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dazais-guardian-angel · 1 year

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Dazai truly has become Oda in every way imaginable now. :’ ) the final words he gives to Sigma are the exact same words Oda gives to Dazai in the original scene Asagiri wrote for the end of the Dark Era stage play, 後は頼んだよ, “I will leave the rest to you.”

And I really love the progression of the way his eyes look in this chapter, and how Sigma is allowed to have this moment of questioning and rebelling against all the faith Dazai had naturally been leading him to place in him up to this point, which is what I hoped would happen. He’s been confused ever since Dazai first chose him, and everything he’s ever known about how everyone sees/treats him turned upside down by Dazai’s words and actions, and just when he’s finally started to feel like he’s found some hope and lowered his guard, Dazai pulls him back underwater, instantly reinforcing all of Sigma’s trust issues and reinforcing that he should never believe in anyone, because (he thinks) everyone lives to manipulate other people. Dazai’s dark eyes here reinforce that, too, and the other panels around this point where they look white and hollow and demonic, all like Fyodor’s. He appears like an evil, looming force pulling him back under, trying to kill him, when Sigma is so close to the freedom of the air he desperately wants (aka free from pain, which is what he’s been seeking his whole life).

But then Dazai makes this face, and the first one I posted above, and Sigma understands, even without words, that Dazai doesn’t have evil intent: on the contrary, he actually is bound and determined to save his life -- and the light in his eyes comes out through this determination and kindness, arguably the most light we’ve ever seen his eyes have in the entire manga (in the “I leave the rest to you” panel too). The “No” could be Dazai wordlessly telling him to not leave the water, but my first assumption was that it was Sigma telling himself no, stopping his own train of thought about Dazai being the same as Fyodor and someone he shouldn’t have trusted -- he soon realizes why Dazai stopped him, and that he’s still going to try to save him, that he wasn’t wrong about him, and it’s all because Dazai’s earnest expressions get through to him.

And it’s just so heartwarming to see how far Dazai has come. :’ ) He tried so hard to save Sigma (doing the most physical action we’ve ever seen him do, really), did his best to be reassuring and comforting to him afterwards, and then reaffirmed his promise to ensure he escaped Meursault alive, his final words to Sigma echoing Oda’s and his last action being to save an orphan, just like Oda did in his last moments. Obviously Dazai isn’t actually going to die, he’ll be saved somehow, but I do think as of right now he really does think this is the end for him, and that he didn’t foresee the elevator dropping -- he was examining the wires a few chapters ago because he thought he might need to know how to open the doors in case Fyodor pulled an uno reverse, hence why he looks more annoyed than shocked when the water starts, but here, when the drop collision sequence is initiated, he looks genuinely shook in comparison. There’d be no reason for him to give the thumbs up if he knew more danger was on the way, either; that’d just be cruel. No, I don’t think he saw this coming, and it’s important that that turns out to be the case: it’s important that he spent what he believes to have been his last moments saving someone like Oda wanted for him, and doing what Oda would have done in the same situation. That doesn’t mean that it’s okay that Dazai throws his life away so easily, and cares so little for his own safety; he still has a long way to go in that regard. But it’s still so beautiful to see how much he’s changed, and how much he’s truly begun to embody Oda and his legacy; the fact that he messed up and miscalculated, because Dazai isn’t infallible, but in turn didn’t hesitate to use his last moments to save Sigma. Oda would be so proud for everything he did here. :’ ) 💖

There are a lot of options for how Dazai will be saved, and by who, but personally I hope (and I kind of expect) that Sigma chooses to not give up on him and ultimately plays a role in saving his life, to return the favor and repay him for his kindness. Not only would it be a beautiful way to initiate Sigma’s ADA entrance exam as people have said, but it would bring the Dazai > Atsushi > Sigma chain full circle: Dazai saved Atsushi at the start of the series, allowing him to (spiritually) save Sigma at sky casino thanks to the growth fostered in him by Dazai, and now finally, Sigma could potentially save Dazai thanks to Atsushi kickstarting his own growth (and Dazai continuing it). Fyodor is overly cocky right now and so tunnel-visioned on killing Dazai, it’s possible that he has no idea that Sigma managed to escape the elevator and is now a wild card; even if Sigma doesn’t go as far as killing Fyodor himself (which I don’t want, tbh; that’s endgame stuff arcs down the line and imo Nikolai and Dazai should be the ones involved with that), he could throw a wrench in the jailbreak duel, and help Dazai and Chuuya get out alive. It would be poetic, and only fitting, for Fyodor to underestimate and be outdone by the kind of person Dazai told him is the strongest in chapter 77 -- a self-proclaimed “ordinary man” -- who could only have the strength to take such action thanks to the chain of kindness that Oda originally started. 💖

#bungou stray dogs #bsd 106.5 #meta #this chapter was literally everything i could have wanted i am SO EMOTIONAL #I WILL NEVER BE OVER IT #ASAGIRI GIVING ME LITERALLY EVERYTHING I EVER COULD HAVE WANTED #DAZAI HAS GROWN SOOOO MUCH HE'S BECOME SO MUCH LIKE ODA I COULDN'T BE MORE PROUD 😭😭😭💖💖💖#as soon as i saw that big panel of his face i was like........ he looks like oda......... ASAGIRI I SEE YOUUUUUU #AND THE FINAL WORDS #I SEE YOUUUUUUUUUU #ISTG IF DAZAI THINKS ABOUT ODA WHEN HE THINKS HE'S GONNA DIE BEFORE HE GETS SAVED I WILL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST #ASAGIRI PLEASE THIS IS THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY I WILL CRYYYYYYY 😭🥺🥹💖#Dazai was so much like Oda here and Sigma looked just like Atsushi in that one panel DONT TOUCH MEEEE #THIS WHOLE CHAPTER WAS SO PERFECT #I NEED SIGMA TO SAVE HIM NOW #the longest chapter we've gotten in AGES and it was a banger god bless #tbh i really needed this after season 4 lmao i needed a reminder of why i love this series so much :''''') something to soothe my rage #asagiri saw my bitterness at anime sigma and was like 'here u go babe i got your sigma and dazai and oda feast'#probably means next month will be short again and a pov change lmao 🥲💔#gonna enjoy this while it lasts #anyway i was really happy to see that moment of Sigma getting mad even if it didn't last long (and for a beautiful reason)#because he Deserved that #(because that's what i wrote in my fic and i feel vindicated now even if that wasn't the main focus of this chapter looool oops-)

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uhbasicallyjustmilex · 3 months

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current editing moodboard, please send help

#perfectionism is really kicking my butt rn #that and the fact i had like a week away from writing properly bc chronic pain and now i can’t get back into the headspace #so yeah #perfectionism and brain fog #the inimitable duo #and i know i just need to be patient because it’ll get in the end there like it always does #but rn i’ve spent two nights in a row trying to polish up the last bits of this chapter #and i still just feel so detached from it all i want to pitch my laptop out the window #but i can’t afford a new laptop each time i want to defenestrate it #so this little rant will have to do instead #UGH #it’s so annoying because i am actually so so proud of this chapter and have loved writing it and can’t wait to share it #it’s just this last little bit that i seem to be hitting a brick wall with #anyway sorry #four walls readers don't worry i go through this just about every chapter lol #i'm just feeling it particularly this time because it's a particularly big chapter (both in terms of length and content)#and sometimes venting in the tags and creating an alex moodboard is very therapeutic #writing stuff #alex turner #writer's block #lulu posts

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johnrossbrrr · 4 months

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Even in the Next One - Chapter 1

Hey, did you want another fic? This one is a role reversal and Claire is the one who wakes up in Japan with memories of her past life, and she is determined to get her wife again. Its got silly, feels and some angst, just in a modern AU, sorta but not really. I'm determined to get these two together again so please give it a read. The first chapter is up there is more to come.

#watashi no oshi wa akuyaku reijou #i'm in love with the villainess #im in love with the villainess #iftv #rae taylor #claire francois #fanfic #fan fiction #writing #my writing #I don't know how much this really helps #but I love to get more people to see it #it feels weird to try to 'sell' myself but I am proud of it #oh this just got a second chapter btw #there are 7 chapters now #the first arc is done

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spookythesillyfella · 1 day

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man writes a fanfiction . makes art for said fanfiction .

hi yes this is tony lore . and digitaltime . rolled up into one .

#yess i wrote and uploaded a fanfiction #i made this little art thingy thing for it cuz like 1) people don't typically interact with my posts if i dont and 2) i really wanted to –#– have fanart done for this . cuz im super proud of it . but i know no one would make it . so i just did it myself !!!#frankly . i am proud of this . both the drawing and the little fic #but #how much do you want to bet that . even if i proof read this like 3 times . there are still a bunch of spelling mistakes ?#heh #i digress #this was a lot of fun to make !!! so y'know :3 #dhmis #dhmis art #dhmis fanfic #dhmis au #high voltage au #dhmis ship #dhmis tony #tony the talking clock #dhmis hv tony #dhmis colin #colin the computer #dhmis hv colin #yeah sorry buddy boy but you don't get to appear in the art for this . vampire cock boy is my favourite character .#dhmis digital time #digitaltime #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #silly :3 #oh yeah also i named all the chapters by The Caretaker songs #just so y'all knew

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three-drink-amy · 7 months

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Fanfic Friday

Thanks for the tag @alrightbuckaroo! I was literally just thinking about starting it this week when I got the tag!

Rules: share a fic (or fanart or gif) that you’re proud of! Moodboard optional!

Such a Burden, This Flame on My Chest

(aka firefighters)

Alex Claremont-Diaz is relocating back to Austin to join his dad's firehouse. His days as a firefighter in Washington D.C. ended badly, but no one knows that, or knows why. And he plans to keep that close to his chest. He has to shove it back down if he wants to seem like a normal person, if he wants to do the job, if he wants to get along with his new crew, and most of all, if he wants to get to know the hot British firefighter on the squad. No one can know what really happened.

When he’s wrapping up at the end of his first week, buttoning his shirt and grabbing his bag, Henry wanders into the locker room. Alex flashes him a polite smile, but not much more. “Okay, so, we’re all going out. And you’re coming with us,” Henry announces. He stands against the doorjamb, his arms crossed at his chest.

Alex looks over at him with a surprised expression on his face. “Oh? And what if I don’t want to go out?”

“Too bad?” Henry jokes. He laughs to himself and steps closer to Alex. “We’re going out to celebrate the end of your first week with us. So, come on! You’ve gotta come.”

“I really don’t, though.” Alex crosses his arms as he argues.

A third person joins the conversation. “Alex, just fucking join us,” Raf says, shaking his head at Alex. “We’re trying to bring you into the 215 family. Just come on. Don’t be a little bitch about it.”

Henry chokes back a laugh as he turns to look from Raf to Alex. The disbelief on his face must be clear. Weirdly enough, it takes Rafael’s bluntness for Alex to agree. “Fine, fine, fine. But I can’t promise I’ll have a good time.”

No pressure tagging: @rmd-writes @welcometololaland @strandnreyes @cha-melodius @chaotictarlos @stutteringpeach @lightningboltreader @orchidscript @bonheur-cafe @danieljradcliffe @walkinginland @everwitch-magiks @indomitable-love @clottedcreamfudge @catanisspicy @rosedavid @cricketnationrise @villiageidiot @athousandrooms @actual-sleeping-beauty @celeritas2997 @celaestis1 @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

#I am still really proud of this one #especially all the fire related chapter titles #fic Friday #rwrb fics #my writing

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goforth-ladymidnight · 4 months

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A Second Chance

Ch. 4 of (I stopped counting, ok?)

Pairing: Tamlin x Lucien

Word Count: 6k

Summary: Tamlin reveals what happened to him seven years ago

Warning: This chapter involves some heavy themes and implied SA, but it is not explicit

Read on AO3 or read on below:

Lucien carefully set down the steaming ceramic coffee mugs on matching cork coasters before taking his place on the loveseat next to Tamlin. “Do you want anything else?” he asked gently.

Tamlin huffed a laugh and rubbed his eyes. When he dropped his hands, his face was flushed red, and his green eyes were swollen, like some sad sort of Christmas card. “How about a do-over?” he sniffed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I wish I could have a do over of the last seven years,” he said, voice cracking.

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

Tamlin winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, but… I need to.”

Lucien reached out and gently rested his hand on his friend’s back. Tamlin stiffened at first, then sighed and softened as he began to rub. “I’m sorry I pushed you,” Lucien said softly. “If you don’t want to tell me, I completely understand.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Tamlin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s the problem.”

Lucien sighed, then leaned over to reach for the box of tissues. “Here.”

Tamlin breathed a teary laugh, then took two tissues and wiped his face with them. “Goddammit,” he whispered. “I’m such a wimp.”

“You’re not a wimp,” Lucien said firmly. “That’s your dad talking.”

“No, if it was really my dad talking, he would grab an empty mug and tell me to fill it up if I was going to cry so much.”

Lucien grimaced and removed his hand to pick up his coffee and Tamlin’s. “I don’t have any empty mugs,” he said, “so if you want one, you’re just going to have to drink this up first. And something tells me you won’t feel like crying into it when you’re done.”

Tamlin’s red-rimmed eyes fell to the proffered coffee mug, then he sighed. He slowly, carefully took it and wrapped his hands around the warm cup, then inhaled the fragrant steam. “Thanks, Lu,” he murmured.

“Anytime.”

When Tamlin seemed more interested in holding it than drinking it, however, Lucien gently nudged him.

“Hey.” When Tamlin looked up, he lifted his mug in salute. “Here’s to your health,” he said in Scythian, then sipped.

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

When Lucien translated, Tamlin’s lips curved into the softest of smiles.

“You used to drive me crazy, you know, practicing Scythian on me all the time,” he said with a breathy chuckle. His gaze grew distant, as though remembering, then he sighed. He had been doing that a lot lately, Lucien noticed, but at least he didn’t look like crying anymore.

Tamlin raised his mug to his lips, then paused. “How do you say that again? That little toast, or whatever.”

Lucien smiled and told him, then grinned as Tamlin repeated it. His accent was atrocious, but it was the thought that counted. With an approving nod, he clinked his cup against Tamlin’s and repeated it once more, then gladly drank when his friend drank.

After that first swallow, Tamlin lowered his mug with a contented sigh. “God, I’ve really missed this,” he whispered.

“Hey, there’s more plenty more where that came from,” Lucien said, raising his mug with a smile.

“No, I meant… Being with you.”

Lucien’s smile faltered. There was such pain and sorrow in those big, amber-flecked green eyes… and yet, there was a glimmer of something like hope. Like an abandoned tomcat that had found its way to a warm fire. I know this can’t last, his eyes said, but thank you for letting me rest.

Lucien suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap Tamlin in a giant blanket and feed him latkes and coffee and pie until he was too stuffed to move, then tuck him into bed and promise that nothing would ever hurt him again. Tamlin was no tomcat, but still, the idea was a tempting one.

For now, Lucien contented himself with patting Tamlin’s leg. “I’ve missed you, too,” said softly, trying to smile.

Tamlin dropped his gaze to Lucien’s hand still resting on his knee. Worrying that he might have crossed some kind of line, Lucien removed it to cradle his coffee mug.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said, shifting his position to sit sideways on the loveseat. “What are the odds of us running into each other again after all these years, right?”

Tamlin flexed his fingers as he readjusted his grip on his coffee cup and smiled sadly. “Yeah. Right,” he murmured.

In the silence that followed, unsure of what else to say, Lucien looked away and took another sip of coffee.

“I know you’re wondering what happened.”

Lucien winced. “That doesn’t mean it’s any of my business. It was seven years ago. If you don’t want to tell me, we can just move on, you know?”

Tamlin scoffed. “I wish I could.”

“Why can’t you?” When Tamlin hesitated, Lucien chided himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry…”

“You’re not. It’s just… I’ve never really told anyone about this before, except Jurian.”

Lucien grimaced. “I am kind of curious how you two met,” he admitted. “So, if you don’t mind telling me that much…”

Tamlin sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “For that to make sense, I’d have to start at the beginning.”

“Which was when?”

“When I met the Dean… Amarantha.”

* * *

Tamlin still remembered the rap of his knuckles against the heavy hardwood door, and the emptiness of the administrative office when he stepped inside. There were no windows, but miniature twinkle lights and strands of tinsel decorated the walls and the desks of those who had already gone home for the day, and the holidays, for that matter. There must have been a party earlier, because discarded napkins and cups and plates filled the garbage cans as he passed by.

A long table rested along one wall, covered in a festive disposable tablecloth. He didn’t remember what foods were left, except perhaps the usual sugar cookie crumbs and frosting smears that always made their appearance at such parties. There might have been sandwiches, too, but he didn’t remember. There was a punch bowl, though, with citrus slices floating in bright red liquid. That, he remembered.

It looked like it had been a fun party, but he wouldn’t have thought so based on the look the secretary gave him when he walked in. If the abandoned office was a tomb, she was the corpse, with her leathery skin and dusty-gray hair and pinched, puckered mouth. In all fairness, she was probably only in her mid-fifties or so, but she might as well have been a hundred.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi… Um,” he began, reaching into his jacket pocket. He held up a handwritten appointment card and explained, “I’m here to see the Dean.”

She stared hard at him over the tops of her horn-rimmed reading glasses. Her hands, which were straightening a stack of bright red folders, were long and sharp and bony. There was a shapeless gray cardigan resting around her shoulders, and a tight pearl choker at her neck. She was probably a very nice lady to her grandkids, if she had any. But somehow he doubted she did. She breathed loudly through her nose, then asked in a patiently impatient voice, “And you are?”

“Oh. My name is Tamlin, sir—uh, ma’am. That’s T-A-M-L-I—”

“No. You are late. L-A-T-E. Late. Do you know what time it is?”

Tamlin lowered the card with an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry. My last exam was on the other side of campus. I didn’t think—”

“Young man,” she said sharply. “You were expected to arrive over an hour ago. This office is now closed until after New Year’s. When the office reopens, you may make another appointment. That is, if the Dean agrees to see you. She does not tolerate tardiness.”

Tamlin winced at each snippy, enunciated syllable. So much for tidings of comfort and joy. “I am sorry,” he said, trying to smooth things over. “I thought she might still be here. If you could just put me down on the schedule for the next available opening, I promise I won’t be late.”

The old bat stared at him, then loudly sighed as she set aside her folders. “I suppose I could take a look…”

“That’s all right, Ms. Attor,” an authoritative voice said nearby. “He’s here now. Let him in.”

Tamlin turned to see a tall, imposing woman wearing a long black coat standing in the doorway of the largest corner office. The door had been closed when he walked in. When she caught his eye, she smiled at him with lips as red as her ruby-tinted hair.

“Hello, Tamlin. It is Tamlin, isn’t it?”

He nodded, but the secretary tried to protest.

“But-but-but… It’s after five o’clock! The office is closed—”

“This won’t take long,” the Dean declared, not taking her eyes off him. “You go home. I’ll lock up.”

Without waiting for an answer, she stepped aside and motioned for him to join her. Her long fingernails matched the crimson shade of her lipstick.

“Tamlin. If you please.”

He stuffed his hands inside his jacket pockets and smugly ignored the squawking protests of the Dean’s power-tripping secretary to step inside the spacious private office. She motioned for him to sit while she stepped outside to have a private word with her employee. Part of him wished that he could listen to the verbal dressing down, but the heavy door blocked out all sound.

Unlike the rest of the office space, this room was free of all Christmas decorations. The desk was dark, polished wood, and the rest of the minimalistic décor consisted of polished, black marble sculptures. There weren’t any photos, but there was a large mirror on the wall. Everything was cool and stark and purely professional. Tamlin was studying an abstract painting of a lone mountain peak behind the desk when the door closed behind him.

He turned to see the Dean carrying a single red folder. The tab, he noticed, had his name on it. He gulped.

“You must excuse my secretary,” she said as she took her seat behind the desk. It sounded less like an apology and more like a command. “She didn’t realize how important this meeting was to me. I do hope that your studies were not affected in any way.”

“Oh. No,” Tamlin said, shifting in his chair. “Like I said, I just had my last exam, so…”

“Good,” she said with a cool smile, then opened the folder and laid it flat. “Now, it says here that you had your Language Arts final today, is that correct?”

Tamlin blinked in surprise. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Please. Call me Amarantha.”

“Yes, m—Amarantha.”

Her lips curved upward into a pleased smile. “Good boy,” she purred, then returned her attention to whatever was written in his file. “Would you say that this is your best subject?”

“Second best,” he replied honestly. “I like poetry well enough, but ever since my mom gave me my first violin, music has been my best subject. Well, I mean, it’s my favorite subject, anyway.”

She smiled again. “You are far too modest. Your record says that you’ve been first chair in the orchestra for two years running. That is quite an accomplishment for someone of your age and background.”

“Yes, m—I mean, thank you,” he said, confused.

“Are other members of your family similarly gifted?”

Tamlin took a deep breath, considering. He could have told the Dean how his mother had given up a career in music to marry his father while he pursued a career in the military. He could have told her how his mother used to write her own songs and sing them to her three boys when their father was away. He could have said that out of his three brothers, he was the only one to follow in her footsteps, even though the oldest had become a star quarterback, and the second the captain of the wrestling team. He could have mentioned his father and his five-star ranking, but he didn’t want to. No one but his mother had supported his dreams in any way, so they didn’t deserve any credit. Besides, Amarantha didn’t really need to know the details; she was a complete stranger, even if she was the Dean.

Knowing that she wanted some kind of answer, though, he said simply, “Well, my mom used to play the cello before she—she passed away.”

Amarantha made a small, sad noise. “Oh, dear. I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said politely, then asked, “What about your father?”

“What about him?”

Amarantha chuckled at the clear disdain in his tone. “Oh, dear,” she said again, continuing to smile. “You are not very fond of your father, are you?”

Tamlin snorted. “Should I be?”

“Hmm. It certainly isn’t required,” she remarked thoughtfully, fiddling with her pen. “I, myself, was raised by a single mother, and look at me now…” She smiled proudly. “The first female dean in Middengard University’s history, and I’m not even forty.”

Tamlin nodded politely. “I had no idea,” was all he could think to say, but now he was beginning to wonder.

Her smile grew, and he noticed her eyes crinkle at the corners. “You are a darling,” she said sweetly. She set her pen down to lace her fingers together and delicately rested her chin upon them. “Just between us,” she began in a congenial way, “I was there for your final performance with the orchestra last week, and I have never heard a finer rendition of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony in all my life.”

Tamlin couldn’t help his pleased grin. “Thank you, ma’am—I mean, Ms. Amarantha,” he amended when she gave him a look. “I worked very hard on that piece.”

“I could tell,” she said sweetly.

“It wasn’t just me, though,” he offered. “It was a group effort. Everyone worked just as hard as I did.”

“Yes, but they aren’t the first chair violinist, are they?”

“No, ma—No, Amarantha.”

She smiled and picked up her pen. “Modest, talented, and handsome,” she remarked. “You must be beating off the girls with a stick.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, no?”

He didn’t want to admit that girls didn’t interest him that much. They never had. He was more interested in playing his music, or keeping his head down. Lucien was the first person to weasel his way into Tamlin’s affections, but he was in Scythia for another semester. There was a girl he had known for a while and recently gotten together with, but he had been so busy prepping for finals, they hadn’t spent much time together yet.

Still, he had to say something, so he shrugged. “It’s just… I already have a girlfriend, so…”

Amarantha’s smile faded. “Yes,” she said slowly, turning a page in his file. “A Miss… Feyre Archeron.”

Tamlin straightened in his chair. “How did you know that?”

She glanced up and gave him a cool smile. “I make it my business to know.” She returned her attention to his file and recited, “Feyre Archeron, age 20. Art major, Educational minor. She is passing most of her classes, although failing Literature. Her father paid her tuition in full, but it would seem that she is more interested in socializing than social economics.” Amarantha folded her hands over the file and gave him a stern look. “I certainly hope you are using protection,” she said coolly. “A mid-level student like her will only bring you down.”

His face grew hot. “No offense, but that’s none of your business.”

“As Dean of this University, the success and failure of each of my students is my business.”

“Then why aren’t you lecturing her?” Tamlin said angrily. “If you think she’s doing so badly, then tell her off, not me.”

“Tamlin.” He was already halfway out of his chair, but her tone made him pause. She pointed to his chair with her pen, and said quietly, “Sit down. Please.”

He didn’t want to, but she was the Dean.

When he reluctantly resumed his seat, she lowered her hand and slowly tapped her pen on her desk. “It seems that you have a temper,” she said coolly. “You get that from your father, I take it.”

Tamlin’s temper flared at the accusation, then stuttered out as he realized that he did, in fact, share his father’s temper. And he hated it.

When he remained surly and silent, Amarantha went on, “Don’t get me wrong. A temper can be quite useful, when honed correctly. The same fire that can burn bridges can also create a stained glass window. In your case, the stained glass window is your music. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he muttered and looked away. The sooner she was done talking, the sooner he could leave.

“I can see that I have offended you, and for that I do apologize.”

When he finally turned his head and met her gaze, she smiled.

“You are a bright, passionate young man who cares deeply for others. I know you care for your girlfriend, but her path is not your path. I would hate to see you shackled to someone whose greatest ambition in life is teaching children how to fingerpaint.” Amarantha sighed and shook her head. “I cannot tell you how many talented students I have seen who had to give up on their dreams because they decided to get married to their college sweetheart and have children before they completed their studies.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I don’t want kids, then.”

“Yes, I—” She sat up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I don’t want kids.”

She stared at him open-mouthed, then stammered like her secretary. “But-but—I… W-what about your legacy?”

Tamlin snorted. “Just a second ago you were telling me not to have kids.”

“I was urging you to reconsider having children with someone who is not on your level both creatively and academically.”

“Look, it’s not that serious, okay?” Tamlin said, pushing himself to his feet. “We’re just dating. Besides, everyone I know has had a crappy father, and I don’t want to be one.”

“You don’t have to be to be one.”

His brows furrowed as he looked at her askance. “Huh?”

She gripped her desk and leaned forward. “I don’t think you realize what a treasure you are,” she said fervently. “Not only are you a talented musician, you are tall, handsome, intelligent, well-spoken, and polite. Most of the men I meet have only one or two of those qualities. I have been looking for someone like you for a very, very long time. I had very nearly given up.”

Her unblinking stare made his skin prickle. “Um… okay,” he said, nodding slowly. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Can I, uh, go now, please?”

“Not just yet,” she said, turning to the last page in his file. “We still need to discuss your future here.” When she looked up and noticed that he had remained standing, her features softened. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve made you uncomfortable.” She rose to her feet and motioned for him to sit. “I know you are eager to be on your way, but we are nearly done. Please, have a seat. When I return, we will complete our interview, and then you have my permission to go.”

There were three steps to the door. Three steps to freedom. And three steps to potential academic ruin. So Tamlin sighed, and he sat.

Amarantha smiled. “If you will excuse me for just a moment, I will be right back.”

When the heavy door swung closed behind her, Tamlin glanced at his wristwatch. It was getting late. Feyre was expecting him to pick her up for dinner at seven. At this rate, he would barely make it back to his dorm in time to change.

He could have walked out, but Amarantha was on the other side of the door. Besides, she had access to his file… and Feyre’s, too, for that matter. She hadn’t mentioned it, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she had Lucien’s file on hand, as well. His friend had worked too hard to qualify for this trip to Scythia for Tamlin to mess it up in any way. Amarantha didn’t seem like the sort of person to sabotage a student’s record, but there would be no stopping her if she did.

When the Dean returned, she was carrying two clear cups of bright red punch, complete with floating lemon slices and cinnamon sticks for extra holiday flair. “Here you are,” she said brightly, handing him the fuller glass. “This was served at the faculty Christmas party earlier today,” she explained, taking a seat on the edge of her desk. “There is plenty left if you’d like another glass, but it would be a shame to waste it.”

Before he could protest, she had already lifted her cup to toast him. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped her head back to drink.

“Oh, okay. Cheers, I guess,” he said quietly, then took a tentative mouthful of fruit punch. He grimaced at the surprisingly bitter taste, and swallowed hard. Perhaps he’d swallowed a lemon seed, or a clump of cinnamon by mistake.

“Now, then,” Amarantha said, setting her drink aside. “What are you going to do to celebrate? You’ve finished your last final, and here it is, nearly Christmas.”

He was distracted from answering as he watched her unbutton her coat. “Um… I thought we were almost done.”

“Oh, we are,” she said, shrugging it off her shoulders. “I was feeling a little warm, and I thought I’d make myself more comfortable. You don’t mind, do you?”

He swallowed hard as he watched her lay the coat beside her on her desk. Her dress was cut above the knee, and her long, shapely legs were very, very bare. “No, no, of course not,” he muttered, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You were saying?”

He scratched at his eyebrow as he looked away; his face felt flushed. “About what?”

“Your plans,” she reminded him, then began playing with the long gold chain that had fallen into her exposed cleavage.

Had she been wearing that dress under her coat this entire time? The little black dress was unbuttoned below her cleavage and cinched at the waist. It was not exactly what he would have pictured a dean wearing, but who was going to stop her? Some of the guys in the dorm would have called this a fantasy come to life; he felt more like he had walked into a nightmare.

He suddenly remembered she had asked him a question. It was difficult to think. “Um, I’m having dinner later, I-I guess…”

“Oh, really?” she asked, taking his glass from him. “What kind of foods do you like?”

“I—um… Is this rel—rev—revela…” He frowned. His tongue wasn’t working right.

“Relevant?” she finished for him, then laughed. “Very.”

He blinked. “A-all kinds, I-I guess…”

“Good,” she purred. “I do hate picky eaters.”

“W-why?”

Instead of answering, she set his glass aside and pushed herself off the edge of her desk. She stepped closer and reached out to slide her fingers over his scalp, then grabbed his hair and bent his head back.

“Hey,” he tried to say, but his mouth refused to cooperate. His body, too.

“You have green eyes,” she mused, looking into them, then she smiled. Her own eyes were such a dark brown that they were nearly black, or at least they appeared so in this light. Her entire face was in shadow. “They’re the rarest color, you know. I’ve always liked green eyes. They’re so attractive.”

He could only groan in answer.

Her grip softened as she looked him over, and her hands slid through his hair and down to his collar. “I didn’t want to do it this way,” she said, pouting softly as she ran her fingers along his shoulders. “I had so many more questions, but you forced my hand.”

To his horror, she began unbuttoning his shirt, and there was nothing he could do to stop her.

She bent down low, pressing herself against him and filling his nostrils with the sickeningly sweet smell of her perfume. Her breath was hot against his ear as she whispered, “Don’t worry. You won’t remember a thing, but I promise, I’ll make it good for you.”

The last thing he remembered was the sensation of greasy red lipstick pressed against his neck.

* * *

Lucien stared at his friend in horror. Tamlin’s eyes were shadowed and unfocused as he shrugged a shoulder.

“The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with all these security guards standing over me. They said someone had spiked the punch bowl, and did I need to go to the hospital. I don’t… I don’t remember much after that.”

Lucien covered his mouth and looked away, speechless. Of all the stories his classmates had concocted about Tamlin’s disappearance, none of them came close to the horrifying truth. If he had heard the story from anyone else, he would have dismissed it as something they saw on a detective drama or made up for a creative writing class. But to hear this from Tamlin’s mouth… He hadn’t expected this. Never this.

“It took me a while to piece everything together,” Tamlin said quietly, staring into the bottom of his empty coffee mug. “Sometimes I think that I dreamed it all up. Or maybe I’ll wake up, but…” He trailed off and shrugged again, listlessly.

Lucien shook his head to clear it. “Did—did you report her?”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened. “I tried.”

* * *

The police station was a dizzying whirl of sights and sounds and smells. The bluish tint of flickering overhead lighting, the squeak of police-issued shoes against dull laminate flooring, and stale coffee mixed with cheap aftershave. Tamlin sat alone on a barely padded metal chair with uneven legs, next to a scratched wooden desk covered in coffee ring stains and scattered paperwork, waiting to make his statement. With his arms resting on his knees, he tried to block out the tinny ringing of telephones, the blurred murmur of voices, and the slamming of metal filing cabinets by slowly rubbing his palms together, feeling the light calluses in his fingertips that were already beginning to fade. He hadn’t touched his violin since… the incident.

The nurse at the hospital had tried to suggest a r*pe kit, but the idea was absurd. Unthinkable, even. It was just a glass of spiked punch. Nothing more. Nothing except… He hadn’t been sleeping well. Nightmares plagued him. He snapped at Feyre for no reason, and often forgot to eat.

It was the get-well-soon card delivered to his dorm that did it. It smelled like perfume. Her perfume. So on a bitterly cold January day shortly before the start of spring semester, he gathered his courage to go down to the local station and ask the police to look into it. He couldn’t ask the campus police for help. Not when they worked for her.

“Someone say something about reporting a r*pe?”

Tamlin startled and looked up to see a tall, leathery-faced officer with short, iron gray hair frowning down at him. The officer gestured with his clipboard.

“Are you the witness?”

He swallowed. “Um, sort of.”

The officer let out a resigned sigh and took a seat at the desk. He turned in his rolling chair, then leaned back to cross his legs on the scarred wooden desktop.

Resting the clipboard in his lap, he clicked his pen and flatly said, “Please state the date on which the incident occurred.”

Tamlin cleared his throat. “Um. The Friday before Christmas.”

The officer’s eyes flicked up at him, apparently waiting for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, he let out a loud, annoyed sigh to look at the exact date on the calendar. After scrawling it down, he continued, “State the name of the victim if you know it.”

Tamlin rubbed the back of his neck and whispered his own name.

The officer looked him over, frowning, then tersely said, “Spell it.” When he did so, the officer murmured, “…L-I-N… Okay. And you are?”

Late. L-A-T-E. Late. Tamlin blinked, and looked more closely at the officer’s badge.

Attor. T. Attor.

Tamlin’s blood ran cold. “Excuse me, sir. Um, do you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you h-happen to know someone that works f-for the University?”

The officer’s dark eyes narrowed as he looked him over. “My mother works for the Dean’s office, not that it matters. Why, you want to accuse her of something?”

Tamlin blanched and quickly shook his head. “No. Um, thank you for—for your time.”

As he stood, the officer shrugged with the clipboard. “What…?” He made a noise of disgust as Tamlin walked away and muttered, “And thank you so much for wasting mine.”

When Tamlin shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and turned for the exit, he heard the distinct sound of paper crumpling and being tossed into the nearest wastebasket.

Gray slush lined the street and reflected the overcast sky as he trudged to the nearest bus stop. The dirty glass enclosure offered little shelter from the cutting wind, but it was better than nothing. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t feel much anyway.

No one else was waiting around except a brawny, dark-haired fellow in a long coat with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He was patting his coat pockets and muttering something when Tamlin took his seat on the frigid metal bench at the other end of the enclosure.

He had just turned up his collar and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to imagine how painful walking in front of a bus would be, when the man at the other end cleared his throat.

“Hey, kid, you got a light?”

Tamlin glanced over, then slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Neither do I.”

To his dismay, the man got up to join him on his side of the bus shelter.

Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he remarked, “I suppose it’s just as well. I’ve been tryin’ to quit, but you know how it is.” As he replaced the cigarette and its box inside his coat pocket, he continued, “Miryam, that’s my wife—well, now she’s my ex-wife—she used to buy me those patches that are supposed to lessen the cravings or whatever, but damned if they don’t just make ‘em worse. Besides, they don’t keep your fingers warm when it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside, ya know?”

Tamlin managed a shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, well… You’re still young.” The man thumbed his nose and sniffed before copying Tamlin’s stance and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I hate taking the bus, but I hate cabs more. Those bloodsuckers will drain you dry and then run you over to squeeze out loose change.”

Tamlin breathed a tiny chuckle, but the man didn’t seem to notice. Not that he minded. It had been a while since anyone had tried talking to him without some kind of agenda or pity. It was… kind of nice.

“So, my wife—well, ex-wife—got the car in the divorce, so I got a new one, only it got impounded.” He nodded at the police station across the street. “Turns out, cops don’t like it very much when you park outside their house to go birdwatching.”

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “Birdwatching?”

“Yeah, birdwatching.” The man nudged him and raised his brows in a meaningful way. “You know: ‘A little birdie told me that…’ No?”

Tamlin shook his head, confused.

The man’s mouth shrugged. “Yeah, well. Let’s just say it’s code for ‘I got hired to take some private photos’ by a cop’s wife—who now happens to be his ex-wife—and the cop involved figured it was me. So now, I get to try to make friends with the impound lot desk clerk. Except she doesn’t like me very much.”

Tamlin glanced between the man and the station across the street. “So… what are you doing over here, then? Why aren’t you over there, trying to get your car back?”

The man sighed and smiled to himself. “Because I’m trying to quit smoking.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter and flicked it on. Tamlin stared at the flickering orange flame as the man explained, “I was a cop for four years before I decided that wasn’t the life for me. There’s a whole lot of paperwork and not a whole lot of justice goin’ around. So, when I saw you walk out of the station, I figured that my old pals over there didn’t treat you very nice. And, I figured, what the hell; if nothing else, you just needed someone to talk to.” He flicked off the lighter and returned it to his pocket. “Was I right?”

Tamlin managed to swallow down the lump in his throat, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped.

The man smiled, then sat back on the bench. “We’ve got some time to kill before your bus comes. My date at the station can wait, so, spill.”

Just then, the bus appeared at the end of the street, and slowly rattled to a stop as it approached.

“Well, it was worth a shot,” the man remarked. He slapped his knees and sat up, then reached into another pocket and pulled out his wallet. With an expert flick of the wrist, he pulled out a business card and offered it to him. “Here. Any time you need someone to talk to, I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

Tamlin took the card and looked it over. The logo was an eyeball surrounded by a ring. “You’re Jurian?” he guessed, reading the name from the card.

“Yep, that’s me. How about you, kid? You got a name, or should I just call you ‘kid’?”

He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Tamlin.”

“Tamlin,” Jurian said, offering his hand, then shook his. “Good to meet you.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

As the bus screeched to a halt in front of the enclosure, Tamlin came to a sudden decision. He caught the eye of the driver and waved him on.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jurian asked him as the bus doors closed.

Tamlin slid the business card into his pocket and rose to his feet. “Sure,” he said, then nodded to the station across the street. “I’m going to help you get your car back.”

Jurian’s eyes widened as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’d do that?”

Tamlin shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s worth a shot.”

A slow grin grew on Jurian’s face. “Kid, if you can do that, I’ll treat you to lunch. Anything you want. As long as it’s at Annie’s Diner, which is all I can really afford.”

Tamlin chuckled, and he was surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ve never been there, so… Why not.”

Jurian pumped his fists and made a triumphant sound. “Yes. I’m comin’ for you, baby,” he said to himself, and Tamlin wasn’t sure if he meant the desk clerk or the car or even Annie herself. Before he could ask, Jurian pointed at him and said, “You, my friend, have just earned yourself an all you can eat buffet.”

Tamlin smiled nervously and shrugged again. “But I haven’t done anything yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re willing to try, and that counts for something.”

“Yeah,” Tamlin said quietly. “I guess it does.”

“You bet it does,” Jurian said, slapping him on the back. “Come on, kid. Let’s go get my car. I hope you like latkes.”

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whisper-my-serenade · 10 months

Text

wayward son

a theoretical todd anderson origin story

word count: 5937

cw: non-consensual kissing, f-slur, period-accurate homophobia

Todd sat himself at the top of the staircase, careful not to make a sound lest his parents hear around the corner. They spoke in hushed, angered tones; they spat his name like that of a plague. It was as if he was a misbehaving dog that they couldn’t put down, but some other form of containment had to be found. In that moment, he might have preferred if they just shot him Old Yeller-style.

“Aren’t there religious places we can send him? Places that are equipped to deal with things like this?” his father was saying, exasperated.

“No, no, everyone knows those don’t work. Besides, people would ask too many questions about where he’s gone,” his mother huffed. He thought it surprising that she was against a religious school, seeing as she was the one who dragged them all to church every Sunday.

His father sighed, the heavy, long thing that Todd knew he did as a quiet way of telling people to shut up and do whatever he said. “We’re running out of options, Lorraine. We need somewhere that will keep him in line. A military school, maybe?”

“Ha!” his mother cracked. “Could you imagine? He’d be crushed like a bug.”

There was a stiff moment of silence. Todd could feel the heavy, humid summer air creep through the open windows.

“Why don’t we just send him to Welton?” his mother suddenly replied, and Todd inhaled sharply, almost breaking his silence with a yelp. Please, anywhere but there.

“You can’t be serious,” his father retorted. “After what he’s done? You remember why we didn’t send him there in the first place, don’t you?”

“There’s no better place to get him in line and make sure he gives our family a good name. That’s what that school was made for. Besides, his grades are up enough, I think.”

“I don’t know. He’s not really the Welton type, is he?”

“Do you have any better ideas, Robert?”

Todd waited for the reply with bated breath. Even then he could feel his future being determined right in front of him.

“Oh, I suppose not. It’s as good a school as any.”

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd Anderson was, at Balincrest, a leper. He was quiet, anxious, had a bad stutter and some awkward nervous ticks that made the other boys call him names usually reserved for asylum patients. But Todd was not a fun target—he had something most other boys his age lacked, that being the emotional maturity to know when to not rise to the bait—and for the most part he was left on his own, reading his infinite novels in some dark hovel and completing his schoolwork silent and alone in a corner of the common room. The teasing, when it did come about, didn’t bother him much because he was as aware of his faults as anyone and no one could punish him for them as he already punished himself. For some reason, though, the one that got to him the most was ‘mute’. It was not that he couldn’t talk, it was that there was no one in the world he felt he could talk with.

Ever since he was a small child, people had very few good things to say about Todd. With his parents, it was always some form of inferiority to his brother, a high cliff of a standard he could never quite climb to the top of. Gone were the days of the two boys dressed in matching outfits, playing games of knights and dragons in their grandparent’s sprawling backyard; now it was only Jeffrey did this and you didn’t. Going to different schools meant Todd only saw glimpses of his brother in the summer, when his primary job was staying out of his family’s hair. Todd didn’t know what Jeff thought about the matter. He also didn’t care.

Todd never particularly excelled in school, either. He was shown to be reasonably bright in class, and was always reading far above his grade level, but his test scores were horrendous, and, worse yet, he failed every presentation he was ever assigned because he simply could not do them. His throat would close up, lungs gasping for air he seemingly could not find, and his mind spun recklessly out of control, trapping him in a distant subconscious where he could not be reached for anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour. To his parents, the attacks were another form of embarrassment. Not only was Todd not as smart or socially skilled as his brother, he was also mentally diseased. When he was a child, he’d often sought the comfort of his parents when his mind slipped away from him. But he was sixteen now, and knew better. The Andersons always chose to suffer alone.

That wasn’t to say he had no skills whatsoever. In his younger years he wrote wildly imaginative stories, taking bits and pieces of all the children’s fiction he read to create new worlds of his own to escape to. He wrote little now, burnt out from years of essay writing, but still read ferociously all manner of literature, from low-brow science fiction to the most classical of poets. And, if nothing else, he was quite a good soccer player.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed the game—far from it—he just happened to have the skill and anger needed to push his way to the top. Of all the nicknames he was called, no one ever called him sensitive, because he could kick circles around any other player at the school and glare at them like an angry watchdog as he did it. It was a way of release, maybe, but an unfortunate one, because if Todd hated anything, it was having eyes on him.

Which is why when he ended up on Balincrest’s varsity team his sophomore year (the only one, at that), it filled him with such immense dread that the school nurse thought he’d caught the flu. His first day in that locker room, suddenly surrounded by burly, sweaty upperclassmen who joked about shotgunning beers and assaulting women (another area where Todd lacked expertise), was one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life, and when the coach asked if someone would volunteer to spend a few minutes after practice packing up the equipment, Todd leapt at the chance. Anything to get out of that humid, musky room for a few minutes longer. Too many eyes.

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd had never spoken to Isaac Parker in his life. Isaac was junior, handsome, with golden blonde hair and warm hazel eyes that had the unique ability to convince girls that he was somehow different from every other reckless, immature teenage boy that tried to wiggle their way into their hearts (and skirts). He was also a favorite among the staff, but in that friendly, charismatic way that kept the name “teacher’s pet” off his back. Everyone knew he was destined to be the soccer team captain his senior year, because God had never made anyone else so perfectly for the job. The sun smiled upon this boy.

It was a spring evening, one of the first warm ones after a brutal northeast winter, that their paths first crossed. Practice was wrapping up, and Todd was skirting off to the side of the field to begin his now usual job of cleaning up when, from over the field, he heard Isaac’s melodic voice joking with the coach and a word of thanks for his help in response. Suddenly, Todd was not alone with his stack of cones. Golden boy Isaac was there, too, an Apollo next to a cowardly mortal.

Balincrest’s sports equipment shed was a small thing with a corrugated metal roof that pinged like a glockenspiel when it rained and had bits of chipped-off white paint lining the ground underneath it. Inside, it smelled of wet wood and stale sweat and was barely large enough to accommodate more than one person. The boys worked wordlessly stringing the practice equipment to the walls, the close confines meaning Todd was cautious with his every step so as not to draw the attention of the leader. The single bare lightbulb above them flickered as a moth wove its way around and around.

Todd was suddenly aware of the stillness behind him, and when he finished his job and turned around, he found Isaac staring at him with an unreadable expression. Todd suddenly felt an immense weight in his chest, a giant, red-hot star on the verge of bursting. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Isaac took both sides of his face in his hands and pressed their lips together.

It was a searing, burning feeling. Isaac’s hands and mouth were hot and slick, their noses crashing together as Todd tried and failed to stumble backwards, caught by surprise. Isaac held him there for an unbearable moment before releasing, keeping his eyes closed for a second longer as if reveling in the feeling. Suddenly they burst open, and in the dim glow of the bulb, looked black and full of rage. Todd’s own eyes were stuck wide, breath frozen in his throat.

The silence was deafening. Isaac suddenly crowded him up against the wall of the shed, burning fingerprints into his arm as a stern hand pointed into his face. “You say a word, you’re dead, got it?”

Todd nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

☽ ☼ ☾

After Isaac left Todd with his mouth gaping in the shed, he apparently didn’t go back to the locker room, which Todd was unbelievably thankful for. There was an uncomfortable stillness in the empty room, and Todd felt like he had to constantly keep moving as he showered just to break the sensation. He watched the water wash away all the sweat and memories of touch from his body—the pink bruises forming on his arm, the gently protruding lines of his ribs, the soft, unaltered beating of his heart underneath them. He suddenly smashed the porcelain tile of the shower with his fist, leaning his head into his arms as hot tears began to well in his eyes.

It had been his first kiss. He might have been ashamed if there was anyone to ask him about it, but it wasn’t really that fact that made the embarrassment burn so hot in his chest so much as the fact that it had been a boy. And he hadn’t hated it, not like he should have.

His mother liked to say he was a ‘late bloomer’ and he would find his way into the arms of the fairer sex one of these days, but Todd knew well and good that he’d grown up faster than most and that girls did absolutely nothing for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t have “urges”—he, like nearly every other teenage boy, had his moments in the quiet of his bedroom or the roar of a shower—but he could never picture the face of another person in those moments, only the vague outlines of strong, square bodies and the calloused touch of large hands. If there was a word for this, he did not know it. Or maybe he did, and his mind just refused to connect them.

He knew what he ought to do: go straight to the coach or the dean and declare what had happened to him, denounce Isaac’s actions with all the fervor and rage he deserved. It was violating, dehumanizing, and, in the eyes of the general public, outright wrong. Todd had done nothing.

And yet a small voice tugged in the back of his head, asking the same question over and over. Why me? Had Isaac picked his target at random? Did he calculate his odds and decide Todd was the least likely to speak out? Did he just assume that because he was younger, he would be easier to push around and bully into silence?

Or could Isaac tell, in the deep, shameful way that social pariahs connected with each other? Was it something Todd had done that had given it away? How he sat with his legs crossed, like his father scolded him for? The books he read? The names he was called? His incessant loneliness? If he were to tell someone, would they know it, too?

Todd turned off the shower and held still for a moment, letting the water pool and drip off his limbs. He wouldn’t say anything—couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the shame of it, if word got out. He didn’t care for faggot and fairy to be added to the list of things he was called. And what would his parents say? The Andersons could never have a queer for a son. It was bad enough that he liked to read.

There were different levels of leprosy at Balincrest: those that got you teased, and those that got you killed. Given the option, Todd would choose to stay in his current group, thank you very much.

☽ ☼ ☾

The next time it happened, Isaac didn’t say anything. It lasted longer, a tongue poking out and searching for leverage, but finding none. Todd inhaled the scent of sweet, fresh sweat mixed with cologne, his lips fighting the urge to give in and see what he could get out of this. It was not a mutual relationship. It was not.

He walked back to his dorm that night to the abject chatter of lonely crickets from the woods, the spring moon high and gleaming above him. His heart was still pounding and his skin felt cold where Isaac’s fingers had gripped it. Todd didn’t think he’d ever been held so firmly.

There was a part of him that was almost thrilled by it. There was no denying that Isaac had good looks and a movie-star charm, and if Todd had been a girl, he would surely be internally gloating for winning the boy’s affections above all the others. For all the times he’d seen his brother down far too much liquor or try to sneak a girl in through his bedroom window and never understood the appeal of the risk, Todd now felt he understood why teenagers pushed boundaries the way they did—there was adrenaline in it, a high that came with getting away with something. He’d never before had the chance to kiss a boy, and probably never would again. His father might call it “getting it out of his system”, as he did with Jeffrey’s various misdemeanors. And if it was to forever remain his dirty little secret, then so be it. Surely there were far worse things.

☽ ☼ ☾

The longer it went on, the more routine it became. They put the equipment away in silence, not touching or looking at each other, and then Isaac would go still, and Todd would take it as his que to turn around and allow himself to be grabbed and pushed however Isaac wanted him. They would kiss for a few minutes (maybe longer, maybe shorter; Todd discovered that one lost a sense of time when doing a thing like that) and then Isaac would release him, avoiding his gaze, and flee the scene of the crime. Todd would leave a few moments later, shower, and gaze at the moon as he walked back to the dorms.

☽ ☼ ☾

The end came on a hot May day, the air still steamy even as the sun lowered in the horizon and sent beautiful orange beams across the brick walls of Balincrest. Campus was filled with the inspirited feeling of summer closing in around them, and the boys grew restless as the last agonizing weeks of school crept by. The soccer team played their best season in years that year, with Isaac as the star of the show and Todd as the overlooked secret weapon. Todd discretely smiled to himself when the coach told him it was a role he played well.

It was one of the final practices of the season, and Todd almost dreaded it being over. There was a part of him that enjoyed being someone’s secret, and now the normal loneliness that came with being in his empty house all summer came with the added notion that he was losing his source of romantic gratification as well, as little romance as there was involved. He would miss the smell of the boy so close to him, the firm touch of his hands, the furtive glances Isaac would throw him when he thought no one else was looking. But Todd would get used to the loneliness, as he always had. And summer would end, as all things did, and Todd and Isaac would enter each other’s orbits once again.

After practice was over, they went quickly to their usual routine. Maybe the approaching vacation was affecting Isaac, too, because he seemed rougher, pinning Todd a little tighter to the wall and parting his lips with a little more force. It was sloppy and quick, as if time was running out.

It took a moment for them to react when the door of the shed opened, but when they did, the effect was immediate and brutal. Isaac jumped back, shoving at Todd’s shoulder as if to push him away even though Todd was already as close to the wall as he could get. “Get off me, fag!” he shouted, his melodic voice unfamiliar in such harsh words. Todd seemed unable to speak, turning towards the stunned coach in the doorway and hoping his shocked, pained face spoke for him. He lies. I didn’t ask for this.

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd watched Isaac’s parents approach the building from where he’d been locked in the infirmary all night. Their parents couldn’t come in for a meeting so late in the evening, but it was decided that the boys could not be trusted amongst the general population of the school, so they were sequestered at opposite ends of the building with only the occasional staff member for company. Both the dinner and breakfast that had been brought for him lay untouched on their trays. He’d been far too sick that night to eat.

He sank away from the window before he could see his own parents walk up, and counted the seconds between his breaths to fill the time until someone came to guide him to the dean’s office. It was an old trick some childhood doctor had taught him in a fruitless attempt to ease his anxious mind, but if nothing else it was good for giving him something to focus on until the worst of the misery was over. In-1-2-3-4-5. Out-1-2-3-4-5.

“Todd?” the nurse’s fluttery voice rang as the door to the informatory opened with a creak. Todd startled, tripping over his chair to stand and follow her down the quiet stone corridor. As they walked, she kept turning to him with her mouth opening and closing like a fish, as if she had something she wanted to say but couldn’t quite figure out how to word it. That made two of them.

Todd had never been to the dean’s office, but his mind was incapable of taking in the details of the room as his sight narrowed in on the stern faces of his parents waiting for him. Isaac had beaten him there, sat next to his own mother and father on the far side of the room, gaze turned firmly down. Todd stood in the doorway for a moment, daring him to look up, before a hand forced his shoulder down into the chair that awaited him.

The dean was a relatively young man, maybe in his mid-forties, with a clean-shaven face and sharply receding hairline that his horn-rimmed glasses did nothing to conceal. The soccer coach stood behind him, deep sadness on his face as he met Todd’s eye. He was probably as disappointed with this whole situation as anyone.

“Well, now that we’re all here, I suppose there’s no point in beating around the bush about the purpose of this meeting. I was told you were all briefed on the situation last night?” The dean asked, nodding towards the two sets of parents in front of him.

“Yes,” came a small chorus, only Todd’s mother turning to look disapprovingly at her son.

“Good,” the dean replied, pushing his glasses up on his nose as was his habit. He folded his hands and placed them on his impossibly tidy desk. “Now, we here at Balincrest of course do not in any way approve of such behaviors among our students, but I think you would all agree with me in saying that it’s in the best interest of all for this matter to stay strictly confidential.”

Four heads nodded.

“We wouldn’t want this to become a scandal even within the student body, because things get leaked and the like, so we need to forge a path forward that results in adequate discipline while also keeping gossip to a minimum.”

Todd deeply wished that his mother would stop staring at him with her piercing blue eyes. Her gaze pierced his skin and made him feel like salty sea water was flowing through him instead of blood. He tried to focus on the dean’s words, but could feel the panic rising in his stomach.

“I think it’s perfectly reasonable to say that it’s not sensible for the both of you to stay at this school,” the dean went on, glancing between Todd and Isaac, only one of whom was actually looking at him in return. “I’m not at liberty to say whether one or both of you were truly at fault for what happened here, but I can assure you that this matter will not end up on your permanent record regardless of what path we decide upon.” The dean directed his gaze at the crown of Isaac’s lowered head. “Now, Mr. Parker, I know the stakes are pretty high for you. Next year’s soccer captain, a chance at valedictorian, a full ride to Duke, I hear…”

Todd’s father now also turned to him, indignation on his face, and Todd suddenly understood what was going to happen. He would be expelled from Balincrest (not in so many words, of course) not because it was his fault, but simply because Isaac had more to lose. Balincrest could handle losing a mute leper with no connections, but could not handle losing its golden boy. He also realized in that moment that nothing he could possibly say mattered anymore. Any chance he had at redemption was lost when he did not fess up after the first incident.

The adults kept talking, Isaac’s mother even jumping in in defense of her son, but Todd had stopped listening. He’d never felt so small, so useless, such a burden on everyone else around him. He was a fool for thinking this would never come back to bite him—his ability to be invisible only lasted as long as his ability to keep his head down. No wonder his parents couldn’t seem to stand being around him: he was too dumb to even get away with the smallest of infractions. Jeffrey had the charisma to make his misbehavior seem natural, fun, misguided but ultimately entertaining. Todd was not charming enough to get away with anything, not smart enough to choose a fault that was not so taboo, not wise enough to keep from being a stain upon his family’s good reputation. He would be, from that day forth, forever marked by them as a mistake, a printing error on the Anderson family tree, a pariah, a leper. Ghosts, though invisible, were difficult to forget.

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd’s mother came into his room without knocking to get his laundry, though he’d been home for only a few hours. She couldn’t stand a single inch of the house to be untidy.

Todd was curled on his bed with his old beat-up copy of The Secret Garden, wishing the story could whip him away to a magical alternate universe as it had when he was a child. But if that day had proved anything, it was that his youth was gone from him without him even knowing it had slipped away. Welton. Fuck’s sake.

The long car ride home had been predictably tense. The first thing his parents were upset about was that he’d forced them to rearrange their schedules—his father missed an important horse race he had bets on (those bets turned out to be fruitful, but that didn’t matter), and his mother was meant to attend a vital meeting of their church’s women’s council that she’d now have to ask Evelyn Peterson for the notes from, and you know how I despise that woman. Next they were distraught over the fact that he’d been kicked out of Balincrest, which was such a wonderful school and they’d worked so hard to get him accepted there despite his shortcomings and now they’d have to get another place to take him that would be father away and more expensive and why couldn’t he just be good like Jeffrey?

For the longest time, they carefully avoided the reason why he’d been forced to leave, and he could mostly tune their chatter out because it was less about scolding him and more about hearing themselves talk. Eventually, though, their words started sticking out in his brain and he couldn’t help but listen.

“...never imagined that I’d raise a son that would do such a thing,” his mother was saying, obsessively fixing her hair in her small compact mirror despite not a single strand being out of place. “And so shamelessly! I thought I’d taught you better than that.”

His father glanced at him from the rear view mirror. Todd glowered at him in return. “Did you really do it, Todd, or did that older boy rope you into it?”

Todd wasn’t sure how to respond. Either of the black-and-white answers would be a lie, but his parents were notoriously not ones for complexity. He cleared his throat. “I-it was all him.”

“Hmph,” his father huffed, turning his eyes back towards the highway before them. The day was aggressively sunny, and the asphalt shimmered in the light. “I thought as much. He had a guilty look about him, that one.”

Todd said nothing.

“But you know that’s how the habit starts, isn’t it? Someone leads you into it and you just get hooked.” His mother suddenly turned to look over into the backseat, waving a nagging finger in his face. “And you listen to me now, Todd. That kind of thing cannot be tolerated in any decent society. It’s a nasty, unhappy way of life and it’s best to condemn it now before it’s too late to turn back. Do you understand?”

Todd nodded, and it seemed to satisfy her.

“And if anything like this ever happens again,” his father said, his voice growing low and gruff with shame. “We will not hesitate to beat it out of you with any means necessary.”

☽ ☼ ☾

“Todd,” his mother said as she grabbed his abandoned school clothes and folded them before placing them in her basket. “It’s been decided that you’ll go to Welton in the fall.”

She looked at him as if expecting a response, so he shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”

“This is a very precious opportunity. You cannot afford to waste it.” No, you cannot afford to waste it, he thought.

“Okay,” he said again, and went back to his book.

☽ ☼ ☾

It’s a nasty, unhappy way of life. Those words rang in Todd’s ears as Saratoga Springs, New York entered a steaming hot summer. Todd spent most of his days locked up in his air-conditioned room with his books, the monotony only broken by him sneaking out to get meals, showering before bed, and his weekly excursions to the library to stock up.

While there, he occasionally tried to dig for things that mentioned his condition (he’d decided to call it a condition now—the American Psychological Association deemed it a mental disorder, alongside schizophrenia and social personality disorders, which was what made people psychopaths), but found it difficult to research a subject that seemingly no one wanted to talk about, and God forbid he ask the librarian—she was the one adult he knew that didn’t currently hate him. There was a report from about a decade prior that said homosexuality was far more present in society than most would like to think, and the long, drawn-out trials of a writer arrested for sodomy, but other than that, Todd could find very little that was not about the Bible, and no way in hell was he reading anything about the Bible. He laughed at the thought that it might burn when he touched it.

If he got bored of his books but was too scared to leave the safety of his room, he would stare out the window. It faced their large backyard, and most of the time when he looked out Jeffrey was back there playing soccer with his friends. It was their summer tradition, and Todd remembered the days when his mother would push him out of bed and out the door to “play with them” while she did her weekly top-to-bottom house cleanings. Todd usually ended up half-watching, half focused on his book from the edge of the open grass where they played. The older boys mostly looked upon him with anything from bemusement to outright contempt. No one wanted to be stuck playing with the lame little brother, least of all Jeffrey.

The exception to this was a boy named Christian Woods. Christian went to Welton with Jeff, and Todd knew they went head-to-head in just about everything—academics, sports, girls— and yet despite their competition, they were the best of friends. Christian happened to be a pretty big literature buff, and always had some comment or another about what Todd was reading when the boys stopped playing for a few minutes to cool off and drink Mrs. Anderson’s lemonade. Whatever Todd said in return (often very little), Christian smiled, flicking the cover of the book and telling Todd he had good taste before leaping up and joining his flock again.

Todd used to think about Christian a lot, back when puberty was first hitting him and his body ached with unfamiliarity. Christian’s dark eyes and fluffy walnut hair tended to pop into his head at the most awkward times. Stupid juvenile crush, he told himself now, but the word crush felt odd, even in his head. It wasn’t a crush, that was the thing ditsy girls had when they wished Jimmy would ask them to the prom. No, this was just a symptom of his condition—the one that appeared to be chronic and incurable. He liked to think himself wiser now at sixteen than when he’d been a few years younger, but Christian’s smile still made his heart flutter the tiniest bit. Unhappy. He could see that part.

☽ ☼ ☾

Jeffrey seemed to pop into Todd’s bubble more and more often as the summer went on. It was his last summer home before he started at Harvard in the fall (which their parents never failed to remind them of), and it seemed he finally decided to take an interest in his younger brother before he left for good.

Because Todd had magically been let out of school early, he’d been able to be there for Jeffrey’s graduation from Welton and get a glimpse of his new home for the next two years. He watched as his brother marched across the stage with that despicably fake grin on his face, then zoned out until a point near the end where it was Christian’s footsteps and smile. He shuddered at the thought of it being him up there in front of all those people.

After the painfully long ceremony was over, Jeff walked right up to his family and gave each of them a backbreaking hug. Todd didn’t remember the last time he and Jeffrey had been that close, but however long ago it was, they certainly hadn’t been the same height as they were now. It scared him a little, the unfamiliarity of this creature who shared his blood.

When they’d arrived home, Jeff asked all the usual questions about school and how had summer been and was he excited for Welton and why did they let him leave so early? His mother shot him a furtive glance to warn him not to say too much, but Todd needed no reminder—he wouldn’t let that secret out if they tortured him for it. He shrugged as his only response.

Jeffrey didn’t seem to want to let it go. He knocked on Todd’s door that evening, a piece of Todd’s favorite German chocolate cake in his hand as an excuse, and asked again: why was he home so early?

“Did something bad happen? At school, I mean,” he said as he placed the cake down on Todd’s desk, pushing a stack of books waiting to be returned to the side.

Todd froze. “No,” he replied quickly. “Nothing happened.”

Jeffrey was clearly still suspicious. “No one picked on you there, right? ‘Cause if you were defending yourself—”

Todd cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about it! Nothing happened!”

Jeff seemed startled by the outburst. “Okay,” he said slowly, backing towards the door. “But, just so you know…if you ever need to talk, I’m here, okay?”

“I don’t need to talk.” You’d hate me if you knew, he thought bitterly.

“Okay,” Jeffrey said again, turning to leave. “Oh, and Todd?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you take that plate down when Mom’s not around. You know she’ll flip if she finds it up here.”

☽ ☼ ☾

In August, he got the letter.

He’d started venturing out of his cave more and more, often walking to a spot deep in the nearby woods and laying out a blanket on the ground to read. Being around Jeffrey and his loud, laughing friends hurt too much now, especially as he saw his brother’s life slowly packed away, awaiting the coming move. When September came, who would he be? Same old meek Todd, only now the new kid at a school where the other boys had been building relationships for four years and running. A new kind of leper.

He thought of Isaac sometimes, and wondered if he was having as miserable a summer as Todd was. Had he told the same lie to his parents that Todd had, that it was all the other boy’s fault and he wasn’t culpable? Did he play soccer with his friends or lock himself away? Did he feel the same pit of dread in his stomach at the thought of going back to school?

It came in a heavy cream envelope, the paper thick with wealth typical of schools whose pockets were lined by the lower echelons of the upper class. It was the same paper as Balincrest, the same typewriter script, only the stamped school seal at the top was different.

Todd Anderson, read the top line. We are thrilled to have you join us at Welton Academy for the 1959-60 school year.

At the bottom was a school schedule laid out in a neat little table, on the next page was a map of the school and its grounds. The one line that inexplicably stuck out to him was one in the middle of the first page, in plain print.

Room #: 205. Roommate: Neil Perry.

#first reveal of the new and improved dpscu lore #im actually really proud of this ngl but like...not so much of the other chapters so far so idk when/if it'll end up on ao3 #its also kinda hard writing this to be period accurate cause i am not a gay man nor did i live through the 50s but we do what we can #anyways back to your regularly scheduled tags #dps #dead poets society #anderperry #todd anderson #dps fandom #dps fanfiction #should i make a writing tag? that seems like a good idea #phoenix writes :D #my post

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