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lunarianillusion · 3 years

Text

A change in fate

a maribat fanfic

Authors note: I might be breaking a lot of cannon, but rules are made to be broken. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 01

The noir omega sat comfortably within her nest, back against the large cat pillow, body curled in warm fuzzy blankest. Dussu nuzzling into the omegas shoulder, their eyes puffy from the waterfall of tears they shed. The little god murmuring apologies, at finally being able to realize what their miraculous was being used for, what atrocities they had helped to create and lives that were lost countless times over.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I couldn’t understand. I was broken. I’m sorry. I did not want this,” the little blue god sobbed.

Marinette clutched the peafowl of emotion close as she whispered gentle reassurances. Her hand gently petting the kwamis head. A small thank you came from the small god before the two them, a mortal and god, fell into a dreamless slumber.

The next morning Marinette wakes up early, which had become the norm since a few months, the sun barely rising over the horizon. She tries to keep her scent and emotions under control to not wake the still sleeping kwami up, as she thought on what to do next. It works for about twenty minutes. Dussu slowly wakes up to a small influx of upset emotions, that was accompanied by a somewhat bitter scent. They opened their rose-coloured eyes, watching the omega.

Marinette was lost in thought about what her next step should be and was only brought back by duusu’s soft and groggy voice.

“What is troubling you little bird?”

Marinette let out a sigh before moving to sit up and looked at the peafowl that now floated infront of her. “I’m thinking about what to do now. I should give you back to the guardian, master fu. However, things have changed and I do not want to. He also does not wish to see me again after being akumatized and all.”

“And I do not wish to be returned to the fool,” Duusu replied bitterly, their eyes burning with cold fire. Leaving the omega to stare at them perplexed and slightly confused.

The little peafowl must have read her confusion, because they let out a dry chuckle before explaining their reasoning. “He is after all the reason why the order is now destroyed. Why me, Nooroo and the book were lost. Me getting broken in the process. And from what little you have told me he is still as impulsive as he was back during training. His instincts ignored and thus not being able to see that you were a true peafowl. Also most likely making more problems by making reckless choices and creating more harm than good. So yes, I would rather not be returned to him and likely be given to the wrong person,” The kwami seethed. Taking a breath to calm themselves before speaking more softly. “Sorry, little bird. I needed to get that of my chest.”

Marinette just stared, shocked at the outburst of emotion that flew from the kwami in waves. Their words replaying in her head and making one thing stand truly out. She was a true peafowl? How? She must have voiced this thought because Duusu gave her a gentle smile with a knowing look in their eyes.

“It is why you were able to heal me so effortlessly without the use of the healing ritual,” Duusu explained, making the omega nod.

“Alright, but I still do not fully understand how I am a true peafowl? What does it even mean to be a true peafowl? Neither Tikki nor Fu told me of such a thing,” Marinette inquired. This made the kwamis eyes widen in surprise and something else but poised themselves to not worry the young girl.

“The term of you being a true peafowl comes from you having a true soul of the miraculous. Every few generations a child is be born with a piece of power of one of the miraculouses. You carry a part of my essence and so are a true peafowl.” They took a small breath to let their little bird take in the information. “This will allow you to gain more abilities whilst wearing you co-responding miraculous and repair or heal said miraculous without the use of magic.”

“What kind of abilities would I develop?” Duusu smiled at the question. Marinette had excepted them and that filled them with joy. How long had it been since they had been with one of their little birds?

“Every true soul gain secondary abilities. Every soul does develop diverendly so I can not tell what you will be able to do. There is a high chance that you gain a healing ability or can control water, since that is my co-responding element. But these will develop over time,” The peafowl happily chirped. Before letting out a small sigh, as they thought about the fact that their little bird did not know this. The mistake of the two who should have guided her is going to complicated things. They were going to have to rectify that, even if it might hurt her.

“You’re will be growing in more slowly though,” She needed someone who was honest with her. Lies had hurt her enough. No thanks to Hawkmoth and his accomplices, from what they remembered.

“Why is that?” Marinette worry lacing her voice. She pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Marinette don’t you dare think there is something wrong with you. It is just a side effect from using and wearing another miraculous that does not co-respond with your soul,” Duusu was quick to reassure. Nuzzling her cheek, giving as much comfort as their small body could give. “It is not physically harmful to you, but the miraculous leaves traces one their wielders soul that takes time to let go. This slows down the grow of the secondary abilities for true souls.”

“Did Tikki know?” Marinette asked. Because surely Tikki would have told her, the omega thought.

And there was that dreaded question, that proved Duusu’s theory. Letting out a sigh they gave the dreaded answer: “Every Kwami can recognize a true soul and can tell what miraculous they are compatible with,” The little blue god could see the tears in the young girls’ eyes, feel her saddening emotions and smelled the bitterness seep into her scent. They hated it. Truly Tikki you should have told her and not let yourself be clouded by the thoughts of what if. How many times hadn’t this scenario played out like this one?

“Please don’t be sad, little bird. She did not wish to hurt you,” The peafowl tried to console.

Marinette swiftly steeled herself, having no intention to get akumatized again. “Then why didn’t she tell this?” She asked tears still glistening in her eyes.

“Because she loved you like her own,” Duusu confessed. “Ladybug souls are rarely born. Maybe every few hundreds of years or maybe a thousand and so she is barely brought into circulation. To be honest the order barely let any of us into circulation and so we grow very attached very quickly. All us Kwami love been able to interact with this realm and often it feels like the are chains to be used whenever someone sees fit.”

“Like with Hawkmoth.”

“Yes, so we love being able to live with people such as yourself and wish to stay with them for as long as possible. This might not always be wise, but all beings are flawed even us Kwamis. So please do not be sad or even think that Tikki did not trust you. The thought of you maybe pushing her away was to scary for her to even dare face. For she just wanted to be with and watch you grow as a person and succeed in your passion and life itself. Because that is what brings us most joy of all,” A small gentle smile began to grace Duusu’s face as the omega’s feelings began to lift. The were not happy, but they were lighter.

Nuzzling close to Marinette the little god padded away the last of the tears away and then the two stayed close in a peaceful silence.

____________________________________________________________________

After having calmed down from the great revelation Marinette had taking to finishing up the redecorating of her room. After almost all of her classmates decided to place their faith in Lie-la, someone they had barely known for a year, over her, someone that most had known since childhood. Marinette had decided to change her style around. Gone was her overly pink room, along with all the creepy collages and clippings of Adrien. In its place her room gained a more modern yet sophisticated look.

Her walls were now a charcoal grey, white branches with pink sakura flowers, some petals falling to the floor. Most of her furniture was also replaced.

Her plastic desk chair was replaced with a more comfortable fake leather one. It would support her neck far better while working. Her vanity was now black and white with a build in sink and square mirror. Her chaise was gone and in its place was now a large L shaped couch. A matching Prussian blue bean bag sat close by. Making a nice sitting place close to the window. For when her true friends, Luka, Kagami or Chloe, came to visit.

As Marinette finished, the last of her rearranging of her room, she let out a relieved sigh. Happily smushing her face into the large bean bag. The little blue god floated down to sit on her head, admiring the nicely styled room. They stayed like that for a while. The comforting silence soothing their souls.

This was disturbed when the noir haired girl’s phone went off. The playing ringtone being a small part of one of Jagged Stone’s songs and brought a smile to her face.

Grabbing her phone, Marinette turned to lie on her back. Making Duusu grumble a little, as they had just gotten comfortable.

Opening up her massage group fittingly called ‘loyal rogue pack’ she was greeted with the picture of Luka and Kagami infront of the Sydney opera house. The beta male and female alpha were smiling at the camera, Luka’s arm over Kagami’s shoulder and she was holding up her hand in a peace sign. In the background you could see Jagged Stone being dramatic with fang by his side and Penny facepalming.

It brought a smile to the omega’s face. Duusu mirrored her expression and practically purred at the warm emotion coming from their bird. “Who are they? Friends of yours little bird?” the kwami asked, wanting to know who the people were that could make the omega happy by just a picture.

“They’re two of my true friends and packmates. The girl is Kagami and the Boy is Luka. They are tagging along with my honorary uncle Jagged and aunt Penny, you can see them in the background, on my uncle’s tour. They had to get out of the toxic environment, and it is a great learning experience for the both of them.” Marinette happily answered, as another ping came from her phone.

Chloe had commented on the photo, practically whining at how unfair it was that she was stuck in Paris and they were on an adventure. Afterwards saying she misses them. Oh, did that bring a smug grin to Marinette’s face.

Duusu scrunched their brow feeling there was more to toxic environment than just hawkmoth. If the slight shift in emotion when the words were spoken was anything to get of from. So, they asked about it.

They could immediately feel the mood sour from their wielder as she stopped her typing, to think of the best way to answer. “Both were in increasingly worsening home environments that developed due to a certain liar that crawled into our lives and turned our friends and family into her playthings. Luka was able to get out more easily since he is by law an adult, but Kagami,” Marinette paused unsure how to continue. “We got her out, but it was a long and stressful process that left a few scars. Literally and figuratively.”

Duusu didn’t ask any for a deeper explanation the bitter scent coming from the omega was enough to know that it was a sensitive topic. “Things turned out good in the end though,” Duusu reassured. Nuzzling into the girl’s cheek as she finished typing her own message.

“Yeah it did,” Marinette breathed. “Now the two are doing some soul searching together and it makes me really happy.”

Another ‘ping’ Came for the girl’s phone with a message from Chloe to her, that made the omega sigh in aggravation.

‘Are you doing okay, Minette?’

Marinette really loved her blond alpha friend, but she was going to make her other two packmates worry. And that could only end so well. If Kagami caught wind of her being akumatized she would book the first flight back to Paris, sword in hand, and Luka would happily come along. Jagged and Penny close behind. Two pings validated her statement quickly.

‘Did something happen, Melody?”

‘Do I need to book a flight, Mari-hime?’

Better be honest with them, otherwise Chloe will tell the two privately and that would not be good.

‘I got akumatized yesterday, but I am alright now’

3…2…1

‘Lie-la is going to DIE! Luka get my sword!!’

‘Yes ma’am’

‘Shall I start booking a flight for the two of you?’

‘Yes’

‘NO!!!’

‘Guys, I’m alright now. So, no need to come sword in hand and I rather not stress about you getting akumatized while on a murderous rampage for vengeance. So, PLEASE!

‘Life is stressful enough as it is’

‘Fine…’

‘Alright melody’

‘I’ll have her head on a spike one day, but alright’

The omega let out a sigh of relief. Tragedy averted. She heard soft giggles coming from beside her. Turning to the side she saw a gleeful little god floating close by and paws covering their mouth, eyes holding an amused spark. “They are certainly lively, aren’t they?” Traitor.

“You have no idea,” Marinette huffed, turning back to her phone. “Making sure those three don’t cleave someone in two is exhausting work. If they work together, they would get away with it too.”

‘On a more positive note. Chloe you still on for the movies today?’ Marinette texted.

‘I wish I could’

Chloe send a video

In the video you could see Chloe sitting slouched on her couch in the foreground. Her face blank, but her eyes screamed pain and suffering. While in the background you could see Andre Bourgeois pacing back and forth. Going on what seemed to be a never-ending rant.

‘Dad is not letting me out at all’

‘Please end my suffering’

‘Aye…I can feel your pain. So sorry Queenie’

‘Stay strong Siren’

‘May your suffering come to a swift end’

‘Thanks guys and I hope so too’

‘Penny is calling us guys, she sounds tired. So, we got to skedaddle’

‘Run’

‘Should you change your mind however. I’ll keep my sword at hand’

‘Kagami no’

‘Kagami yes’

‘Well talk to you later. TATA’

Marinette let out a happy sigh. Even though having to stop those three from committing a murder was sometimes quite stressfull, talking to them always brought a smile to her face. It made this hellhole a little easier to live in. Another ping made her raise her phone again and was surprised by who had texted her now, Nathaniel Kurtzberg.

Now Marinette liked Nathaniel just fine. He was in the neutral zone between the pro Lila and pro Marinette squads, most having gone to Lila. Often he along with Marc would hang out with Marinette and Chloe during art club time. But was too uncertain to choose a side. Lately though he had been distancing himself more from the pro Lila squad. But back to the present.

Nathaniel had sent an interesting text; ‘Hey Marinette, I know this is sudden, but can we talk in person. It is really important. I swear on my honour and skills as an artist that this is not some foul trick composed by the likes of Lie-la. So, can we meet this afternoon at the pond in the park?’

Now that made Marinette sit up straight. For Nathaniel had made a sacred vow that the art club had created at the beginning of the first year and no one broke that vow. If you broke that it would be considered a sin and you would inquire the wrath of all the club members. It did not matter if you were a friend or foe. Once someone made the vow to Chloe and broke it. Let’s just say they still had some leftover trauma from the club’s vengeance. So, to repeat no one broke that vow and got away with it.

Marinette made a quick screenshot of the text before sending her reply; ‘Sure, see you at two’

“Want to go out, Duusu?” Marinette asked the curios looking peafowl.

Her answer was an exited nod and twirl in the air. They were exited to go and see the outside world.

#miraculous ladybug #peacock miraculous #marinette dupain cheng #omegaverse #duusu #tales of ladybug and cat noir #fanfic #maribat #timari #timinette

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jecrite · 4 years

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so I just watched the ‘Inside the Mind of Hilary Hahn’ video and noticed something in that fire alarm story, so I wrote a little breddy excerpt about it - enjoy!

—————————————————

[starts from 35:54 in the vid btw]

If anyone was gonna watch that video, you could tell that Brett was nervous. I mean, meeting your violin idol, sitting next to her in front of Thai food, talking about anything and everything? What could go wrong?

Well, he could stop stuttering.

“I-I don’t know, I like to dabble in things,” he trails off, picking at his food. “But I need to...”

He sees Eddy in the corner of his eye, who was leaning back in his chair, his thoughts unreadable.

Eddy.

The scrawny kid with the mullet who sat to his right in maths tutoring. The vulnerable musician who he pushed around in a wheelchair when they were at the con. The messy, chaotic whirlwind who lives with him, who he chose over a soloist career.

The only thing who stayed constant in his many pursuits of something different.

For the first time that night, Brett lets the words come out of his mouth, pointed and assured.

“I feel like I need to be obsessed with it.”

He finally says, his eyes fixed on Eddy. Eddy’s face remains calm, pensive.

Has he said too much?

“Creating something, or... something.” Brett trails off to a halt, relying on Eddy to finish his sentence for him. Like he always does.

But he knew exactly how he wanted to finish it.

...or just being with him.

It feels weird to almost confess in front of Hilary (and, possibly, hundreds of thousands of people on the internet) that he’s obsessed with Eddy, but it also felt right in a way.

There’s really no other way to explain it.

He did not remember a day when he did not think of Eddy, what Eddy was wearing, how Eddy’s feeling, if Eddy’s eaten, if Eddy’s safe—

—if Eddy‘s just as obsessed with Brett as he is with him.

He should probably brush it off and stay present. It’s not like they’d notice.

Little did he know that Hilary was following his line of sight as he said it.

And he certainly did not expect when she smiled and asked,

“Are you obsessed with this?”

The urgency of the question snapped Brett out of his reverie, his eyes suddenly growing wide. The nonchalant tone in her voice sent a jolt through his body, causing him to flail his right arm between him and Eddy. “This?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

“Yeah.”

You know what, fuck it.

“Ye-ah,” his voice rises, almost defensively. Eddy erupts with laughter, light and breathy and perfect. Hilary joins in shortly after, pleased with herself.

“Of course!”

In a quick glance Brett turned to his right, seeing Eddy’s head pulled back in laughter with a huge grin plastered across his face.

Brett has yet to grow tired of that face.

He was obsessed with Eddy, and he always has been.

“That was a long pause,” Eddy chides, obviously amused.

Brett’s smiling now, Eddy’s voice putting him at ease. At this point, anything goes.

“Yeah, I was like, was that a trick question? Like, hmm,” he laughs, pressing his fingers to his chin. He steals another look at Eddy. His Eddy.

“Yeah of course, I love it.”

Oh, but Hilary Hahn knew better.

“Because you create a lot with...” she trails off expectantly, wanting him to fill in the blanks.

It was never about it, isn’t it? It’s always been about him.

Brett nods, almost too enthusiastically, filling the silence with anything but Eddy’s name.

“It’s fun.”

That’s when Hilary asked about working, where the moment passes, and he’s safe.

For now, at least.

“We should probably start cleaning up. We only have fifteen minutes left in here,” Hilary huffs, leaving her seat as she picked up the plastic cutlery from the food containers.

“Yeah...” Eddy trails off, before he quickly stands in surprise. “Wait!”

Hilary froze, a stack of paper plates in hand, and Brett almost jumped from his seat. “Dude, What is it?”

“Practice review! We were meant to show them a clip of Hilary practicing!”

Shit.

“Oh, right,” Brett looks up at Hilary. “Maybe we can film it outside?” He offers apologetically.

Eddy clucks his tongue. “With those a Capella people? No way—“

Brett thought aloud. “Maybe if we clean up in like 5 minutes, we could film it quickly—“

“Or maybe just film it in the corridor—“ Hilary offers.

“Or, I could go to security and ask for 20 more minutes!” Eddy says, snapping his fingers. He looks over to see Brett and Hilary’s raised eyebrows, shrugging them off as he made a break towards the door.

“You two clean up, I’ll run to reception!” He shouts behind him, running at full speed.

Brett can only smile fondly as he left. What else was he gonna do?

His eyes meet Hilary’s and they can’t help but laugh at the younger man.

“He really is a whirlwind, isn’t he?” Hilary asks in a hearty chuckle.

“Yeah, he really is,” Brett grins as he placed the food containers back in the plastic bags.

Hilary hums.

“Is that what got you falling for him?”

He didn’t even have to say it.

The sound of the fallen plastic bags answered the question for him. The containers followed suit, bouncing off of the bags and onto the floor.

What a mess.

Hilary chuckles. “Sorry, too far?”

“No, no,” Brett chuckles nervously, hurriedly kneeling down to retrieve the plastic containers and putting them back in the bags. “Not at all, it’s just,”

Unexpected.

“Is it that obvious?”

An amused sigh. “Well, to a trained eye, maybe,” Brett swears she was smirking as she said this. “It’s the age old equation: you love him, he loves you, nothing else matters, might as well put the rings on now.”

She says it as if it was nothing, which prompted him to turn to the violin prodigy, furrowing his eyebrows.

“What gave it away?”

“Well,” Hilary starts, putting the plates in another plastic bag. “Maybe it’s because of the way he looks at you, or, the way your face just lights up when literally anything comes out of his mouth,”

Brett was standing now, having returned the containers in the bag.

“Or maybe that part when you said ‘our bed’ in that fire alarm story.” [which is from 14:12 in the video btw, you’re welcome]

The plastic bags almost escape his grasp again, but he caught it just in time.

“Oh my god,” he breathes out, horrified.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—

Hilary’s laughing now, high-pitched and bright. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she says as he she pats his shoulder. “I’m sure no one will notice.”

He can already feel his face getting hot.

“But... but... but you did!” He exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at her.

Hilary’s laugh grew louder. “I did say I was trained, didn’t I?”

Suddenly Brett took an interest in the empty milk tea cups, only to look up again when the laughter stopped, and his eyes were met by expectant ones.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

Hilary rolled her eyes and raised her eyebrows. “Do you really want me to say it again? We can’t have you picking containers up all night.”

Brett sighs, defeated. Eddy wasn’t here, why not just say it aloud now? While he can?

“Yes, Eddy’s a whirlwind,” he says, setting the plastic bags down on the table before making a start at tidying up the chairs. “But it wasn’t that that got me there.”

Hilary hummed again, urging him to continue.

“Eddy always tells me how brave I am, and how he wishes he was as brave as I was,

But I don’t think moving from place to place isn’t bravery. It’s cowardice.

Yeah, I like to dabble in things, sure, but that’s only because I’m so scared of staying in the same place. Being stagnant and... complacent.

I always wanted to do everything I wanted to do back then, moving to Sydney and all that, and I wanted that part of my life to be over and done with as quickly as I could.

Because, at the end of the day, I wanted to close that chapter and just... come back to him as soon as I can.

I realised that a couple of years into working with SSO, and once I did I knew what I had to do.”

“Come back to him,” Hilary echoes, smiling fondly at Brett.

“Exactly,” he resigns. He walked toward one of the chairs to grab his sweater before putting it on. “I never told Eddy this, but, when I saw him playing with Queensland I knew I didn’t want to go anywhere else. If I was going to travel the world like I’ve always dreamed of, I want him right there next to me.”

“And he still is,” Hilary nods.

“Yeah,” Brett’s head pops out of the sweater, grinning at his senior. “I guess that makes me the luckiest bastard in the universe.”

“What this about being a lucky bastard?” Eddy’s voice echoes the room, making Brett and Hilary jump, again. “Talked to the security guy in reception, he says he can only give us 15. I guess that’s enough for a little segment?”

Brett and Hilary looked at each other, eyes wide.

“Sounds good! I’ll grab my violin.”

Thank God for Hilary Hahn.

“Great! Lemme turn the camera on again,” Brett says, finally regaining his voice. He starts to walk towards the tripod until Eddy stops him, peering at the green light that blinked from behind it.

“What do you mean? We never turned it off,” Eddy says as he lifted the tripod and set it to Hilary’s direction. “Go, stand next to Hilary and we’ll just have editor-san cut the extra bits!”

[this bit is from 1:22:21 in the video btw!!]

Hilary, with her violin already resting on her shoulder, let out a breathy, nervous laugh as Eddy positioned the camera and ran towards them. Brett can’t even look at her in the eyes.

Nevertheless, he laughs alongside her, clasping his hands together.

“Practice review!”

“Practice, c’mon!”

Brett exhales deeply.

Oh my god, editor-san’s gonna have to cut that whole bit out.

“Okay!”

Shit.

#breddy #drabble #breddy fanfic #breddy drabble #ship: you are my beau soir / and you’re my clair de lune

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consultingsister-aa · 3 years

Note

five times kissed (seb and cee but alt politics for spice)

THIS MEME for: @epiitaphs verse: alt poltical

It had started on their very first lecture with Professor Campbell. Celia has answered his question with ease, she knew all the dates, all the facts, all the names. She was just getting ready to bask in the glory of already identifying herself as best in the class when a voice, a male voice, two rows back started.

“Actually, wasn’t it Nicholson, not Nicholas?”

It was a ridiculous, unimportant fact. There was no need for him to even point it out; it didn’t change any fo the facts of the case. As Celia turned to shoot daggers at the boy, he smiled at her. Not a friendly, apologetic smile but a gloating, lazy grin. She hated Sebastian Moran.

Over the term, they continued in this fashion. Every time Celia or Seb raised a hand to answer a question, the other would sit up, lean closer, wait for someone to slip up. If there was nothing to be corrected, they offered a rebuttal. “While I see where Miss Holmes is coming from…” matched “I can understand where Moran would get that idea, however…”. It was a careful and considered game of intellectual tennis and no one was enjoying it quite as much as each other.

Six weeks in, Campbell would pause after every comment made by either and look to the other. On their final day in class before the Christmas break, after Celia had offered an almost perfect argument for the case, Campbell looked to Seb. As did Cee. Seb simple raised his hand and offered a shrug. “I think she’s right.”

Celia was furious.

They had never spoken outside of class before, other than to offer snide remarks as they waited outside the lecture hall. She found out where his room was from a friend and, upon finding it, knocked gently. And then harder. And then, harder still, banging her fist against the door. She could hear him shouting I’m coming, I’m coming from inside but continued to hammer, until he yanked the door open. As he took her in, that stupid arrogant smile returned.

“What did you mean when you said, I think she’s right? What did you mean by that?”

Seb gave a disbelieving laugh. “That you were… correct? Do you want to have a fight over that?”

“No, but you fight me on everything else. So why not today?”

“I thought you were right today.”

Celia gave a furious little huff and stormed away from his door, only to storm right back to him. “You know what I think? I think-- I think you’re an arsehole, with no manners.”

“Yeah? Well, I think you’re a spoiled brat who’d never heard the word no, in her life.”

Cee steps closer to him, teeth bared in a snarl. In fact, she’s so close she needs to tilt her head to talk to him. There are only a couple inches in their heights, but with their chests nearly touching, it matters. “I am cleverer than you. I will do better than you. I will bury you.”

His smile doesn’t drop as she hoped, in fact, he arches an eyebrow. “Is that a promise, Holmes?”

An actual growl escapes her before she throws her arms around his neck and smashes her lips against his. He reciprocates, despite himself maybe and before long, he’s letting her pushing him back into his room, slamming the door behind her. A whole semester of foreplay had been leading to that moment and they did not disappoint.

II.

Celia loved being married. Although she had not taken her husband’s name, there was something in the way her lecturers said Ms. instead of Miss that set her apart from her fellow students; especially the girls. It was that drawn-out zzz sound that did it. She was a head above the rest of them; one step closer towards the finish line. When her friends said boyfriend, she might have laughed at them, how immature. How childish. They wouldn’t know until they knew.

And this wasn’t all in her head either. Despite themselves, despite their education and personal ambition, the girls around Cee felt it too. Celia knew things they wouldn’t know for years; the secrets of a wife. Even though some of the girl’s condemned marriage as a modern form of slavery they too fell into the trappings of 1950. Everything had changed and nothing had. When Celia lay out her hand on the table, catching her ring in the light, they sighed enviously as Celia had hoped. What did it matter about her masters in law, when she had a man. Personally, she’d rather have the degree but she knew, as she moved forward in life, it would be her ability to find, capture and keep a man that everyone would be really impressed by.

It was for this reason that they gathered with her outside the lecture hall, where she had agreed to meet Seb on that Friday night. They wanted to be witnesses to it, as if being in close proximity to a married couple brought them closer towards marital bliss themselves. Cee didn’t say very much. She played it off as unbothered coolness but in reality, she was distracted by the conversion by her own excitement. It wasn’t exactly Seb she was excited for, but just to be seen with him again. To become the weekly gossip; what did Cecelia do with her husband this weekend? They all wanted to know what these strange married creatures do.

“Oh, is that him now?” A friend piped up, trying to cough over her excited squeal. Cee might have laughed at her; as if you don’t know. She looks up and lazily closes her book.

“Yeah. Alright, see you on Monday.”

“Are you not coming to Sunday study night then?”

“Oh, I forgot. I’ll see what Seb is doing. I actually might need to go into the city with him for a dinner with his boss, or something.” She rolls her eyes to make it look like she can’t be bothered with it. It’s not even true, there was a dinner the week and no partners were invited but it gave Celia a prick of pleasure to imagine them all discussing it at the Sunday study night.

She doesn’t run into his arms, instead closing the gap between them with a slow, casual walk and an easy smile. They were close enough that Seb could call out to the other girls and wave. It was nice of him to throw them a bone, Cee thought.

When she did greet him, it was with a hand on the back of his neck so she could pull him down for a long, deep kiss. In fact, knowing the girl’s eyes were on them, she stayed longer than normal.

“What was that for?” Seb asked, pulling back from her.

“Nothing. Just happy to see you. How was your train?”

III.

It wasn’t fair to say that Cee and Seb weren’t affectionate. Sure, they didn’t hold hands unless they needed to and loving embraces tends to either come before or after sex but they had their moments. People noticed the way, if Seb was setting, Celia would stand behind him and squeeze his shoulders. Or, if something thrilling, shocking or wonderfil happened, they would immediatly look towards one another, if to check in, or delight in it. And while they slept on the same side of the bed due to the fact Seb refused to get buy a double bed for the four years they slept together in university, they still did it. They had to count for something. There was cards or flowers or weekly dates but that didn’t mean there wasn’t love. Cee loved Seb more than anyone in the world and she was quiet confident he felt the same way.

Which is what made Katherine’s death all the harder. A casm had opened up between them and she saw no real way to get over it. The evening they had returned home to an empty nursery, Celia had feverishly Googles how she was supposed to feel; how to deal with the loss of a child; the staged of grief. Her own feelings didn’t align with any of them.

What she really felt was annoyance. The plan that they had agreed to had fallen apart. All that work for nothing. And there was now a black stain on her history. A bump on the road. They would have to tell people, for the next couple weeks, everyone would skirt around her like she was a wounded animal they didn’t know what to do with. How did you comfort Cecelia Holmes when she had no interest in being comforted? How to comfort Sebastian Moran, then?

She stood in the baby pink bedroom, gripping onto the cot rail, willing herself to feel the loss. The sweet little baby; that looked like every other bbay she had ever seen. So a future lost; one likely filled with trauma and resentment, with her as a mother. She banged her palm against the wood and swore. It was only then she realised Seb was behind her. Her movement was guilty, spinning around and holding her hands begind her back as if she had something to hide.

“I was just thinking of packing some things away.” She cleared her throat, motioned around the room. “I’ll ask someone if there is somehwere we could send it. Thinking of others in our time of grief, it’s a good look.” She could hear herself plotting and regretted it but it was all she wad capable of. Celia let go of the cot and moved to hold him, her arms around his shoulders, her mouth at his ear. “We’ll get through this. I think it was meant to be this way; just the two of us.” She almost said she preferred it this way but that felt too harsh; too soon. “If you need to talk to someone, perhaps you should? Better to deal with it now then have it drag out.”

When she pulled back, she held onto his face, more tired than she had seen it in a long time and she knew she was getting it all wrong. Cee, who always knew what to say, had nothing. So she kissed him instead and tried, probably failing, to put more into it than she could manage. The key phrase however was, I’m sorry. Sorry she’s not a good wife, sorry their child died and she’s talking about press opportunities, sorry he got his hopes up, sorry nothing will come of this.

IV.

“--THE PRESS ASSOCIATION IS REPORTING MULTIPLE CASUALTIES AND UNCONFIRMED FATALITIES JUST OUTSIDE THE HOUSE OF COMMONS--”

“Sydney, turn that up, turn that up!”

The TV’s picture, perched on top of a filing cabinet only offered shaky phone camera footage of the street Celia knew well. In fact, with one of the sudden movements upward, she was sure she could see Seb’s office window. The clipped tones of the BBC new anchor filled the room.

“--IS UNDERSTOOD THAT THE LONE MAN DROVE INTO A CROWD OF PEOPLE OUTSIDE PALACE OF WESTMINSTER AND THEN CONTINUED ON FOOT, WHERE HE BEGAN STABBING--”

“Call my husband, call him now, his mobile.”

Celia is already pulling on her jacket, eyes glued to the TV but listening out for the rings. By the third ring, she’s heading to the door. Usually, no rings meant he was in a meeting; the phone was on don’t disturb and she’d have to call back another two times for it to even go through; something she hadn’t ever had to do yet. If he was talking with someone, briefly, he would hang up after one ring. Past three rings, with no pick up? She didn’t remember the last time.

“Cee, you shouldn’t go into--” Syd stood up behind her desk but Cee held up a hand.

“Text me if there are any updates worth knowing. Call him again, keep calling him.”

There was no point trying to get a taxi, if there really was a terrorist attack happening in the middle of the city, it would be gridlock and the police wouldn’t be letting anyone in any way. So she would walk the twenty minutes to Seb’s office; she could cut it down to fourteen minutes if she kept up her brisk walk, ocassiaonlly, if panic set in, a restrained run.

Police tape, camera crews, ambulances and armed police officers surrounded most parliamentary buildings. The end of street was cordoned off but from her vantage point, she could see at least three sheets covering bodies. It was ridiculous to imagine Seb under one of them but it’s exactly where her mind went. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself but she’d had a nagging feeling all day that something terrible was gong to happen, not just this, in London, but to her personally. She stares, unseeing at one of the sheets before a voice drifts across to her, one of the offers. “--Moran is going to--”

“What did you say?” She barks at him and a man seems to used to follow commands to argue with her, although she seems to have also scared him. “What did you say about Moran?”

Sheepishly, he draws closer. “Only that Mr Moran was directing his staff to--”

“To where?” Of course, of course, he’s alive. “Where is he?”

“I think they were going to Lady Chapel,” and then, as an afterthought, “ma’am.”

Celia didn’t hang around any longer that she needed to. She didn’t know why she ran this time, heels hitting the pavement with an ungodly amount of noise. If Seb was well enough to be directing people somewhere, there was no real need to worry. But something had shaken her when she had heard the news. It was the first time she had really considered what it might be like if Seb did die. They had been partners, in one way or another, for nearly fifteen years and all her future plans and hopes were pinned upon him.

She rounded the corner and stopped to catch her breath, smooth out her coat, look less worried. When she looked up, she saw him immediately; standing by the church’s doors, talking seriously with a police chief. He only glanced in her direction and had to do a double-take.

“What are you doing here?” Seb asked, moving over to her.

“You weren’t answering your phone.” Annoyingly, she’s still breathless.

“Bit of an emergency. Did you run?”

Maybe to avoid the embarrassing question, maybe because she was so relieved to see him standing, she threw her arms around him and kissed him, with slightly more passion than normal. She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought Seb kissed her back with a matched ferocity and held her a little tight than normal too. Maybe he was glad to see her too.

#terrorist attack --#epiitaphs #( i. message )#child death --

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calumcest · 4 years

Text

i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter two

[ao3]

here we are...look at me posting on a regular schedule who ever said i was chaotic!

@tirednotflirting i will not stop thanking you on every single chapter get ready to get incredibly bored of hearing me thank you and say how nice it is to have you on the doc because i’m saying it twice for every chapter once here and once on ao3 which actually has just reminded me to put the ao3 link on this chapter see it’s actually super useful. ao3 link inserted i love you i adore you and i cannot thank you enough for the amount of bullshit you put up with from me both generally and regarding this fic especially

me posting this fic is just please enjoy my downwards spiral (and listen to britpop)

Predictably, Noel doesn’t piss himself. He also doesn’t aim a punch at Calum when he finds out about the bet, though, which is his way of saying hope you’re alright. Instead, he just cuffs Liam upside the head, calls all of them pricks, and announces he’s going to bed. Liam rolls his eyes and calls him a boring cunt, which earns him another clip around the ear, but not two minutes after Noel and Bonehead have filed out of the room, Liam’s yawning and saying that he might turn in too. Calum, not wanting to be left in the living room on his own during a comedown, follows him out, listening to Liam mutter something about Tony and firing him because he’s almost as much of a boring cunt as Noel all the way up to their room.

Liam crashes almost as soon as they get in, passing out fully-clothed on his bed, and, as Calum’s trying to carefully pick his way through the debris littering the floor from his bed to the ensuite to brush his teeth, he trips over something that makes him stub his toe against the wardrobe and swear under his breath. He winces, gripping his toe as he looks for the offending object on the floor to give it an angry kick, and finds-

The magazine.

The magazine. The one he’d nicked from the dental surgery, the one Liam had nearly got in a fight over, all because of one tiny, glossy picture of Michael Clifford. He hasn’t looked at it since that day, too sober and too busy being yelled at every single minute of the day by Noel for playing too rough, or playing too clean, or playing at all. He hasn’t wanted to, either, hasn’t wanted to be confronted with the evidence that Michael’s carried on living without him, that he’s not that same seventeen year old boy that Calum had left behind in Sydney Airport half a decade ago.

That’s not to say he’s forgotten about it, though. Far from it - even in his pretty-much-permanently inebriated state, the little picture of Michael, stubble and all, has been playing around in the background of most of his thoughts. It’s easier to ignore when he’s with the others, when Noel’s snapping at him or screaming at Liam, when Bonehead’s rolling his eyes and passing him another joint, when Tony’s muttering about how Noel expects far too much of him, when Mark’s chivvying all of them to get up and get in the fucking studio, don’t they know they’re paying two thousand quid a day for this shit? It’s easier to focus on snapping at Noel, on stepping back from the brothers and leaving them to it, on taking a long toke from the joint, on ignoring Tony while whole-heartedly agreeing with him, on rolling his eyes as he shuffles into the live room and picks up his bass. He doesn’t have to think too hard, then, doesn’t have to let his thoughts stray from the here and now back to being seventeen and sun-kissed and in love.

Now, though, on his own, teetering on the brink of a comedown but still pleasantly drunk, Liam passed out and snoring gently on the bed a few feet away, Calum’s got nothing tying him down. There’s nothing for him to ground himself in, no stern, suspiciously-Noel-sounding voice in his mind telling him to stay fucking focused, or he’ll get a clip round the ear.

So, before he’s even really thought about it, Calum leans down and picks the magazine up, flipping straight to the page with the little picture of Michael on.

Even though he’s prepared this time, even though he knows he’s going to see Michael, older and broader and taller, his stomach still starts its best impersonation of a fucking Olympics tryout when his eyes find Michael at the bottom of the page. Christ. It’s like looking at someone Calum had seen every day for years at a train station, or maybe in a dream; he’s instantly recognisable but doesn’t quite match up to the mental image Calum’s got of him, lips a little plumper and eyes a little darker than Calum had expected. He looks like a mixture of someone so fucking familiar to Calum - the way he’s got his hands tucked in his pockets and his head tilted back a little - and someone Calum’s never met before, with the way his eyes are dark and almost hungry, the way his lashes are lowered slightly, the way he’s holding himself with such an air of confidence.

Calum sits down on the edge of his bed, disgusting taste in his mouth forgotten as he flips back to the first page of the article and starts to read. Mike, the singer calls him. Mike Clifford. It’s fucking ridiculous. Michael had always hated being called Mike, would always use his last vestiges of energy to lift his head from the toilet and protest weakly whenever Calum called him Mikey. The only time Calum had ever actually got away with calling him Mikey was when he was stroking his hair and Michael was crying into his chest, drunk and stoned and fucking miserable about Calum moving to the UK.

Mike’s our secret weapon, the singer (Damon, as Calum’s reminded) says, with an ‘air of confidence’, apparently. Calum briefly wonders what he means by that as his eyes flit to the next paragraph, mind lagging a few seconds behind. What kind of a war does he think they’re fighting?

Of course we’re a British band, Damon comments later on. We sing about British life, British experiences. Mike’s not penning songs about kangaroos and shrimps on barbies, is he? And anyway, he can outdrink the lot of us, which is what really matters. Are these really the best questions NME can come up with? Calum can’t help the way his lips twitch at that. That, at least, sounds like Michael.

It was serendipity, I think, Damon ‘muses’ a few paragraphs later, according to the journalist. We were looking for a second guitarist, and Mike had just moved over. He was living with Graham - he knew him through a friend from Sydney - and when Graham mentioned that he thought his band might need a second guitarist, Mike mentioned he could play.

It never came up in conversation before? the journalist asks, and Damon apparently ‘smiles wryly’.

That’s Mike for you, he allegedly says, with a shrug, and Calum feels a strange, hollow tug at his heart. Yeah. That is Michael. Anyway, he came along to a practice session and gelled perfectly with the rest of us. In fact, he brought some new ideas, a breath of fresh air that I think we needed. You know, the rest of us are four lads from the south who all grew up in similar circumstances and listened to similar music. I think we needed the different perspective.

That’s all Damon says about Michael. It leaves a sort of sour taste in Calum’s mouth - although, in fairness, that might just be the aftertaste of vomit - because this ‘Mike’ doesn’t sound like Michael, doesn’t feel like Calum’s- well. Whatever Michael ever was to him.

They’d never actually spoken about it. There had never been a conversation, an are you my boyfriend now, then, or what? They’d just both known - I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that’s all that matters. It had made it easier, Calum thinks, for him to justify it to himself when he got caught up in his new life, when Liam’s bright blue eyes started swimming in front of Michael’s sea-green ones, when harsh cackles were dubbed over soft laughter, when loud and brash northern accents started taking up more of his thoughts than gentle Australian twangs. We weren’t actually together, he’d told himself, every time he saw a letter in the post and his stomach twisted with guilt. You don’t owe him anything.

In fairness, it hadn’t just been him. Michael’s letters had stopped coming once a week, started coming once a fortnight, and then once a month. But it was Calum’s responses that got ever shorter, from pages and pages to a few half-hearted sentences, because Liam would often barge in halfway through and demand he comes down to the Boardwalk with him right fucking now, and it got harder and harder to justify to himself why he was giving up spending time with one of his best mates to write letters to a boy whose middle name he’d already started to forget. And it was Calum who had seen one last letter from Michael, tossed it on his desk to read later, and then forgotten about it until it was too late and his mum had already thrown it out. He’d barely cared, at the time, because Liam had crashed into his room, Calum’s mum tutting loudly at him from downstairs, and announced that he’d joined a band and they were the best band in the fucking world, and Calum should fucking join, and when Noel got back from tour he’d definitely join too, and they’d be the fucking second coming of the Beatles.

The guy staring at him from the picture, older and more confident, doesn’t seem like the same guy who’d sent Calum all those letters, telling him I miss you. I’m saving up to fly over to the UK. We’ll be together again, in a year or two. Don’t forget about me. It feels like there are two of him - Calum’s version, Michael, the boy who’d blink at Calum through dark, inky lashes and press soft kisses along his jawline, and this Blur version, Mike, the guy who stares back at Calum almost defiantly, like he’s daring him to keep looking.

Calum’s not sure whether it’s the drink or the drugs or whether it really is Michael, five years older and having grown into himself and built up a life without Calum, that’s making his stomach twist and turn and his heart sink like this. Or maybe it’s the guilt, all the love and regrets that Calum’s pushed down over the years and paved over with bricks of Liam and Noel and music, that’s stopping him from being able to tear his gaze away from the little Michael on the page, looking like he knows Calum’s eyes are glued to him.

Calum shifts, and in the near-silence of the room he hears something crinkle in his back pocket, and he frowns, lifting his hips up and fishing a messily-folded piece of paper out. He unfolds it, wondering whether he’s left a receipt or something in there, and finds two scrawled lines of text.

Noel’s lyrics.

It was serendipity, I think, the singer had said in the article, and Calum finds himself thinking the same thing as he stares down at the mostly-empty sheet of paper. Maybe this is supposed to mean something, he thinks. Probably just that his jeans are in desperate need of a wash.

There’s a guitar propped up next to Liam’s bed, one he’s been messing around on in what he says is boredom but Calum knows is an attempt to write something that Noel will throw a kind word or two at, and Calum’s grabbing it and setting it on his lap before he’s even really thought about it. He’s not a songwriter, never has been - he’s always wondered how the fuck Noel can retreat into a back room and come out half an hour later with a song like Supersonic - but right now, lyrics on one thigh, picture of Michael on the other, the words and the notes feel like they’re bursting to get out of his mind and down on paper.

Not for the first time, Calum’s glad Liam’s a deep sleeper, so he doesn’t have to lock himself in the too-big, too-empty living room to write. There’s something comforting about Liam’s presence, something that reminds Calum that he’s not alone, his deep breathing the thin line that ties Calum’s old life to his new life. Calum breathes along with him for a moment, a little drunkenly, like he’s trying to let as much of Liam as possible seep into his veins, maybe hoping he can absorb Liam’s don’t-give-a-fuck attitude and brash courage enough to get the words out without buckling under their weight.

There’s a pen on his bedside table, and he reaches over for it, uncaps it, holds it in his teeth, and starts to strum, humming along to the melody he’s had in his head since reading Noel’s lyrics. It only takes him a few minutes to find the right chord sequence, shifting into a key he knows Liam’ll be able to sing, because Calum knows he won’t be able to sing this himself. It needs a layer of removal, something that Calum can place between himself and the song and look at without having to look any further.

There we were now here we are All this confusion nothing’s the same to me There we were now here we are All this confusion nothing’s the same to me

I can’t tell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me I can’t sell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me What I heard is not what I hear I can see the signs but they’re not very clear What I heard is not what I hear I can see the signs but they’re not very clear

So I can’t tell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me I can’t sell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me

This is confusion, am I confusing you? This is confusion, am I confusing you? This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you

The words almost seem to write themselves, ink on the page before Calum’s inebriated mind has even had time to think. Noel’s words slot in flawlessly as a chorus, the perfect contrast to Calum’s muddled, drunken musings, and it only takes about twenty minutes before the whole song’s done, every chord written, every word penned. And, to Calum’s surprise, it sounds really fucking good.

He sits back, fingers stilling on the strings, and stares down at the sheet of paper. The words look hasty, rushed, a little crooked, and Noel’s going to have questions about the shakiness of the letters, but that’s a problem for a later Calum.

He reads over it again while he’s still drunk enough to allow himself to, knowing he’ll hate it in the morning, and then puts the pen down to the paper again to write a title.

Confusion. No, that doesn’t sound right. It’s too vague, too impersonal. New to me. No, that’s a cop-out. Then and Now. No, that won’t be obvious enough.

And that’s it, Calum thinks, swallowing thickly. He wants it to be obvious. He wants Michael, and only Michael, to know that it’s about him, for him.

(“How will you know it’s me?” Calum remembers asking urgently one night, standing in the hallway on the phone to Michael, who had just called to mutter that he’s grounded, not allowed out, Calum needs to sneak in and make sure he makes it obvious that it’s him and not Luke or Ashton or else Michael won’t open his window. Apparently Luke, the sly little bastard, has taken to telling Michael it's Calum so Michael opens up for him.

“Say it’s- um-” Michael’s breaking up, and Calum clutches the phone closer to his ear like it’s going to make him any more audible.

“Say what?”

“Column-”

“Say it’s Column?” Calum’s incensed. “Michael, d’you fucking know how to pronounce my name?”

“Fucking- Columbia,” he makes out, and then the line goes dead.)

Calum only hesitates for a split second, enough for the tiny scrap of him that’s still sober tell him this is a terrible idea, and then the alcohol in his blood barges in, shouldering the remnant of his rational side out of the way and telling him do it, what the fuck have you got to lose? It’s a fucking great idea.

Yeah, Calum thinks wildly, as his pen touches the paper again. Fuck it. Michael probably won’t hear it, anyway.

Columbia.

-------

Calum plans to keep the song to himself, to sit on it and tell himself he’s agonising over whether or not to show Noel when he knows full well he’s got absolutely no intention of doing so, but, as though he can read Calum’s fucking mind, Noel corners him at lunchtime the next day.

“So,” he says, blocking Calum’s path out of the kitchen as Liam trails after Tony in the direction of the live room, complaining loudly that if he has to eat one more fucking ham and cheese sandwich he’s going to burn the fucking kitchen down. “That song. What’d you do to it?”

“What song?” Calum says, momentarily stumped. They’ve just been recording Slide Away, and Calum’s pretty sure he hasn’t fucked anything up so far. In fact, he’s absolutely fucking certain he hasn’t, because if Noel’s stopping them mid-recording to shout at Tony to tighten his floor tom then he’d definitely have thrown a fit over Calum playing a wrong note, or a fraction of a second too fast, or whatever.

“You know,” Noel says. “The one. From the other night.” He’s acting a little sketchy about it, a little guarded, and that’s what makes it click - oh. That song. The one Noel had been writing on his own in the kitchen at fucking five in the morning, and Calum had finished off at about three last night, drunk out of his mind.

“Oh,” Calum says, and he feels his expression shift into something just as evasive as Noel’s. “Uh. Yeah. I wrote something.”

“Well, let’s fucking hear it, then,” Noel says. Calum hesitates.

“Not in front of everyone else,” he says, because he knows the guitars are all in the live room, and by the time it’s cleared out Noel might have forgotten about the song altogether. Noel raises an eyebrow, but nods.

“My room,” he says.

“Now?” Calum says, looking down at his sandwich. “Can’t I fucking eat?”

“Now,” Noel confirms. “We’re on a tight fucking schedule, Cal.”

“Didn’t stop you spending half of Tuesday fucking off your head,” Calum shoots back. Noel just flips him off, like that’s a fucking answer, and walks out of the kitchen, presumably to fetch a guitar. Calum sighs, stomach sinking, because he hasn’t looked at the lyrics since he wrote them but he has a slightly hazy memory of knowing he’d hate them sober. He’s far too fucking hungover to stomach the fight that’s going to ensue if he refuses to play it to Noel, though, so he just sighs again, deep and resigned, shoves half the sandwich in his mouth and heads up to his room to pick up the sheet of paper with the lyrics and chords on.

Noel’s already in his room when Calum pushes the door open a little too roughly, perched on the edge of his bed, and he holds out his second-favourite acoustic guitar by the neck for Calum to take. Calum does, yanks it out of his hands to tell him I don’t fucking like that you’re making me do this without having to say it - not that Noel will care either way - and sits down on Bonehead’s bed, pulling the guitar into his lap and smoothing the sheet of paper in front of him so he won’t have to look at Noel.

“Right,” he says, and he can hear the nervousness in his own voice. “Don’t fucking laugh.”

“Won’t if it’s not worth laughing at,” Noel promises, which is as good as Calum’s going to get from him. He swallows, positions his fingers, and starts to play.

It sounds horrible, he thinks, as he’s playing. He has to try not to wince, because his voice cracks on the words as they drip with the kind of raw honesty that only a song written about his sort-of ex at three in the fucking morning, drunk and halfway between a high and a comedown, can summon. It’s too much for him, hearing his own voice sing the words that he doesn’t want to admit that he means, overwhelms him with the way it makes his heart clench in his chest to hear himself say nothing’s the same to me, and he has to stop before he can reach the end, stilling the strings and shrugging at Noel a little tensely.

“You get the gist,” he says. Noel blinks at him. He’s not laughing.

“That’s going on the album,” he says. Calum stares at him.

“You’re taking the piss,” he says flatly.

“D’you think I’d fucking take the piss about kicking one of my songs off the album to make room for yours? ” Noel says, and, yeah, that’s a good point.

“Well, I’m not singing it,” Calum says, before Noel gets any ideas. He’s not putting that out there, him singing a fucking half-love song for Michael. He'd have to be on every drug in the world to even get all the way through it.

“Why not?” Noel says.

“Can’t.”

“You fucking can. Just did.”

“I’m not fucking singing it, Noel.” Noel purses his lips, looking like he’s weighing up starting a fight with both Calum, who’s very clearly chosen this hill to die on, and Liam, who can’t stand feeling like a spare part, versus relenting and getting something he might not like as much musically but won’t potentially end in a trip to the hospital.

“It won’t sound as good,” he says, sounding annoyed, but that’s a concession from him.

“I’m arsed,” Calum says. Noel looks at him for a moment, hard, eyes flitting across every crevice of Calum’s face like he’s trying to find the weak link, and then he leans back with a sigh.

“You sound dead fucking British,” is all he says, a little too calmly for the conversation they've just had, and Calum feels like there’s something more to it that he should be able to pick out but can’t quite discern from the careful guardedness that fronts it.

“Been here five years, haven’t I?” he shoots back, feeling like he’s on the back foot, somehow.

“Wouldn’t even know you were Australian if you weren’t such a lightweight,” Noel says, and Calum rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off,” he says. “I could outdrink all five-two of you any day, Irish blood and all.” Noel flips him off, but his eyes still look far too calculating for Calum’s liking.

“You know Blur have an Australian guitarist?” he says, and Calum can see from the shrewd look in Noel’s eyes that that’s it, that’s what he’s been leading up to, and Calum’s stomach bottoms out.

“Oh?” he says, trying to straddle the line between interested enough and uninterested enough. There’s no way Noel can know, he tells himself, as his heart rate picks up. Calum’s never mentioned any of his mates back home to Noel before, let alone mentioned Michael. And even if he did, there’s no reason to make that assumption. Noel doesn’t even know Calum dates guys, and only knows he fucks them because of one night three years ago that neither of them speak about.

“Mm,” Noel hums. “He’s from Sydney.” He doesn’t say anything else, states it like it’s just an interesting tidbit of information, but the implication is clear. Maybe you know him. A challenge, or maybe a test.

“So’s a quarter of Australia,” Calum says, pleased with how cool and collected he sounds. Noel cocks his head.

“Weird, though, isn’t it?” he says. “What’re the odds?”

“Since when are you all fucking superstitious?” Calum asks. Noel shrugs.

“Just think it’s a strange coincidence,” he says lightly. “Two British bands with Australian members, fighting to be number one.”

“Who’s fighting to be number one?” Calum says. “We haven’t even released a single.”

“Yeah, but anything we release’ll be better than their shite,” Noel says derisively, eyes narrowing, and Calum exhales quietly, because it means the moment’s passed. “Girls who like boys who do boys, or whatever. Fucking shite.” Calum rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, like ‘I’m feeling supersonic, give me gin and tonic’ is any better,” he says, and Noel scowls and kicks at Calum’s shin.

“Just you fucking wait,” Noel says, and it sounds like a fucking threat, like Calum’s going to be held personally responsible if Supersonic doesn’t go to number one. Which, knowing Noel, is a distinct possibility.

“I’ll fucking wait,” Calum tells him, setting the guitar aside.

“Eeyar, what d’you think you’re doing with that?” Noel says, nodding at the guitar. “If you don’t want to sing it, you’ll have to play it to our kid.” The thought makes Calum’s stomach clench. He never wants to sing the fucking song ever again. In fact, he wishes he'd never sung it to Noel in the first place, wishes he'd just dealt with the taunts and jeers that would have come from Noel if he'd thought Calum hadn't been able to get a song down. It'd still be more bearable than having to listen to his own drunken, honest thoughts spilling from his sober lips.

“You really want to put it on the fucking album?” he says, and he can’t help the note of doubt that creeps into his tone. It's a good song, yeah - really fucking good, actually - but is it as good as Noel's?

“It’s good,” Noel says, which, from Noel, might as well be a declaration that it belonged on the White Album.

“Not as good as yours,” Calum says. Noel fixes him with a stare, a really, don’t you fucking dare make me say it’s better than one of mine kind of stare, and Calum sighs. It is a good song - it’s definitely better than Cloudburst, might even be better than Sad Song - but he’s not sure he can go through playing it to Liam, Bonehead and Tony. Playing it to Noel was fucking bad enough.

“Play it to our kid,” Noel says again, like he can read the exact thoughts behind Calum’s stricken expression. “I’ll sort out parts for Tony and Bonehead.”

Calum loves him.

-------

(Liam frowns at him when he trails off halfway through the bridge.

“That’s fucking mega, that is,” he says, but his tone doesn’t match his words.

“Cheers,” Calum says, and swallows thickly. Liam doesn’t say anything else, even though Calum can tell from the way his fingers are twitching that he wants to, just hesitates and then sighs and pulls Calum into a tight hug.)

-------

They finish recording the album in mid-March. It’s their second attempt, and it still sounds wrong, so their record label, in one last-ditch attempt to save it, send it off to Owen Morris for mixing.

Noel’s progressed beyond irate and lashing out at any and all of them for fucking up his precious album to complete despondence, retreating into himself, sitting staring silently out of the car window as they get driven back up to Manchester, not even rising to the bait when Bonehead threatens to steal his Sergeant Pepper vinyl. In the strange, symbiotic way that the brothers have - or maybe just because they’d shared a room for sixteen years and Liam had been at the receiving end of enough of Noel’s tantrums to know how to cope with them - Liam seems to know exactly what Noel needs. He sits close to him, throws an arm around him, pulls him in so Noel’s head is resting on Liam’s shoulder, but doesn’t say anything, carries on normal conversation with the rest of them with a slight edge to his tone, like he’s challenging any of them to fucking comment on the state Noel’s in. They all know better than that, of course. Anyone who’s spent more than thirty seconds in either of the Gallaghers’ presence would know better than that.

When they get back to Manchester, predictably dull and drizzling slightly, they all head off in their separate directions; Liam and Noel to Noel’s flat, Bonehead to the flat he shares with his girlfriend, Tony back to his parents’ house. Calum, too, heads back to the boring little two-up two-down he’s spent the past five years in.

“You look a state,” is how his mum greets him when he drags his bags out of the car and up the garden path. She holds her arms out for a hug and Calum hesitates for a moment - he knows he reeks of last night’s alcohol with maybe a pinch of stale weed added to the mix - but she gives him a stern look and he relents, wrapping his arms around her and inhaling the familiar scent of home-cooking and books.

“You smell terrible,” she says disapprovingly, when he pulls away. Calum shrugs.

“I’ll shower when I get in,” he says.

“You’ll fix the wall first,” she says, and Calum sighs. Not the fucking wall.

“Not the fucking wall,” he mutters, and his mum tuts at him, but steps aside to let him into the house.

“Your dad’s outside already,” she says, as Calum drops his bags next to the stairs.

“He’s not tried to do anything to the wall, has he?” Calum says, because if his dad’s had anything to do with it, Calum’s going to have his work cut out for him.

“He said he was just going to take a look,” his mum says, and Calum swears under his breath and heads for the back door. His dad has never quite grasped that ‘just taking a look’ doesn’t require prodding and poking and, on one memorable occasion, a blowtorch.

As Calum had expected, his dad is frowning at a section of collapsed wall, a mortar board piled high with badly-mixed mortar in one hand and a brick trowel in the other.

“Fucking hell, dad,” Calum says, jogging up and snatching the mortar board out of his hands, making his dad whip around in surprise.

“Hello to you too,” he says mildly. “How was Cornwall?”

“Great,” Calum says, and takes a step back so his dad won’t smell the booze on him. “What the fuck are you doing to the wall?”

“I saved the bricks that fell out,” his dad, gesturing at a haphazard pile a few metres away. “I was going to use those to fix it.”

“Not with this, you weren’t,” Calum says, brandishing the mortar. “I’ll mix some more tomorrow. And you can’t be laying bricks in the rain.” His dad looks up at the sky.

“It’s just drizzle,” he says.

“It’s enough,” Calum says. His dad looks at him for a moment, wavering between son, if I say the wall needs fixing the wall needs fixing and you do actually know what you’re doing, before sighing and holding his hands up in defeat.

“Fine,” he says. “But your mum will have my balls if it’s not done first thing tomorrow.”

“She’ll have your balls if you do it in the rain and it falls apart again in three weeks, too,” Calum tells him.

“At least I’ll get three extra weeks with my balls, then,” his dad says as they make their way back inside, and Calum snorts.

“That was quick,” he hears his mum shout from the kitchen, a little reprovingly, as Calum sets the mortar board down on the table. He’ll deal with it later.

“It’s raining,” Calum shouts back.

“It’s what?” his mum calls, turning down the upbeat, almost disco song playing on the radio.

“It’s raining,” Calum repeats. “Can’t lay bricks in the rain.”

“It’s only drizzling.”

“D’you want to go and fucking do it, then?” Calum says, exasperated, and his mum pops her head out of the kitchen with a frown.

“Calum,” she reprimands, and he sighs. He needs to fucking shower, and then sleep for about seven years until his liver’s had a chance to process at least half of the shit he’s ingested over the past few weeks.

“Sorry,” he says, and he means it. “I’m going to go and shower.” His mum nods, and her head disappears again, and he hears the radio turn up again. The song’s finishing up, something about how it always should be someone you really love, and Calum finds himself nodding along as he heads for the stairs and picks up his bags. It’s catchy, he thinks, and not like anything he’s heard in a while. Maybe he should recommend it to Noel; he could do with nicking ideas off someone other than Paul McCartney once in a while.

“And that was Blur, with Girls and Boys,” the radio host announces as the song starts to fade out, and Calum’s fingers slip in the handle of the bag in his right hand, causing it to fall on his foot. He curses under his breath, trying to think about the pain rather than the way his heart’s skipped a beat.

“Calum?” his mum calls from the kitchen. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, mum, sorry,” he shouts back, wincing and flexing his foot, steadying himself on the banister with his now-free hand as he tries to listen to the radio over the pounding in his ears. Another song’s started now, though, and Calum shakes himself out of it, picking up the bag and heading up the stairs to have an excuse for his racing heart and heavy breathing.

It feels fucking weird, he thinks, dumping his bags on the floor of his room and throwing himself down on the bed, to have heard Michael without hearing him. He would have paid more attention to the song if he’d known he was listening to Michael’s fingers pick out those notes. He can still hear the riff in his mind, bouncing around as it tries to find its way out but enclosed in a bubble of Michael like a good portion of Calum’s thoughts have been for the past few weeks. It doesn’t feel quite right, though, Michael’s guitar playing on Calum’s radio in Manchester. It feels like Mike, not Michael, and the thought makes him feel a little queasy.

He rolls over, staring at the blank wall in front of him as he waits for his heart to slow down. Always should be someone you really love, the guy - what was it, Damon? - had sung. It feels like a fucking joke, now, leaves a bitter taste in Calum’s mouth that that line is the first he’s heard of Michael in five fucking years. It’s like the universe is just having its way with him and laughing about it.

(It was serendipity, I think, Damon had said in the article, but Calum tries not to let the idea cross his mind.)

-------

Supersonic is, in fact, as Liam and Noel crow at least five times a day, fucking mega.

The single comes out in early April, when they’re in Middlesbrough, or maybe Stoke, or maybe Leeds - somewhere northern, cold, wet, and miserable. It’s played on the radio a few times, and it makes something warm spread from Calum’s heart to his toes every time he can pick out his own bass, every time he hears Noel’s lazy solo, Liam’s gravelly drawl, Bonehead’s overdriven chords. Even Tony’s drumming makes him grin, giddy on the high that’s him, them, him and his three best mates (and Tony) coming together to create something that, fuck whatever the charts say, sounds fucking good. It’s raw and it’s rough around the edges and it’s melodic and it’s dirty, and it’s ‘fucking rock ‘n’ roll’ if Liam ever gets half a second to comment on it, but, more than all of that, it’s them and Calum loves it.

It doesn’t do amazingly, but none of them even care, because they know it’s good. Noel’s already busy arguing with Marcus at the record label about whether Shakermaker or Live Forever should be the next single, shouting at him on the phone whenever they get somewhere with a payphone. The tour’s going well, too; there’s not been a venue they haven’t sold out yet, and the crowd actually know all the songs, now, screaming out the words whenever Liam takes a break for a swig of beer.

They’re playing Glastonbury in June, which Noel seems to think is the fucking be all and end all of their entire career despite the fact that they’ve released one album. He’s taken it upon himself to ensure that every waking minute that they’re not playing shows or off their heads on whatever substances they’ve been able to put up their noses is spent with him telling them in minute detail exactly how he’s going to skin them alive if they miss one more beat or hit the wrong string one more time. Even Liam isn’t safe, despite his lack of a proper instrument, after missing one of the higher notes in Supersonic one night in Liverpool. Calum’s never believed in God, but he thinks the fact that he was rooming with Tony and the brothers were rooming with each other that night, screaming at each other out of Calum's earshot, might be evidence of divine intervention.

Further potential evidence for the existence of God comes in the form of an invitation to an awards show to be held in early June, which is the only thing that could possibly have appeased Noel. It doesn’t stop him shouting at Liam for fucking breathing, or whatever it happens to be that hour, but it placates him enough to keep the band together, which is what matters. He starts writing like crazy, and by late May already has six songs that he claims are good enough for their second album, and Calum’s floored when Noel rips the curtain to his bunk open one night and shoves an unfinished song at him with a look on his face that says if you fucking tell anyone about this, I’ll have your balls. I’ll fucking have them.

(“D’you think me growing up in Australia brings a different perspective to the band?” Calum had asked the previous day, thinking of the interview he’d read with Damon, and Noel had snorted, not even looking up from his guitar.

“Do I fuck,” he’d said. “I’m the fucking genius here. Why, ‘s someone been telling you you’re important? Do I need to remind you that you barely even play an instrument?” Calum rolls his eyes and flips him off, but it settles his stomach a little to know that Noel's not giving him the songs because of some abstract musical perspective, but because of his talent. And, maybe, because Noel might just be a little fond of him.)

The awards show isn’t anything huge, not NME or anyone that Liam thinks matters, but Noel tells them that it’s the principle, that the fact that they’re being nominated for awards is what counts, and that they’ll fucking well show up. Liam still looks like he’s going to argue about it, probably just because his instinct to do the opposite of whatever Noel tells him overrides even his survival instinct, but he grudgingly agrees to go when Calum reminds him about all the free alcohol that’s sure to be there.

The ceremony’s much bigger than Calum had expected, held in a theatre that’s had the stalls cleared out to make room for tables for artists and their teams to sit at. They’re shown to a table on the far right of the room, and Calum sees names like Elastica and Björk on the tables they pass on their way, which makes him think that this might actually be a bigger deal than they’d thought it was. Their table is tucked away in a corner, which Calum thinks probably isn’t a good sign, but can’t bring himself to care that much about when he sees the three bottles of champagne waiting for them.

They’re tipsy before the show’s even begun, barely even noticing the room filling behind them as they call for more champagne, grinning and yelling at each other across the table as they all think fuck me, we’re really doing this, then? Even Noel somehow manages to dislodge the stick from his arse and laugh along when Liam starts heckling every single act that wins an award. It’s just fucking fun, Calum thinks, watching Noel and Liam put their arms around each other and yell the lyrics to Creep as Radiohead win an award, changing out half of the words for increasingly creative variants of words for certain parts of the male anatomy. It’s just a good fucking time with his best mates.

Liam’s so caught up in the heckling, yelling rubbish! Fucking rubbish! before the winners have even been announced, and they’re all so caught up in laughing at him that they don’t even realise they’ve won an award until Marcus glares at them pointedly, and they realise that the reason they suddenly can’t see properly is because there’s a spotlight on them.

“Best live act!” Noel shouts, grinning, and Calum shoots up and out of his seat and is hugging Noel and Bonehead, jumping up and down, before he can even think about it. Best live act, fucking hell.

“Rubbish!” Liam’s yelling, sounding absolutely irate. “Fucking rubbi- oh, that’s us.” He stands up calmly, flashing Marcus a winning smile as he walks past on his way to the stage, and the rest of them follow in his wake.

“Best fucking live act,” Noel repeats, like he can’t quite believe it. Their first fucking award. "That's all me, that is."

“You wanker, you’re rubbish,” Liam tells him, as they jog up the stairs onto the stage. “You can’t even play the guitar.” Noel cuffs him upside the head, but he’s still grinning, and Liam grins back at him as they walk over to accept their awards, shake a lot of sweaty hands, and make their acceptance speech.

“Right, then, who’s first then?” Liam says, leaning into the microphone and pulling his sunglasses down to survey the crowd. “It’s gotta be you there with that weird haircut. How many haircuts you got there, four?” He leans back as the crowd laughs, looking deadpan, but Calum can see the way his lips twitch as he soaks up the laughter and smattering of applause. Calum shakes his head, grinning, and looks out at the sea of faces looking back at him, trying to really absorb the moment, anchor himself so he’ll remember it tomorrow despite the champagne. There are a few people he recognises, which feels fucking insane - that’s fucking Robbie Williams, over there, presumably sat with the rest of the blokes from Take That whose names he doesn’t know, and he thinks he can make out the singer of Radiohead in the corner, and there’s the frontwoman of Elastica, and next to her is that Damon guy from Blur, and-

Oh, fuck.

Noel’s moved on to speaking now, a little more seriously than Liam - which isn’t saying much given that he’s currently in the middle of thanking himself for being such a genius and writing such impeccable songs - but the words are washing over Calum as his eyes flit to Damon’s left, taking in the moody-looking dark-haired guy and the ginger guy, and then to his right, a dark-haired guy in glasses and-

And Michael.

Calum thinks his legs might fucking give out. Staring back at him, eyes wide and jaw clenched, is Michael. Michael Clifford. His Michael. Fucking hell.

In the bright lights, Calum can see the tension in Michael’s shoulders, the way he’s sort of hunched into himself, sort of sat up straight, like he’s ready for a fight. He can see the shock on Michael’s face, the underlying hurt and pain in the twist of his lips, the way his fist is clenched on the table. He looks nothing like Calum had ever envisioned when imagining them reuniting, no carefree laughter and bright, joyful eyes. Calum’s sure he doesn’t look much better, lips slightly parted in surprise, pure horror written all over his face, but he can’t bring himself to care when Michael’s right there, in front of him, five years older and five years prettier, making Calum’s heart skip and race like it’s singlehandedly trying to win the fucking World Acrobatics Championship of 1994.

Liam’s taken the mic back off Noel to add a quick thank you to the people who voted for them, and then Noel’s clapping him on the back as they walk offstage, but Calum’s rooted to the fucking spot, can’t take his eyes off Michael. Neither of them are blinking, and as the lights sweep from the audience to them Calum almost loses Michael in the darkness, just sees the slight gleaming of his eyes, still fixed on Calum.

“Fucking come on,” Noel nigh-on shouts in his ear, startling Calum out of it, and his feet unstick themselves as Noel puts his hand on the small of Calum’s back, guiding him off the stage. Calum tears his gaze away, looks down at his feet so he won’t trip down the stairs, and by the time he’s got to the bottom and is looking out into the sea of faces again, he’s lost Michael. He searches in vain all the way back to their table, trying to map out just how far to the right the Blur table is from the Oasis one based on where it had been in relation to the stage, but then Liam’s in front of him, waving an award in his face and grinning inanely, and Calum’s line of sight is blocked by Bonehead jumping on Liam’s back, and Noel’s shouting something at the three of them through a smile, and Calum’s being forced into his seat.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a haze. Liam carries on heckling every act that gets up on stage, waving his award around over his head like it’ll somehow further his point, and Noel almost cries laughing at the sight of him until Liam’s fingers slip and the trophy goes flying and hits Noel smack in the face. Even that isn’t enough to get more than the ghost of a smile out of Calum, whose stomach is still twisting, eyes still flitting across the crowd, breath still catching every time a new award is announced just in case Michael will have to walk past their table, traipse up the stairs to their right, look down at Calum from the stage. Blur don’t win anything, though, much to the brothers’ delight, and as soon as they realise it’s winding down Liam’s saying something about an afterparty and trying to get up and leave before the ceremony’s officially ended. Tony grabs his arm and pulls him back down, mutters something about taking photos that both Noel and Liam scoff at, but one look from their management is enough to keep the two of them in their seats, albeit with glowers and grumbles.

The hosts close the awards in the most long-winded way Calum’s ever seen, and then they’re being ushered into some back room to take photos along with all the other acts. Noel and Liam are drunker than Calum’s seen them in months, shouting and laughing and throwing their arms around each other and pressing kisses to anyone who dares walk within five metres of them, and, seeing how irritated the rest of the acts and the photographer are at their antics, they ramp it up, yelling and screaming and singing until everyone’s shooting them filthy looks and Calum’s almost managing a proper smile. His eyes have been roaming the room since they got in, looking past the miserable looking bloke from Radiohead because he thought he’d seen a flash of blonde that had turned out to be Robbie Williams’ terrible haircut, but either Blur have already been and gone or they’re still hanging around outside.

“Cal,” Liam shouts, and then Calum’s being pulled into a headlock - quite a fucking feat, actually, because it’s Noel doing the headlocking, and he’s a good half-foot shorter than Calum. “What d'you reckon, eh? Best band on the fucking planet!”

“Don’t think that was quite what they said,” Calum says, and Noel ruffles his hair before letting him go, just enough that Calum can stand up straight, and wrapping an arm around Calum’s waist. Calum leans into it, a little unsteady from the alcohol and Michael, relishing the comfort of a steady anchor to counter the way he feels so fucking unbalanced from seeing Michael in the flesh again after five years.

“You’ve got to read between the lines , Cal,” Liam says earnestly. “They might not’ve said it, but it’s what they meant.”

“Eeyar,” Noel says suddenly, grinning wickedly. “Is that who I think it is?” Liam twists, following Noel’s gaze, and Calum does the same, turning to the door and finding-

“‘S fucking Dermot All-bran!” Liam crows, cackling gleefully as Damon’s eyes flit to the three of them. He smiles, pretty and polite, and heads in their direction, and as he comes through the door with the woman from Elastica in tow, four more people file in behind him - ginger guy, moody guy, glasses guy, and, to the detriment of Calum’s heartbeat, Michael.

“Congratulations,” Damon calls, nodding at the award in Liam’s hand. He’s almost reached them, and the rest of his band are trailing behind him, and Calum’s heart is beating so fucking fast and loud that he can barely hear Liam screaming next to him over the pounding in his ears as he watches Michael get closer and closer, carefully avoiding Calum’s burning gaze.

“Fucking right,” Liam says proudly. “Fucking best band in the world, we are. Real rock ‘n’ roll stars. Not like you posh fucking wankers.” The guy in glasses behind Damon rolls his eyes, and something that looks like irritation flashes across Damon’s face, but Calum barely cares.

Michael’s still not looking at him, all of three feet away, and Calum’s skin is fucking crawling, itching with the desire to reach out and touch him, to force him to look at Calum, to slot their fingers and their legs and their lips together again, just to see if they still fit. Fuck, he shouldn’t have drunk all that champagne.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” the tall guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Alex. This is Graham-” glasses guy, who nods tightly, “-and Dave-” ginger guy, who holds up a hand in an awkward wave, “-and you know Damon. And our resident Australian, Mike.”

“Looks like a cunt,” Liam remarks, and Calum vaguely registers Noel and Bonehead laughing next to him, loud and giddy and a little spiteful.

“Ours is better than yours, anyway,” Noel says, arm tightening around Calum, somewhere between defensive and proud. Damon raises an eyebrow, a definite challenge in his eyes now.

“Is that so?” he says, and in the two years since Calum last heard him speak he’s forgotten how different his speaking voice is to how he sings, eloquent and deep and rich. It’s a secondary thought, though, because Calum’s still staring at Michael, willing him to take his eyes off Damon and look at Calum for just one fucking second, but Michael’s face remains carefully blank, and the closest he gets to looking at Calum is sending Liam a scornful glance.

“Aye, ‘course it is, you prick,” Liam says, brash and careless, and Damon turns to Calum.

“Calum, isn’t it?” he says. Calum tears his gaze away from Michael for a moment, enough to see the way Damon’s holding himself, and that whatever Calum says next is going to form Damon’s entire opinion of him.

“Yeah,” Calum says, aiming for bold and confident to match Liam, because that’s where his loyalties lie now, and hopes no one else can hear how dry his throat is.

“Didn’t you have a mate in Sydney called Calum?” Damon says, almost idly, turning to Michael. “Was he the one that moved to the UK?” Calum watches the line of Michael’s throat as he swallows, and tries not to superimpose the bruises his lips had left there the night before he’d left Australia for the first and last time on top of it.

“Yeah,” he says, and Calum’s heart fucking splinters at the sound of his voice. Even in that one syllable, he can hear his Michael, the same tone and sound and depth, but there’s a new edge to it, something slower and more controlled than the wild seventeen-year-old Calum had left behind. The years without Calum have added a gloss to him, a new confidence in his voice and his expression and how he holds himself, and Calum just wants Michael to fucking look at him.

Fuck it, he thinks - or maybe the champagne thinks for him - and he swallows.

“Hey, Michael,” he says quietly, and all hell breaks loose.

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chapter three

#malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos slash #i actually have some TIME tonight to chat i will be back #thats a threat i will be returning #my laptop is like freaking out at the number of tabs i have open right now but what am i supposed to do close them?#absolutely not #theres also a huge insect in my room and i have to wait for it to leave the door or i'm trapped in my room #none of these tags are antyhing to do with the fic i'm sorry i'm just stream of consciousness in here #ignore me my brain is malfunctioning #i hope everyone is doing well i miss being active here i'm so fucking BUSY atm #but come friday i will be back for good #Back for good by take that is a banger #okay i'm seriously going to shut up now please read my breakdown

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somerandomwriter1234 · 5 years

Text

Riley and Maya: Complicated Parenthood - Chapter 3 (Amazing Talents)

Scene 1:

-One morning in the before/after care auditorium, Maya was hanging up a framed picture on the wall. The picture contained a large detailed flower with an abstract rainbow design behind it. From nearby, Grace walked over to Maya and spoke to him.

Grace: Hey. That's the picture I drew last Monday afternoon.

Maya: Hmm? Oh yeah. Since you left it on the table that day and Mr. Farkle asked me to redecorate the place this week, I decided to hang up one of your works. You don't mind, right?

Grace: No. But I left it on the table because I didn't want to keep it. It's not one of my best works. I mean… I never thought it be good enough to frame.

Maya: You sure? Your attention to detail and color strokes here rivals the kind of stuff I studied in college. You've got some amazing talents here Grace.

Grace: Really?

-From nearby, Smackle walked over to the two while holding a camera out. Maya and Grace then turned their heads to look at Smackle.

Smackle: Oh shoot. Don't look at me. I was trying to get a candid shot. Ugg. This is why I struggled in high school photography class… and Pokémon Snap.

Maya: Smackle, what are you doing?

Smackle: Taking some new photos of a typical day here so we can put them on the bulletin board, the brochures, and other stuff. Hey. Can you two go back to acting like I'm not here so I can get a good candid shot?

Grace: Uh…

Smackle: No. I guess we can't pull that off now, can we? Okay. Act like you two are about to track down a South African Penguin that's attempting to encourage Sailor Moon into digivolving her Blue Eyes White Dragon into a Super Saiyan.

Maya: What?

Smackle: Okay, just stand next to each other and smile.

Maya: But I…

Smackle: Just smile Maya. And put your arm around Grace like you know you love her. Now do it quick. I have to get back to instructing those students over there on how to train your dragon when it's actually a Transformer that's been previously mind controlled by Cobra in their attempt to steal the secrets of Jem and the Holograms.

Maya: You know what, okay.

Grace: Sounds fine.

-Maya and Grace then stood near each other as Maya put an arm around Grace and put his hand on her shoulder. Smackle then quickly snapped a picture on a camera.

Smackle: Okay. Thanks. I'll make sure you both get a copy of it. Now if you'll excuse me… Wait up my young friends! If you remain where you're seated, I shall also divulge to you all how the four Star Franchises: Trek, Wars, Gate, and Search all exist in the same universe!

-Maya and Grace simply stood with confused looks on their faces.

Grace: Miss Maya, is Miss Smackle having a quarter life crisis?

Maya: I don't know what's happened to her Grace.

Scene 2:

-In the afternoon right outside of a school building, Grace was standing near a curb with many other children while she was holding a clip board with one of her hands, while using her other hand to sketch a detailed layout of a forest.

Grace: And just a little more shading there… Yeah. This work is gonna be one of my most special works yet.

-Suddenly Grace noticed a bus stopping near her. Once the bus doors opened, Grace stepped onto the bus and immediately sat down in a seat. However immediately after: a taller girl named Rachel walked over to Grace and looked down at her.

Rachel: Hey. I wanted to sit there. Get out of my seat.

Grace: Anybody is allowed to sit here.

Rachel: No. Just me. That seat isn't made for a nobody like you!

-Suddenly Grace had a look of shock on her face as she tried to speak.

Grace: But… but I…

-Suddenly the two's thoughts were interrupted by the male bus driver at the front of the bus calling out the two.

Bus Driver: Rachel, just sit in the seat near her. You're holding up the line!

-Rachel with a mad face, sat in the seat closest to Grace. Rachel then looked at Grace with a look of hate and continued to speak with her.

Rachel: Why do you have be so weird? You wear old clothes, have a stupid voice, and no one ever talks to you.

-Rachel continued to speak as Grace tried to sit still and maintain a calm face. However: several small tears began to come out of Grace's eyes.

Scene 3:

-Maya walked into the before/after care auditorium and immediately saw Farkle walking over to her.

Maya: Hey. Again, sorry I'm late. That early car repair shop doesn't open as early as I thought it did.

Farkle: It's okay. Listen. I need you to go over and talk to Grace right now.

Maya: Why? What's wrong?

Farkle: She's been crying off and on all morning. And it was the same all of yesterday afternoon too. All of the other staff and I have tried talking to her but she won't say anything. You're the only one of us she actually talks with. Think you can help her out?

Maya: Well… okay.

-Maya then walked over to the table where Grace was sitting alone with her face buried into her arms that laid on the table. Maya then sat in front of Grace and spoke.

Maya: Hey Grace. What's going on?

-Grace then lifted her head up to look at Maya with tears in her eyes.

Grace: Miss Maya. Where were you yesterday?

Maya: I had to go to a dentist appointment yesterday afternoon and I'm late this morning because of some car repairs I had to get done. But… what's going on with you?

Grace: I… I was… Yesterday while I was on the bus heading to after care… some girl who gets off at another stop started saying all of these mean words about me. She made fun of my clothes, said I had a stupid voice, and said that no one ever talks to me.

Maya: Grace, I…

-More tears came from Grace's eyes as she continued to speak.

Grace: And then she said I wasn't good at anything and there was nothing special about me. I tried telling her what we learned on the field trip. About how everyone is made with a purpose and that makes them special. But then that mean girl said to me… if I'm so special… then how come I don't have any parents?

-Grace buried her head into her arms again as she began to make sobbing noises. Maya then reached her two hands forward towards Grace and began to talk to her.

Maya: Grace, I… I am so sorry to hear that you had to listen to someone talk like that to you. But you know they're not right. You are special Grace.

-Grace then lifted her head up to look at Maya again.

Grace: But why don't I have any parents then?

-Maya looked down for a moment, sighed briefly, and then looked right at Grace in the eyes and spoke.

Maya: I don't have an answer to that Grace. I don't why know you or anyone has to lose important people from their lives. But I do know that you: Grace Givens are a very talented young lady with a lot of beauty both inside and out. And I do know it's hard for you to share your talents and open up with the world because you're worried about how… you might just get hurt again. But you don't need to let the pain of this world and the worries that come from living in it keep you from doing great things in it. Pain is pain. It's going to hurt you and bring you down. But you can't let it stop you forever from doing amazing things with your life. Because you need to continue to share your amazing talents in a meaningful way with the world. Because sharing your amazing talents in a meaningful way with others… that's what really cements how special you really are.

Grace: You… you really mean that Miss Maya?

Maya: Yeah… I really do.

Grace: Um… So… um… Hey, do you know where that new box of colored pencils are?

Maya: Uh, yeah. In the supply closet. I'll get them out for you if you want.

Grace: Good. So… do you know what Sydney's favorite animal is?

Maya: Well she usually always has a cat book she carries around, so I'd have to say probably cats.

Grace: Okay. So… do you think she'd like it if I drew a picture of a cat and gave it to her for her birthday next Friday?

Maya: You know what… that sounds like a great use of your beautiful talents Grace. Now… if you excuse me, I'm gonna get those colored pencils now.

Scene 4:

-Grace stood in her bedroom near her bed as she was going through several things in her backpack. From nearby, the young boy: Sammy entered the room and walked over to Grace.

Sammy: Hi Grace. Whatcha doing?

Grace: Just organizing my stuff and… Hey. Isn't it your bedtime? What are you doing in here?

Sammy: Just seeing what you're doing.

Grace: Well go back to your room now.

Sammy: Okay.

-Sammy began to walk away but then Grace suddenly called out to him.

Grace: Wait.

-Sammy turned around to look at Grace again.

Grace: Hey Sammy. You… like jungle animals, right?

Sammy: Yeah.

Grace: Well… I have a bunch of pictures of jungle animals I drew here I don't really need. Do you want them?

Sammy: Really? Sure!

-Grace then handed Sammy several drawings. Sammy looked at them and smiled. Then he looked back up at Grace.

Sammy: Thanks. I'll hang them up in my room. But are you sure you wanna give me all of these? Now you have no pictures to hang up.

Grace: Don't worry. I still have a picture of my own I'm about to hang up.

Sammy: Okay. Thanks for everything.

-Sammy then walked out of the room while Grace went back to her backpack. Then Grace pulled out her backpack a photograph that showed herself and Maya standing together smiling. Grace then got out a thumbtack and immediately tacked the picture to the wall right near her bed. Grace then put a hand on the wall right near the picture and made a small smile.

Grace: Thanks for everything.

END OF CHAPTER 3

Upcoming Chapters For the Series:

-Chapter 4: The Field Trip (Coming 4/30)

-Chapter 5: Shining Your Way (Coming 5/3)

-Chapter 6: The Bigger Picture (Coming 5/5)

*Note - To read the entire series in one convenient location, click here - https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13266909/

#riley and maya #girl meets world #girl meets world fanfiction #rilaya #riley x maya

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elevenhoursinfront-blog · 7 years

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27th March 2017

Steve woke me up at 0900. We didn't have long until breakfast was over but yesterday had tired us out big time. We rushed downstairs to put some toast on before it got put away. By 0915, there was no bread or cereals left. We managed to have toast though. Somehow it was Monday already. That meant we had been in Melbourne a week already. Our rent was due before 1000 and we needed to extend for another week. It's much cheaper in this hostel than Mad Monkey - $32 each cheaper a week!! We both miss Mad Monkey though. Mondays were also level 10 cleaning day. We had to put all of our belongings onto the beds so they could deep clean. It's only done once a week here rather than every day in our last. Pros and cons. After breakfast, we chilled in our room. We got our laundry bag (pillow case) ready so we could put a wash on. There were laundry rooms placed on levels 9 and 5 so we only had to go down one staircase. We went in with our washing and stared at the machines for 5 minutes like idiots. Luckily, a guy asked if we needed help and told us how it all works. He said we needed to get a laundry card from reception with a $10 deposit, pay $5 for a wash and dry, $0.50 for washing powder. All in all, $15.50... He also advised us not to wash whites because the machine ruins them. We went down to reception to buy a laundry card and powder, went back up to level 9 to start again. We put our washing into the machine. Steve telling me off for not turning my clothes the right way or unfolding them... The machines are old school where you lift the lid up. It has a massive pole in the middle which I guess turns the clothing. After we finished placing our clothes inside, I read that the powder had to go in first... We took our clothes out, put the powder in, and put our clothing back in... We only wanted clean clothes, it turned into a mission! 27 minutes the wash took so we went downstairs to look for jobs on the computers whilst we waited. It only took 20 minutes for Steve to get the hump. The majority of jobs asked that he had his own vehicle which of course, he doesn't have. I left him to it whilst I went and put the washing into the dryer. Took me a while to decide hot, medium, cold or pressed? Not a clue what they meant but I went with medium heat. This is going to turn out awful... Our clothes will turn into clothing for the borrowers! The dryer took 60 minutes. If I had the dryer on for 60 minutes at home, my mum would kill me. Oh well, not my electricity here. We carried on looking for jobs applying for some here and there. The wifi here is absolutely shocking and it's putting us in a bad mood. Our data is almost finished so we have to use the wifi... Tomorrow, we're going to the library instead. They have free wifi which most likely works. We both went up and sorted the laundry out. It seemed fine, luckily. We folded it up and put it in our boxes under our bed. The rooms had been finished too. We went downstairs to make lunch. We started to get peckish, it was 1500 though so of course we were. We went down to grab a $1 coffee from 7-11. We planned on leaving for the library before lunch but it went from boiling hot sunshine to hammering it down within seconds. We made tuna pasta with mozzarella. It was a very small portion but enough for lunch. Steve thought otherwise and tried his hardest to persuade me to go Nando's. It doesn't help that they were standing outside offering tasters of chicken on a cocktail stick... Steve had 2, obviously. After lunch, I chopped up another lemon for our water. I say I chopped it up, Steve did. He wouldn't let me because apparently I'm "cack handed". I'll admit, I hold my cutlery differently but I'm fine with knives. Steve thought I were millimetres away from chopping my fingers off but as a man, he likes to exaggerate. A girl here in the hostel had to have her appendix out (I know the feeling), she called the ambulance herself and had to pay the $1500 fee. Steve and I have decided, if we need the hospital (even if the bone is sticking out), we'll get the train. We can't afford an ambulance... We were up and down all day from our room to reception. We went back up and somehow managed to fall asleep for an hour. I'm sure I only put my phone on charge. Yesterday was exhausting though, with the early start and late night, loads of walking and the heat. It got to 1800 and I was on my laptop. Steve started getting peckish and I told him I'd be finished soon. I had been trying to apply for jobs, write my blog and download PDF. It would've all gone smoothly if I had WIFI! 1930 creeped along and I was finished. Steve, famished as per, couldn't wait to get into the kitchen. Unfortunately, we had forgotten that 1930 was prime time for cooking dinner. Therefore meaning, at least an hour wait before a hob becomes free... We sat with our group - Mel, Lauren, Aimee, Jacob and Cherry. Tonight was trivia night and bingo so prizes were to be won. Steve has never liked trivia because he doubts himself. We missed out last week and our group came second. They got $50 worth of drinks vouchers. By 2030, we found a free hob. I was going to cook chicken, broccoli and carrots. Nice and healthy, a slight detox from all the crap we've been having. I grabbed the chopping board, knives, food out of the cooler bag. I'd sort the veg whilst steve sorts the chicken... That was until we see that the chicken was off. Out of date by 1 day. It smelt disgusting. We were both so angry because 1) there were two massive breasts left 2) it was like $12 3) it took forever to find a hob 4) it was already 2030 and we were starving! We had to put all our stuff away and go to Coles. We walked around Coles for ages and couldn't find anything. Last resort: Dominoes. $5 pizza and it takes 11 minutes from ordering. I really didn't want dominoes but it was getting late, there wasn't anything to cook and Steve wouldn't just have broccoli & carrots. Neither would I. We walked the 15 minutes there and we ate our pizza inside. On the way home, we stopped at 7-11 for a $2 hot chocolate. Our first one since way before we left the UK. It was actually really nice too, made with hot milk. Not bad for a small convenience store. We got home and into our room by 2200. We had missed trivia and bingo again. Our group came second again winning $20 of drinks vouchers. Under our hostel, there's a bar. It looks alright but Steve describes it as a "shithole". How does he know, we've never been in there?! It's called the Joint Bar. We've decided to swap each night on the bunk beds. The top bunk is the only one that gets cold air. The two fans in the room are clipped on by the ceiling so up top is where the fan hits. The window air also only really hits the top. Whoever is on the bottom, doesn't sleep well and sweats. The pillow is next to the door, too, so you constantly get woken by whoever opens and shuts the door. My turn on the top tonight and we've decided not to put an alarm on. We're obviously tired and we're having fruit and yoghurt for breakfast so we don't need to wake up in time. I carried my scales from Sydney to Melbourne. I'm going to weigh us tomorrow as I was meant to today. Not looking forward to the results so far... I'm missing Slimming World terribly.

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torentialtribute · 5 years

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Rugby news: Owen Farrell says pressure to emulate 2003 World Cup win is ‘exciting’

My relationship with the Farrell family goes back much further than many would think.

1990 I was on a mission to sign Jason Robinson, the superstar of the dominant Wigan rugby league team and was determined to bring him to the union.

I thought he could become a hero in our team in England.

I had met Robinson several times and in October 1998 I traveled to Old Trafford to watch the Super League Grand Final. I went to look at Robinson but finally looked at Andy Farrell.

He was the captain of Wigan that day and was just immense, Wigan won 10-4, Farrell kicked the goals and raised the cup.

I remember telling my coaching team and players that we were Farrell

I tried to sign him at the same time as Robinson, but he said no, he couldn't see himself in union at the time, and I continued to study him as a captain.

so surreal, but brilliant to meet his son 21 years later this week in Pennyhill Park as he prepares to meet Engela to lead to the Rugby Union World Cup.

I passed on my story about Andy to Owen for the first time and – quickly as a flash – he was able to fill in the details of the competition.

& # 39; Jason scored & # 39 ;, he recalls. 'I was there. It was the first final ever in the Super League. I was seven and would have gone to the field to celebrate. My father would have been 24. & # 39;

We know that Farrell Jnr is an obsessive rugby, but I was impressed by his memory of a game so long ago.

Farrell Jnr is an obsessive rugby and will be a key figure for the World Cup campaign of England

He is now the leader of this team in England and in my mind absolutely the key figure if they want to win the World Cup.

This was my first real chance to sit down and talk rugby with him, coach to player, so I was fascinated to hear his thoughts about the game and leadership. After all, I know it's in his genes. It is understandable that Farrell does not like to talk about his father, so who does he admire from other sports?

"The ones I look at are the most with the lifespan," he says. "They are the ones that fascinate me the most.

" I go to American sports – Tom Brady [American Football] Michael Jordan [basketball] – and try to figure out how much I can about them.

& # 39; It would be more people who have been at the top for a long time and continue to find new ways to stay there.

& # 39; It is not only that they have come there to do what they have always done, it is how they reinvent themselves; things change to keep themselves in front. & # 39;

And what does he admire with leaders in particular?

& # 39; The most important thing for me – and I think I've seen this from the best leaders, in my eyes, is the authenticity of what they say, & Farrell reveals.

& # 39; They are real. And all those leaders have been different, it's not the case that one way is the right way to do it, it's how you see and convey things.

& # 39; If what you say is genuine and authentic, people buy in it. If there is a little doubt in your head when you say that people sometimes nod their heads, but it does not resonate. & # 39;

Farrell admires the authenticity of leaders and preparations for skipper England this year

This is music in my ears. There is so much emphasis nowadays on how to produce a winning mentality or culture, but without authenticity and conviction who will follow you? If you don't believe in what you say, everyone can see through it.

"You can feel it yourself," Farrell adds. "If you say something and really mean it, you'll get excited yourself. If it is not like you can fall flat yourself, imagine that you are the person listening. & # 39;

As he says this, I am thinking of Martin Johnson. Like Farrell, Johnson was one of the best players in my English team and he was authentic; really. He led the good example. As a result, he was unmistakably present.

Famous in the tunnel, when he was about to lead the team to the biggest game in England's long history, as opposed to Australia in Sydney, Johnson looked at them to say he had last words like him always did – but this time said nothing. He knew they were ready, words were not necessary.

Farrell and Johnson did not speak to each other, but recently met to talk about leadership.

The 27-year-old recently had former captain Martin Johnson met to talk about leadership

& # 39; It was refreshing to see how simple and sincere his way of thinking was & # 39 ;, says Farrell.

& # 39; Knowing your role, contributing to the team

& # 39; You can look for things and think you're going to find a new magical way to do something. but when you talk to the best, there seem to be no secrets. It's about doing everything that everyone knows, but doing it well. & # 39;

In addition to how they lead a team, Farrell seems to me to be a similar character to Johnson off the field.

Before I met Farrell, I watched videos released by the RFU that follow England's preparations for the World Cup.

Under the title & # 39; Rising Sounds & # 39; they map the progress of the team, clips behind the scenes and how the players relax, as well as training sessions and game images.

The English star also distances itself from social media and is cautious & # 39; for the effects

Some people clearly enjoy it and turn to the camera crew – their personalities really come to the fore. The video & # 39; s are well put together and are brilliant for fans – I really think they are an excellent way to engage the audience with their England team.

But when I look at the clips as a coach, I am more skeptical. I have always liked to build a mystique around my team.

Eddie Jones signs off the videos before they are released, but as a coach I wonder if they are properly revealing the opposition.

Farrell seems to distance himself from social media involvement. Remarkably, he is not very common in the films. Looking at his social media accounts, they are polite, pragmatic – which contrasts sharply with many modern sports people.

"I struggle a bit with it," he says frankly. & # 39; Especially because it's like publishing things that you think forever, which may not be the case. It might just be a thought at the time.

"People can go back years in people's accounts and bring things up. You could as well have put it on a piece of paper and framed it somewhere! It's like you think that forever.

I am really wary of that. I understand that it is attractive to people outside. Sometimes it is brilliant for people to understand what we are doing, to feel a connection with the team and the individuals.

Woodward believes Farrell will be an excellent leader for England until years

& # 39; I understand that, but even if I try to do something I type something out and eventually delete it. & # 39;

One of my own fallouts with the RFU was things like this. They wanted to film a fly-on-the-wall documentary about the England team for the World Cup and I initially said no.

Eventually I allowed it – on condition that it was released afterwards and our existing backroom staff did the filming in the camp. It was very low-key. We were there to win a tournament, not to make a film.

People cannot help but behave differently on the camera. It can be a distraction. It is interesting how times have progressed, but how some top athletes – such as Farrell – are reluctant to participate in that world.

I admire this care, maturity, an understanding of the greater whole and where the real focus is.

Again Farrell reminds me of Jonno. I see them as comparable, totemic characters and I bet they are the same in private.

Despite his fairly frank personality for the media, Jonno was completely different behind closed doors. I suspect Farrell is the same.

I truly believe that he will become an excellent leader of this English team in Japan and in the years to come.

Farrell is part of a seven-person leadership group and will have their support in Japan need

He tells me that he is part of a seven-person leadership group. He'll need those guys at the World Cup – he's already the number 10, the goal kicker and playmaker as well as the captain.

Like Johnson, Farrell cannot do everything. Who will be his Lawrence Dallaglio, his Jason Leonard, Matt Dawson, Will Greenwood and Neil Back?

When I ask about the dynamics between the leaders and coaches, Farrell assures me that this English team will have the confidence to speak when necessary, to respond in pressure situations and to challenge Eddie and the coaches.

& # 39; If we thought it was justified, we would do that & # 39 ;, says Farrell.

& # 39; It is up to us to have those relationships with the coaches in which we feel comfortable enough to say what we should do the players. I think we have that.

"I don't think there are many in this team who would say nothing if they thought it could make a difference.

We must be checked. That is in every situation. You have to be right emotionally, but with that there can be no despair and therefore lack of control. & # 39;

I always like to ask teams and athletes one question. How do you want to be remembered?

That means on Saturday, after the event, but also in 20 years time when you are retired.

Farrell replies: & # 39; As a player – until be as involved as I can be. What's the next step? Those kind of things. What happens now, what is the next step? & # 39;

The next step is a great opportunity. England has a real chance to win this World Cup. I hope they make their own history.

England has a real chance to win this year's World Cup and can make their own history

We are finally talking about the pressure of expectation. Farrell was 12 when England last won the World Cup in 2003.

& I was then a real rugby league boy and would not have been so closely followed, but I was crazy about any sport , & # 39; he says

& # 39; When an English team starts a World Cup final, everyone watches. I was like everyone else and I loved seeing England lift the World Cup.

"Regarding a burden – I have never seen it that way. I've always seen it as something brilliant. It is part of our history. Wanting to emulate is exciting. & # 39;

I hope that Farrell and his team do not abandon him and he is remembered as a player who gave everything in every game.

As England from the victory over the World Cup, Farrell will certainly join the pantheon of great English captains. He has all the features needed for the role.

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#Rugby news: Owen Farrell says pressure to emulate 2003 World Cup win is ‘exciting’"

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kaylyniah-blog · 6 years

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Medias Portrayal of Athletes with Physical Disabilities

Curators Statement: My curation project is about the way that the media portrays athletes who have a physical disability. I want my audience to understand what these stereotypes and tropes are and how they affect people. Often the media uses these athletes not for awareness of the inequality that they face, but to make the able-bodied majority feel better about themselves. This concept is referred to as inspiration porn. The examples that I have selected for this project demonstrate a variety of how these athletes are displayed in the media and common tropes that surround these representations. The most common tropes that I found while researching this project are the pity or victim trope and the supercrip trope. The pity and victim trope are when the media is displaying disabled people just to get an emotional response out of the audience, to essentially make them feel sad. The supercrip trope goes hand in hand with the inspirational porn that I mentioned previously. It is when the media uses someone with a disability that they have “overcome”, and makes them look like a superhero. The sole purpose of this is to inspire the able-bodied majority.

Researching for this project reminded me of an article that we read earlier in the semester titled “The Social Model of Disability”. This article explains the differences between the medical model of disability and the social model of disability. The medical model is when the word ‘disability’ means a health condition dealt with by medical professionals. Disability is meant to be a problem of the individual. If you look at people with disabilities from the medical model you will think that they need to be fixed or cured. Often when people use this model, disability is a tragedy and people with disabilities are meant to be pitied. In a sense it is all about what a person cannot do, cannot be, or what that person lost. The social model views ‘disability’ as the result of the interaction between people living with impairments and an environment filled with physical, attitudinal, communication and social barriers. It implies that these barriers must change to enable people living with impairments to participate in society on an equal basis with others. Essentially, it puts the pressure on the outside society, or the dominant group to change, and takes away the pressure that the person with the disability is the problem (People with Disability Australia, n.d.). Unfortunately, many of the examples that I found support the medical model of disability. My hope is that one day we can start to see individuals with impairments as equal. If we feel pity for them or a wish to change them, I would encourage everyone to erase that thought and remember that it is us who creates this social construct that these people are different.

The most important thing that I want my audience to take away from this project is that we shouldn’t have to address this population of people as disabled athletes or Paralympic athletes. The trend I noticed while researching, is that all the individuals identified as an athlete (whether that was pre or post injury). We should not have to add an extra label before the word athlete just because they compete in a wheelchair or in prosthetics. They train just like any other athlete, they compete, they have setbacks, and they love their sport. They are athletes.

Example #1: Friday Night Lights

During the first season of the TV Show, Jason Street, a talented high school quarterback suffers a spinal cord injury during a football game. He becomes a quadriplegic and must relearn how to do everything in his daily life. As the seasons progress he decides to return to athletics and try wheelchair rugby, eventually even trying out for the national rugby team for wheelchair users. One part of Jason’s identity that remains constant throughout the show is athlete. He goes through a period right after his injury where he has a hard time accepting his disability. He still sees himself as an athlete but can’t physically do anything to perform as one yet. When he is finally able to play rugby and reconnect with that part of his identity, it is an enlightening moment on the show. Friday Night Lights does a good job at not displaying Jason’s character using the victim or pity trope compared to other TV shows and movies. He still participates in everyday life and his experiences on the show are no more or less important than the other characters.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgTn5iBVhOY

In this clip people may think that the show is using the victim or pity trope. However, the show makes great efforts to portray Jason as honestly as they can. This includes him going through the process of adjusting and accepting his impairment. The show still allows the character to keep his identity as an athlete and maintains his masculinity. Compared to other medial portrayals, this show does a great job of showing the grieving process that people go through when life doesn’t go according to plan. It does this in a way that doesn’t portray Jason’s character as a victim.

In the book titled Examining Identity in Sports Media, the author James Cherney, explains how sports are an excellent way for those with a new disability, or even those who have had their disability for a significant period, to remain active and start rediscovering their identity. He goes on to explain that even sports and exercise have a positive effect on people, only 23% of individuals with disabilities engage in regular physical activity. He attributes this to the “cultural stereotypes” found in the media (Cherney & Lindemann, 2010). That is why it is so important to have positive portrayals of disabled athletes in the media. It will encourage those with disabilities to remain active and to show them that they are more than just a “victim”. Positive portrayals in the media could also help to show the able-bodied that these people are serious athletes just like everyone else.

Example #2: TED talk: The Opportunity of Adversity

https://www.ted.com/talks/aimee_mullins_the_opportunity_of_adversity/transcript#t-1298538

Aimee Mullins is a Paralympic athlete. In this video she describes how her experiences as a double amputee with prosthetics has been a blessing in her life, but how society tries to label that blessing as an “adversity that she has overcome”. Aimee also says how the most difficult thing about being an athlete with prosthetics is “having the objective medical fact of being an amputee and the subjective society that calls her disabled and overcoming being called those definitions”. Something that Aimee wants to make clear is that according to the definition of disabled, being ‘disabled’ is not part of her identity. Something else I think Aimee is trying to say, without bluntly saying it, is that she is not part of the supercrip trope that people sometimes try and make her out to be. This is what bothered her so much when people would go up and ask her how she has overcome so much adversity. She always felt like her prosthetics weren’t an adversity that she simply had to overcome to continue living her life. Aimee says that tends to think of adversity like her shadow, sometimes she sees a lot of it and sometime very little, but it’s always with her.

Aimee is a great example of what the media should be portraying more of. As you will see from my other examples, the media often likes to only portray white males with a specific type of injury (usually one that puts them in a wheelchair). A study that was conducted in Turkey between 2007 and 2011 showed that females had less media coverage than male athletes with disabilities. Females were mostly depicted in the individual sports, whereas males were depicted in more team sports. These individual sports that the athlete participated in were sports considered ‘masculine’. The females were also depicted as passive in most of the articles published. The final thing that this study found was that both male and female athletes were mostly depicted in wheelchairs, which helps reinforce stereotypical perceptions of disability (Ayvazaglu, 2015). Another study that took place in Spain examined the proportion of male to female photographs in eight Spanish sport and mainstream newspapers over a period of three Paralympic games, including Atlanta 1996, Sydney 2000, and Athens 2004. The study found that 335 images were taken, 207 were of male athletes and only 60 were of female athletes. The rest of the pictures were of mixed photos (Pappous, Marcellini, & de Leseleuc, 2011).

Example 3: Microsoft 2015 Super Bowl Commercial: Braylon O’Neill

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLXRt-qRBfU

In this commercial, a toddler named Braylon O’Neil is learning how to walk and play sports with his prosthetics. This commercial, and commercials like this one, have a voice over that is supposed to be inspiring. The main problem with these commercials is that they are designed to try and inspire the able-bodied majority. These companies, such as Microsoft, are trying to show that they are helping these people, and humanity, to fulfill their dreams. This is the supercrip trope. These commercials are known as inspirational porn or cripspiration. They do nothing at all to advance the cause of disabled people, they essentially just make able-bodied people feel better about themselves. They do this by displaying people with disabilities, with the hopes that the dominant groups will feel pity and think that whichever product the commercial is trying to sell, helps people with impairments. Then when they purchase this product they feel better about themselves. Not only because they aren’t the disabled person in the commercial, but also because they think they did something to help the inequality between those with impairments and those without.

Example 4: Paralympic media coverage vs Olympic media coverage

The 2018 Paralympic winter games in PyeongChang had 94 hours on television. This nearly doubles the amount of time that the games were covered in Sochi in 2014 (50 hours). The coverage included 6 winter sports including alpine skiing, snowboarding, sled hockey, wheelchair curling, cross-country skiing, and biathlon. This is compared to the Olympics that had 2,400 hours of TV coverage. The games were all broadcasted on NBC. The president of NBC Olympics came out with a statement when NBC got contracted to broadcast the games, “There is arguably no event in the world more inspiring than the Paralympics, and it’s our privilege to tell the captivating stories of these world-class athletes”. Once again it seems as if this news organization is using these athlete’s disabilities as the supercrip trope. Why do the Paralympic athletics have to any more inspiring than the Olympic athletes? I understand that there isn’t as many athletes or as many events in the Paralympics than the Olympics, so they can’t have as much TV time; however, this event provides a global opportunity to bring actual awareness to equality for athletes (and people) with physical disabilities. If we could find a way to advertise for it and bring attention to the sports and athletes without having to rely on the supercrip trope, we would be making huge progress.

It isn’t just the advertisements and the lack of TV coverage that have been unequal over the years. The Paralympics in 1996 displayed the supercrip trope through the commentary of the events. “Athletes were often compared to mythical or real superheroes, like the Tasmanian devil or Arnold Schwarzenegger. One particularly vivid example of the supercrip stereotype appeared when a Chinese swimmer, who had lost his arms, was featured in the program seemingly to evolve pity from the audience and not for his athletic achievements (Seeger-Birnbaum & Masterson, 2015)

Example 5: Remember the Titans

In the movie based on a true story, Remember the Titans, Gerry Bertier the nationally ranked defensive player on a high school football team, was in a car accident and suffered a spinal cord injury. He became paralyzed.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwJWW6UKnIc

In this scene they include the victim and pity trope to try and get an emotional response out of the audience. They could have left this part of the story out, but it adds a way for the audience to feel deeply saddened for the characters. In a later scene Gerry mentions that he has been doing research into sports for people in wheelchairs and that they even have Olympics for them. This is when they start to switch into the supercrip trope. They want the audience to feel inspired by Gerry’s story and his perseverance to keep going in the face of his injuries. Many parts of this movie do not follow what actually happened during the real events. However, what was real is that a big part of Gerry’s identity was being an athlete. It didn’t matter to him that he was injured, he did some research and figured out what it was going to take for him to be able to continue to keep that part of his identity. He ended up winning a gold medal in the Paralympics in shot-put with his old football coach as his coach.

References

Ayvazaglu, N. R. (2015, July). Gender Parity in Media Coverage of Athletes with Disabilities in Turkey. Journal of International Women's Studies, 16(3), 220-236. Retrieved from http://ezproxy.msu.edu.proxy1.cl.msu.edu/login?url=https://search-proquest-com.proxy1.cl.msu.edu/docview/1702279504?accountid=12598

Cherney, J. L., & Lindemann, K. (2010). Sporting Images of Disability. In A. C. Billings, & H. L. Hundley, Examining Identity in Sports Media (pp. 195-216). Sage Publications. doi:10.4135/9781452274904.n10

Pappous, A., Marcellini, A., & de Leseleuc, E. (2011). Contested Issues in Research on the Media Coverage of Female Paralympic Athletes. Sport in Society, 14(9), 1182-1191. doi:10.1080/17430437.2011.614775

People with Disability Australia. (n.d.). The Social Model of Disability. Retrieved from People with Disability Australia: http://www.pwd.org.au/student-section/the-social-model-of-disability.html

Seeger-Birnbaum, T., & Masterson, G. (2015, August ). Portrayal of Disabled Athletes in the Media. doi:10.13140/RG.2.1.1633.2642

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