She doesn’t judge people and is far better than me... I'm trying to channel all her good personality traits, but she's saving the galaxy and I’m just a human being.”

Daisy is very modest. After being announced as the lead of the new trilogy, the 22-year-old actress’s attitude during filming was quite uncommon: “It’s the first time. La la la, just enjoy it.“ After Star Wars Episode VIII, her audition for The Force Awakens was released online and it was the interrogation scene with Kylo and Rey. You can see tears falling down her face, and even though she is wearing a simple mint green sweater and messy short hair, as a viewer you feel her emotions keenly and you can’t help but worry about her. Could not imagine these were sensations outside of method acting [Improved translation by @reylocalligraphy]: "I don’t stay in character forever, I'm more of a rational actor." 

Daisy is very lucky, and her Rey is not a regular heroine or female lead. After watching The Last Jedi, everyone suddenly realized that, from the start, she was quite different from other heroines. A Mary Sue? Not at all. "Rey has more space to develop. For some female characters, the script does not allow enough time and space to do that. But in this movie, you can see how she grows and what her relationship is to the people around her. With the previous Star Wars movies, even though we had Leia and the great, awe-inspiring performance by Carrie Fisher, in the end they were still male-centric films and the fans were mostly guys. But things are different now."

Was there any risk in joining Star Wars? She shook her head and it was like some question marks appeared over her head: "What risk?!” What if the audience doesn’t like your performance? What if people only remember you as Rey? Once again, she had a puzzled look on her face like a husky dog: "Wow you really dare to ask... but no, when I started I asked myself, can I do it? But if I do it, I refuse to worry about how people think of me, otherwise there is no way to do anything. It’s just going to diminish your ability to perform." 

She’s not afraid to be typecast—after Star Wars Episode VII, she worked on four more films which is set for release this year and each role was different from Rey. "How do I say this. I know as an actor there is a limit to what I can do, what I can achieve... but I didn't deliberately choose these roles that are different from Rey. It's that these cool, interesting characters found me and I am very lucky, through Rey, that I found more opportunities. One of them is a rabbit, how could it be the same? Let’s go and see."

Just like her skyrocketing fame, Daisy went from an unemployed rookie to the most wanted actress in Hollywood. In fact, she has a hard time explaining what the difference has been. Rumors say she will collaborate on a new movie with JJ Abrams: "It's not settled yet. Actually I’m very nervous because a lot of things have change in the past three or four years. I’ve done a lot that I never have before so I’m a bit worried. Will I be as good as last time?"

Perhaps we can see how she's changed through her perspective on Hollywood. Back when she had just made her debut, she said: "I admire Carey Mulligan and Felicity Jones." Now she says: "I admire a lot of actors, but now I’m more concerned with who I want to work with, like Emma Thompson, Meryl Streep..." Everyone wants to work with the big names, but clearly she has much more opportunity to do that now. She collaborated with all the masters on Murder on the Orient Express and the forthcoming Ophelia and even had a supporting role. 

This change makes her nervous: "I feel I have more responsibility now. I have a deeper understanding of the unfair treatment that women experience in this industry and in movies. When I realized this, I was shocked and it's now something I worry about. Every time I see girls who like Rey, I think: 'Oh my god, they like my acting?’”

"I don't think any one quality makes for a strong woman. Every woman is strong, as long you stay true to yourself.” Don't dwell on the past, just run towards the future. This young female warrior represents the newest trend of Hollywood heroine. Your strength comes from yourself, just like the lightsaber tips she gave us: "Lift more weights! Because what's in your hand is heavy, you need to build muscle. Remember, you're stronger than you think. Every time I train I think: no no no I can't, but actually I can!"

DAISY'S PLANS FOR 2018: A pet dog, school, and beautiful clothes!

Grazia: Between BB-8, a porg, and R2-D2, which one would you choose as a pet?

Daisy: Of course it would be BB-8, he is caring, capable, quiet and not that annoying.

G: Do you think BB-8 and your dog Muffin could become best friends?

D: If Muffin was still here I'm sure she would, but she passed away a couple of months ago (G: Oh I am so sorry!) No don't be! She’s already lived for 18 years, long enough for a dog, I think she had a very good life. When she was still around, we had a small BB-8 toy, and she wore this ‘What the hell is that’ expression on her face. Muffin's been with me since I was very young and nearing the end of her life, she could no longer see or hear anything, so she became very lazy and didn’t want to go anywhere. But she's adorable indeed.

G: Do you prefer dogs?

D: Absolutely. I'm allergy to cats, and some have told me that cats are related to some witchcraft and I think... umm, dogs are great. But I still like cats.

G: Do you think about owning a dog again?

D: Yes I do! But since 2017 I’m rarely at home, so I can't take care of it. But I still plan to have a dog in the future.

G: Your middle name is Jazz, any story behind it?

D: Nothing special, my dad likes it, just like my second sister Kika, and my eldest sister’s middle name is Sophia. It’s just a cool name.

G: Why did you become vegan?

D: I saw some documentary and it was very scary, especially about the dairy industry. So I made a decision and the next day I switched to a strict vegan diet.

G: Does being vegan affect your work-outs?

D: No. When I started and I was very busy and tired, I couldn’t tell if my body was actually tired or if it was because of my vegan diet. The key thing is that you have to make sure you’re getting enough nutrients. Before, when I was working on a film, their food was so good. Now that it’s done, I have nothing to eat at home and I have to learn how to cook.

G: You studied psychology before. Why is that? Is it to help with your acting performance?

D: No no, it has nothing to do with acting. I'm very interested in psychology because I’m interested in the motives behind human behaviour, the human brain, emotions, impulses, what is behind these things? It's interesting, but in the end I studied social research. (G: How is it?) It's boring! It was an introductory course. There were two options for me to choose from, between humanities and social research. I had studied humanities before so I was thinking: wow, this time I’ll pick something different! And I chose social research... in the end... but anyway I finished it and passed the exam. 

G: Why don't you continue? Too busy?

D: Yes, but next year I want to do another program. It’s a part-time course and I have 16 years to get all my credits. 6 courses need to be complete and each take 8 months. This is something I have wanted to do for a long time, so I plan to finish it.

G: Did you like today’s photo shoot? Does fashion interest you?

D: I liked it. Yesterday when I went back home I was thinking, I need to upgrade my wardrobe. Otherwise, I wear beautiful clothes during the day and make a big movie, then go home at night just to wear casual stuff... It’s time to dress better.

G: What’s the last piece of clothing you purchased?

D: A Stella McCartney sweater. It’s the first piece I brought from them. Very eco-friendly, comfortable and fashionable.

G: This is your second visit to China. Would you like to try something new while you’re here?

D: I still plan to go to TongLeFang (同乐坊) [@afterblossom: a creative market in Shanghai with lots of galleries], there is a Chinese store called "Spin旋", it's awesome, I've recommended it to many people. I still want to go to the Great Wall, but my family won't allow me. They want me to take them together.

#this took forever #and the writer is a bit silly #interview #daisy ridley #rey #star wars #the last jedi #rian johnson #jj abrams #the force awakens #tlj #tfa #grazia china #cast #theafterblossom #translation #uploads #long post #*