#I for sure do not envy the localizers who were charged with that duty
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Omens Universe, Chapter 3 Part 3
First Sunday update! Aiming for weekly.
Apologies to anyone who had Sir Galahad as their favourite Knight of the Round Table.
Last time: sappy. This time: unhappy.
Link to next part at the end.
(last part)
(chrono)
Chapter 3, cont.
AD 537
It couldn’t last.
Half a century later, Aziraphale stood in a damp field and stared at Crowley in mounting dismay.
“...As long as they get the paperwork, they seem happy enough,” the demon was saying. “As long as you’re being seen to be doing something every now and again.”
Crowley’s face, as far as Aziraphale could tell given that his helm covered most of it, was hopeful. Expectant, even.
The suggestion that they could bunk off work and submit... misleading reports to their managers would be bad enough on its own. Honestly, Crowley had a nerve even saying it.
But… that wasn’t all that this was, was it?
The word Aziraphale refused to think about, ever, snuck up behind him and ‘ahem’ed knowingly in his ear.
Fusion.
His hands curled into fists. [1]
Had this been Crowley’s plan from the start? Get a foot in the door with a few centuries of good behaviour, and once Aziraphale’s defences were down, slither closer and suggest they try - that again?
Aziraphale fumbled for the pouch tied into his cloak. He shook it out into his palm, and out tipped a single coin with a dull metallic plonk.
“What are you doing?” Crowley called.
Aziraphale met his eye.
“Heads.”
Crowley’s surprise was visible even through the distance and fog.
“Bit of an overreaction, wouldn’t you say? I’m sorry, I thought it’d save us both a bit of time. We’re just cancelling each other out at the moment, you know it as well as I do.”
Aziraphale held the coin with difficulty between thumb and forefinger. The centuries had dulled the copper, and a thin layer of corrosion had worked over the face.
“I know what you’re trying to do, Crawly.”
Crowley didn’t correct him, but his voice cooled. “Oh, yeah. What’s that, then?”
“Rope me into some tommyrot scheme, so I’m good and involved and can’t see which way’s up anymore.”
“How insidious of me.” Crowley’s voice was sour. “Does my evil plan have a part two?”
“Yes. When my guard is down. When we’re in an arrangement together. That’s when you’ll saunter up and try to - to -”
“...What, seduce you?”
Aziraphale almost dropped the coin. He glared at the confused sliver of face visible through Crowley’s helm and a quart of swirling fog.
“No, you idiot. I’m talking about -”
He took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. His body was a conscious manifestation of light. It did not have a nervous system. He was fine.
“You know what, it doesn’t matter.” He prepared the flip.
Crowley clunked towards him. “Hold on a minute -”
Aziraphale flicked his fingers. The coin plinked and rose upward.
The clunking sped up. “Angel, stop! You made your point, ok? You were right, back in Rome. I don’t want to leave Earth, you don’t want to leave Earth. Stop being stupid and don’t do this.” [2]
The coin completed its arc. Aziraphale snatched it out of the air and placed it flat on his vambrace. [3]
The silence stretched. Sweat prickled underneath his armour.
It was no good. He couldn’t look at it.
He held out his arm to Crowley with an imploring look.
Crowley’s helmet hid his mouth, but Aziraphale was sure he mouthed ‘oh my God’ before stumping the rest of the way over. [4]
Aziraphale removed his hand. Crowley eyeballed the coin.
The demon straightened up. “Tails.”
Aziraphale became aware that his mouth was ajar. He couldn’t summon the wherewithal to correct it.
Perhaps there was a mistake. He looked down to check the result for himself.
The coin had vanished. He looked at Crowley again. The demon was flexing his fingers.
“What…?” he said in a tiny voice.
“Tails.” Crowley’s face was impassive.
Oh.
Aziraphale’s gaze wandered around the muddy field. Some bored cows stared back at him.
That was it, then.
It hit him in one emotional knife blow. He turned away from Crowley, blinking back tears.
Crowley’s expression immediately crumbled.
“OK, no, hang on. It’s just a bloody coin, not a contract. You don’t have to leave. Just calm down and… let’s find a pub or something, you’ll feel better after a meal and a stiff drink - oh sodding Hell, what now?”
Horses’ hooves tramped through mud. Aziraphale looked around as a squadron of knights crested the hill. He fought back a groan at who was leading the charge.
“Ah! Good Aziraphale, I’ve found you at last!”
Aziraphale mustered a smile, mentally scrolling through every unangelic word he knew.
“Oh. Hello, Galahad. Wasn’t expecting you. I had this under control, as you can see.”
The men Crowley had brought to the fight, who sat down and started chatting among themselves several minutes ago while Crowley and Aziraphale worked out what was clearly, to them, a long-standing lovers’ spat, leapt to their feet and began brandishing weapons and sneering.
Galahad gazed around from atop his horse. He had a beatific expression, which Aziraphale knew he could maintain amid extraordinary amounts of violence.
“Wasn’t sure I’d see you again! Took me ages to find you!” he boomed.
“I did leave a note,” Aziraphale muttered.
“Haven’t been back yet! Just got in today. I found the Ship of Solomon, in case you were interested. Took her for a bit of a jaunt. Found some tat buried on an island. Oh, and met Percival’s sister. Quite something, eh, gentlemen?” He gave a roguish wink.
Aziraphale cringed.
“So, what’s this, hmm?” Galahad fixed Crowley with a beady stare. His mouth pursed beneath a finely groomed moustache. “I do declare this fellow to be the Black Knight, scourge of all the land, thorn in our king’s side and general blaggard.”
Crowley gave a little wave.
“I see your head remains atop your shoulders, vile one. A situation I shall remedy.”
Galahad pulled his sword from its scabbard with a flourish. Aziraphale didn’t recognise it, but it was uncharacteristically plain. Its creator had eschewed embellishment and poured everything into sheer size. The scabbard alone would give the horse envy. It was comically oversized for a man, but Galahad was doing a decent job keeping it aloft.
Crowley turned to Aziraphale. “Why are they here?”
Aziraphale coughed politely. “Yes, why are you all here?”
“Checking up on you, my good man! As leader, I consider it my sworn duty to ride to the rescue when needed. The newer members of our brotherhood can sometimes get in trouble, and then who’s going to get them out of it?”
“I’m not that new, actually,” Aziraphale muttered.
A huge grin spread across Crowley’s face. “Wait. Are you, like, the work experience boy?”
The tip of Galahad’s sword wobbled in Crowley’s direction. “Come, men! I say we dispatch these curs without breaking a sweat.”
“Mm, yeah.” Crowley eyed the perspiration sliding down Galahad’s face. “Sweat. You don’t want that. Not in that armour.” He edged over to Aziraphale. “Can I have a word?”
Aziraphale edged away. “I have nothing further to say. Er. Fiend.”
“You having a conversation with this villain, Sir Aziraphale?” Galahad boomed.
“Certainly not. I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Aziraphale said quickly.
The other knights drew their swords, despite all looking rather tired. Crowley’s eyes flicked between them.
“This is really inconvenient,” he grumbled.
Galahad dug his spurs into his horse. “Heeyah!”
The horse shuffled forward. Galahad thrust his sword into where Crowley’s head had been half a second before.
The other Round Table hangers-on charged the enemy. Galahad’s horse kept going, momentum carrying it past Crowley, who rolled his eyes and side-stepped out of the way. Aziraphale winced as the thunder of horses’ hooves surrounded him, followed by the clatter of swords.
Just like that, they were in the middle of melee combat. With a bone-deep sigh, Aziraphale and Crowley drew their swords, ambled to the edge of the scrum and began, unconvincingly, to swing at each other.
“Right, this exceedingly stupid distraction aside -” Crowley raised his sword at a leisurely pace to block Aziraphale’s gentle prod. “Are you going to come to your senses now?”
Aziraphale prodded back, a little harder. “Don’t make this difficult, Crowley. I lost. That’s the end of it.”
“Yeah, great, except that it was a stupid idea from the start and you’re being an idiot.”
“I recall it being your stupid idea from the start.”
“And you’re still being an idiot. Believe it or not, I wasn’t even thinking about fusion -”
“Keep-your-voice-down-”
Aziraphale’s next swipe came within ten whole feet of Crowley’s body. Crowley waved it away.
“He’s annoyingly good at this,” he remarked, looking past Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Aziraphale could guess. Galahad had a talent for ostentatious swordsmanship that got the job done, after the requisite fifteen minutes of showing off.
“Perhaps we should put a bit of welly into it, just in case someone looks over,” he said.
Crowley shrugged. “Sure. Clang, clang. Parry, parry, thrust.”
They wafted their swords at each other.
“I hope your chaps aren’t getting knocked around too badly.” Aziraphale had met some of them in the local villages in his civilian garb, and they weren’t a bad lot. Like a lot of humans who signed onto dodgy causes, most of them had just wanted to get out of the house.
Crowley looked briefly panicked, then guilty. “Oh yeah, forgot.” He snapped his fingers.
Aziraphale turned. One downed black figure on the ground sat up, confused to find his arm reattached. Others staggered up from pools of blood, woozily surprised to find that they were now bleeding in rather than out.
“Well, I can hardly spread foment if they all die, can I?” Crowley muttered.
Aziraphale’s heart did that silly fluttery thing. “Quite,” he got out.
Team Black Knight put their restored vigour to use by running away. Arthur’s knights chased them, shoutily, down the hill. Aziraphale suspected they were in it more for the exercise than to actually kill anyone.
Galahad brought up the rear. Rather than hare after his men, he wheeled his horse around and trotted back towards Aziraphale and Crowley. He held his sword aloft, at exactly decapitation height.
Aziraphale’s heart sank. Of course.
“Your life is forfeit, vile snake!”
Aziraphale glared at Crowley. “I hope you weren’t foolish enough to shape shift in front of the humans,” he whispered.
“It’s an expression, get off my back,” Crowley hissed back.
Galahad circled them. “I can take things from here, Sir Aziraphale. The Black Knight’s reign of wickedness shall end with just three strokes of my blade.”
“Plus half an hour of monologuing,” Crowley muttered.
Galahad lunged and swung at him. Crowley staggered back and narrowly missed being cleaved in half.
“Oi, that’s not on. Can’t you call him off?”
Aziraphale coughed. “I, er, think we’ve won, wouldn’t you say, Galahad old boy?”
Bloodlust gleamed in Galahad’s eye. He stalked towards Crowley. “I say we declare victory when this serpent’s head hangs above the throne of Camelot!”
“Yikes,” Crowley said.
Another swing nearly bisected him.
Aziraphale really hoped he wouldn’t have to use a miracle against his own side. “Oh go on, let’s call it a day, there’s a good chap.”
Galahad roared. He nudged his horse forward and bore down on Crowley, sword raised for the third and final blow.
“Bugger this,” Crowley snapped, and all Hell broke loose.
To be specific:
Where Crowley’s head had sat, suddenly there was a writhing dark mass no human mind could comprehend.
Galahad squeaked, turned white, and fainted.
Before he hit the ground, Crowley shifted back, without his helmet.
The horse reared up, screaming, and kicked him square in the face.
Crowley punted through the air and landed on his back with a noise like a copper bathtub falling down the stairs.
Aziraphale closed his eyes and waited for it all to stop.
He opened them again. Two unconscious knights lay flat on the ground. A horse stamped and whinnied above them. Aziraphale thought about the two lots of health and safety reports he would have to file, and deliberated letting them get trampled.
Crowley gave a thin moan. At least one of them was alive.
Aziraphale ignored him and took the horse first. When he was close enough to lay hands on it, he placed his palm flat on its flank and reached for the light inside himself. The horse went from tossing its head and shrieking to silent and calm.
When he was satisfied, Aziraphale stepped back and headed for Crowley.
He crouched beside the groaning demon. The snappish remark he’d prepared withered on his tongue.
The snaking sigil on Crowley’s face, winding down from his ear in its intricate overlapping pattern, was on the side of his face that the horse had kicked.
His gem was smashed into a hundred tiny shards.
---
[1] With difficulty, inside the gauntlets.
[2] This was a long speech to deliver in a single coin flip. Luckily, this coin’s proximity to years of angelic reality-warping had gifted it the ability to stay in the air for as long as was dramatically necessary.
[3] He put it down with the care of an elderly woman placing her last penny on an empty collection plate. Even with everything else going on, Crowley spared a moment to cringe.
[4] He did. A revolting taste filled his mouth, but he was too drained to register it.
(next part)
#omens universe fic#omens universe#good omens fic#good omens#steven universe#aziraphale#crowley#thus concludes the coin arc#I love this period of the show#it's already ahistorical because Arthurian legends are a mess so I don't need to worry about plausibility#I had a lot of fun with Galahad#my process for choosing which knight to portray as a total knob#was to read their descriptions and figure out who's the biggest Mary Sue#and then write him as much like Sir Bertrand MacGuffingham as possible#I know nothing about the knights of the round table but there's some details from wikipedia in here that sounded fun
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You’ll Be In My Heart: Chapt. 3
Summary: Regina's always said she'd do anything to get her son back..but will that include marrying into the family she's despised for years?
Also on AO3
Regina had never been one for big white weddings. Her first had been a huge affair, mostly because of Cora and Daniel’s mother. She wore a dress that was carefully picked out and her father had practically drained his savings, all to give his little girl the wedding of her dreams…or his wife’s dreams. Sure, Regina wasn’t a brat about it. The wedding was beautiful and she knew she was blessed to have one so nice, she was especially lucky that her mother had blessed her marrying a teacher rather than a doctor or a lawyer like Cora had always dreamed for her. Still, it had been too hectic for her to enjoy. The dinner of salmon and fresh greens had looked delicious, but she barely had time to eat between the dances and thanking all the guests.
Still, her second wedding wasn’t exactly what she had planned either.
Robin had convinced her that the sooner they got everything done, the better. So, she had packed a bag that would last her until she could arrange with Mal to have her things shipped across the country and hastily typed an e-mail to her boss. She had worked at the muesem for 7 years and it felt so wrong to just up and leave with no notice, but she also knew it was her only shot at getting her son back.
Regina didn’t consider what she was doing was crazy until she was halfway to California, sitting first class besides Robin, a man she barely knew. She hadn’t stopped to consider that this was all some big trick. Though, what sense would that be? Flying her out first class, just to say “Gotchya!” seemed too low, even for the Locksley family. The diamond weighing down her left ring finger was another sign that it was all very real.
Still, she knew she could’ve thought it through more. If it had been for any other reason, maybe she would’ve. It was Henry, the son she hadn’t seen in 5 years. If there was even a small chance that she could get to see him for even five seconds, she’d do it.
A part of her wondered if she should’ve called Daniel. He had been Henry’s father, after all. Sure, he hadn’t been as hands on as Regina, but he clearly loved that little boy and losing him had taken a toll. At the same time, Regina knew that there wasn’t a role in his life for Henry the way things were. Robin was his father, for all intents and purposes. Bringing Daniel along would just confuse things. Besides, he had remarried, used a sperm donor with his second wife to have a child of their own. Regina could never understand how he could do that. Up until Robin knocked on her door, she never pictured having another child.
“Everyone grieves in different ways”, Regina remembered her therapist telling her when she had vented about it.
Regina looked over at Robin, taking him in. If she had to pick a husband for looks, she’d be lying if she said he wasn’t a candidate. He was truly handsome, with dreamy blue eyes and a smile that was probably responsible for global warming. It was his personality she was still iffy about. He seemed a lot better than the rest of the Locksley family that she had interacted with, but at the same time, what did that really say?
She didn’t pull herself out of her thoughts until they were landing in San Francisco. Robin had explained that he wanted to elope there and they could spend the night, before driving into Napa Valley the following day. She wanted more than anything to see Henry, but realized he was probably getting ready for bed, even with the time change factored in.
“Feeling jet lagged?” Robin asked as they walked from baggage claim to the carpark.
“Not really. I traveled a lot in college, so I’m used to bigger time changes.”
“Anywhere fun?”
“Barcelona was probably my favorite, though Tokyo was beautiful.”
“I went there just last month for business.”
Regina tilted her head. “You travel often?”
“I try not to, with Henry and all. Ever since my dad got sick, the board’s been working to find a replacement for him but it’s not easy.”
“You have no interest in taking over the family business?”
“God, no. I mean, I love working for it. It’s great, but I could never be in charge.” He paused. “I looked into some museums, along with the local colleges. If you still want to work that is.”
Regina folded her arms over her chest. defensively “Why wouldn’t I want to work? It’s not like I’m doing this for your money.”
“I just figured you’d want to reunite with Henry for a bit first is all.”
Regina frowned. Why did she always assume the worst?
Because you don’t trust this family and for good reason, she thought to herself.
“Even so, he’s in school. I’m sure I’ll want to look for a job, even if it’s just part time. I was a stay at home mom the first year, it’s just not for me.”
“I understand.” They approached a silver four door Audi and he removed his keys, clicking the unlock button. “I couldn’t do it either.”
Regina settled in on the leather seat, trying her best to become comfortable. “What’s he like…Henry?”
“Like I said earlier, he’s super smart. He’s reading at a 5th grade level, despite only being in 2nd grade, is doing math at a 3rd grader level and spelling tests…” He gave a flip of his hand as they pulled out of the carpark. “Never misses a word.”
Regina squirmed in her seat, hoping her face wasn’t too green with envy. That should’ve been her singing Henry’s praises. Heaven knows she had done it enough when he was learning how to walk and the ABC song. She knew she couldn’t be bitter, she had 5 years to catch up on.
“He has a kitten, Socks. Begged for one for over a year, finally figured he was responsible enough for one.”
“And how much work do you do?”
A smile tugged on Robin’s lips. “Just change the litterbox, he’ll feed him and refill his water.”
“Suppose that’s not the worst.”
“You’re not the one cleaning cat poop.”
“Not yet,” she corrected.
“Ah, yes. Someone to share the duties with. That’s a perk.” He glanced over at her before returning his eyes to the road. “I do have a housekeeper that comes 5 days a week.”
“You can get rid of her, I don’t mind cleaning and cooking.”
“It’s a big house. I’d want to keep her at least a few days. At least for the cleaning.”
Regina sighed, knowing it was best not to argue over that. “Who’s he staying with? A nanny?”
“No, my sister and her husband. They adore him.”
“Does he have a nanny?”
“Yes. She picks him up from school and watches him when I have meetings, but she’s been prepped for a decrease in her schedule. Ashley will work with you as needed. Same with our housekeeper, Johanna.”
“And your father?”
“Mary Margaret and David live with him at the estate, there’s also a fulltime nurse there to care for him. You won’t see him, unless you want to.”
“I think I’ve seen enough of Leopold Locksley to last me a lifetime.”
Robin nodded, clearly not feeling the need to argue. Regina found herself a bit confused at that. She wasn’t exactly close with Cora, but outside her sister, she was the only one that was allowed to say anything about her. Every family was different, she supposed. Besides…she was about to become a Locksley, wasn’t she?
Eventually, Robin pulled up in front of their hotel. He grabbed their bags from the trunk and lead them inside, checking them in.
“I got us a suite, two bedrooms,” he explained.
Regina wanted to argue that it wasn’t worth the money, but then remembered who she was talking to. “Sounds nice.”
As the bellman arrived to take their bags, they were approached by a tall man with thinning grey hair. Robin introduced him as the man that would be officiating them, a younger woman with him as a witness. They went into the business center of the hotel and were given the certificate. Robin signed it with ease, before handing the pen to Regina. It felt heavy in her hands, as she stared at the words in front of her.
Just seven hours ago, she had been home, in cozy clothes. Now she stood in the business center of a nice hotel, with three strangers by her side and she was marrying one of them. Her mother didn’t know what she was doing, hell even her friends didn’t know. They were going to say that it was crazy.
Regina’s mind flashed to Henry. The little boy she had been forced to give up, after loving for so long. The son that had never left her heart. Her mind floated to the blanket that was in her bag, the one the social worker had removed him from when she ripped him from Regina’s arms. Regina had slept with it for months, even long after it lost Henry’s scent. She had tried to replace it, but no amount of baby detergent did the trick.
She had a chance of seeing that sweet baby again, and she was going to grab it by the throat.
With a flourish, Regina signed her name to the certificate, legally binding her to Robin Locksley. She should’ve felt more nervous, but she also knew she hadn’t been more confident of anything in her life.
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All You Are is Poor Choices
Yuuri was, above all: responsible.
Or maybe, he amends as Mila's glittering, purple heel kicks his hand while she attempts to crawl into the front seat; Yuuri was above all: caring. Phichit starts crying and pawing for Yuuri's hand as Mila wedges herself half in the footwell and half in the space between Phichit and the door. Phichit continues his drama by stroking Yuuri's newly bruised hand and murmuring Thai at it, fumbling with his phone with the other hand until a flash indicates a shaky selfie had been taken. The light blinds Yuuri, an unfortunate occurrence when you're in charge of a hollow hunk of metal speeding down asphalt at 70 mph, but he just laughs it off.
Maybe, above all, Yuuri was tolerant.
“WOW!” It's somehow louder than all the other voices, or maybe it just stands out the most because he's been trained to listen for that voice ever since he was eight and Victor had been the most beautiful thing in the whole school, in the whole town, in the whole world.
Maybe, above all, Yuuri was a lovestruck fool.
Victor is then attempting to also crawl into the front seat, though he does a much better job at not injuring the driver. At least, not physically.
Looking down at dreamy blue eyes, Yuuri felt very injured.
He hadn't actually managed to get into the front seat (Now occupied by both Mila and Phichit, which meant Yuuri was entirely grateful Victor hadn't managed to add himself to the mix.) but he had managed to partially overcome the center console, which meant his head was planted in between the gearshift and Yuuri's leg.
It didn't look comfortable in any respect.
Victor seemed to think otherwise, nuzzling into Yuuri's thigh and sighing dreamily, and, well. Yuuri's eyes were huge as he looked over to his copilot for help. His hopes were dashed as soon as Phichit's wild smile came into view, and he regretted even bringing his friends attention to the situation.
Victor's weight was incessant at his thigh as he turned his attention back to the road, the freeway flashing by in his headlights. Another flash, this one in the car, has him looking back. Another selfie had just been taken, and by the way Phichit was smiling, it had him and Victor in it.
He glances down at Victor, his face squished up against his thigh, and tries not to get stuck on the long lashes brushing his cheeks, the way his lips were slightly open. A picture with that in it... might be alright. As long as he has the only copy.
He can negotiate with Phichit later.
He's brought back to reality with a knee to the head, jerking forward but luckily keeping the car in the right lane. He glances in the rear view to see that Sara had pulled Mila back, whispering in her ear. They fix each other with a look and Yuuri turns back to the road, determined to not crash. But then, tinkling jewelry lets him know Mila's moving again, and he glances over to see her whispering in Phichit's ear.
That could really only mean bad things, but there was tragically little he could do about it while driving.
Yuuri was adamant about ignoring Victor's weight on his leg, but when he curls in more, pushing his head up Yuuri's thigh and onto his lap... well, it became a significantly harder task.
“Yuuri!” Phichit yells, which was entirely unnecessary considering he was at most, two feet from him.
Because Phichit is his best friend and essentially harmless, he replies quietly without a hint of malice. “Yes?”
“So, at the start of this, we were gonna have Victor dropped off first, because he's obviously too drunk to function.” Phichit leads with. Yuuri, before that moment, would've made the argument that they were all too drunk to function, but Phichit sounds stone cold sober as he continues to explain. “We were entrusted with him, so it's our duty to make sure he returns home safely!”
Yuuri takes back the stone-cold sober comment as Phichit enters a monologue about honor, helping others, and chivalry. He glances at Victor, because there was no reasonable way not to, and immediately feels dirty as his pure face comes into view. Stubbornly, he directs his gaze at the highway and remembers what Christophe had explained to him, in the low purring voice that was his trademark. “He'd promised he wouldn't get drunk, since he drove himself here, but, well. He's Russian, alcohol practically runs in his veins.” Yuuri smiles at the stereotype, then that smile slowly faded from his face as Chris explained with batting eyelashes that their Uber didn't have enough room, and they didn't know anyone else in this club, and if Yuuri had the space, could he please drive Victor home?
And then, because life hates Yuuri with the sort of force it generally reserves for natural disasters, Victor's arms were around him and he was talking about how fun the car ride would be, about how he knew Yuuri was an amazing driver, about how he was so happy to be drunk.
And. Well. Yuuri had room, so Victor's sleek Audi was parked overnight at a bar while Yuuri's friends and a local celebrity he'd had a crush on since... Since forever, really, piled into his 2005 Honda Civic.
It ran, and had for quite a while. It was a nondescript gray and the interior had only two suspicious stains - this was easily forgiven once you plopped into the cozy seats. Yuuri couldn't ask for a better car. But he couldn't help but feel inadequate as Victor had slid into it, his ethereal beauty so vastly different from the mundane comfort.
A hand on his shoulder has him turning to Phichit, who seems to have exited his monologue and was actually getting to the point. “So, basically, it would be a lot easier to drop him off last.”
Yuuri had missed his explanation as to why, but it wasn't really hard to figure out. He'd be running in circles dropping everyone off if he did Victor first, so it really just made sense.
He gulped as he was nuzzled into.
Actually, he amends, what would make sense is never being within 30 feet of Victor again. It was almost physically painful, the depth of affection he had for this man, and he was sure that being alone with him when he was so intoxicated and overly affectionate would hurt him in ways he'd never imagined.
A glance at Phichit shows he's thought about the same thing, though perhaps through a different lens.
“Phichit... I don't... Don't think that's a good idea.”
He's grinning wildly, teeth a dentist would be proud of shining at Yuuri. “It's actually the best idea!” He argues easily, which was really not enough to convince Yuuri of his argument. “See, okay, just take this exit...”
In a move that no driving instructor would approve of, Phichit twists the steering wheel, sending his poor car careening out of an exit a second too late. It's not a fatal move, but the car shakes over the rumble strips, and all the occupants, including the stupidly pretty one resting on his thigh, are jostled.
“Whaa?” Comes Victor's confused voice, and because Phichit is some sort of spawn between cupid and Satan, he replies:
“Oh, we just changed our course, Yuuri's dropping everyone else off first because you two are both on the other side of town, so it just makes sense.”
For one hopeful second, Yuuri thinks Victor is too drunk to understand. Then; “Yay! Wonderful!” His mouth is curled in a perfect heart, and his bright eyes are staring so piercingly at Yuuri even in the dark....
And Yuuri is driving. And he should really, really be focusing on driving.
“Right here.” Phichit's voice is soft; he knows Yuuri, knows that loud noises make him scurry away. But the soft, “Left, now.” Is easy to follow, easy to give himself over to. “Here, this driveway. On the left there, with the red car. Great.”
He blossoms under praise, but all he can feel is dread as Sara and Mila walk up the driveway to their house, silent until they're safely inside. “This is a bad idea, Phichit.”
“Yuuriiii...” His eyes were sharp, for all that his croon sounded drunk.
“Yuuriiii...” Echoes a voice from Yuuri's lap, and his face is flaming.
“Yes?” He says as a catch all, ducking farther away from the porch light shining into the car to hide his blush.
“Please?” Phichit is the only one to answer, in a whisper. Victor simply smiles against his thigh and seemingly falls back asleep. “You never put yourself out there. You're not going to embarrasses yourself - “ At this, Yuuri lets out a little snort. “And I think you might even impress him. This is a chance Yuuri, and you don't know if you'll ever have another. You can't just miss out on the love of your life because you were too afraid to talk to him.”
At this, Yuuri snorts louder, because he can and he will.
Maybe.
Because Phichit is making the eyes at him, the pleading, watery ones, and Yuuri is a sucker for most things, that included.
“Alright. He won't even remember this tomorrow though, you know?” He says as he shifts the car into drive, pulling out.
“Well, even better!” Yuuri shoots him a glare, fierce even in the darkness, “No no no, not like that you pervert. I know you aren't going to take advantage of him.” Yuuri, to the credit of this statement, chokes on his own spit as the words wash over him. “But that means you can be embarrassing and weird and he won't even know tomorrow!”
Phichit was right, as he generally was. But. That didn't mean it was a good idea.
Yuuri was going to do it anyway. Because Phichit was right (there's a theme, there), he never took chances, never spoke up, lacked the initiative he truly needed in life. And, maybe it was time for that to change.
So, he drove Phicht to his apartment. His best friend screeched to the music, pounded his fist in the air, talked excitedly about this and that and everything imaginable. Yuuri envied Phichit, in a distant way where he wanted that kind of life, the presence Phichit carried so effortlessly around him. The way it always seemed like he was having a good time, the way it always seemed like he wouldn't mind if you joined.
He'd never feel the deep seated jealously towards him that could cause a rift between them, but Yuuri envied lots of things and it made sense that his best friend was one of them.
And then they were at his house.
“Thanks, Yuuri!” Phichit gushes as he leans over to give Yuuri a one-armed hug, somewhat smothering Victor in the process. His blue eyes were open when Phichit pulled back, glancing around the car like he was in a fugue state. “Bye Victor!” Phichit tacks on, seeing that he was awake; he then winks, in the sparkly way that only Phichit could. Victor returns it with a much sloppier wink, but this was the one that sent Yuuri's heart into space. It wasn't even directed at him.
“Byyyeee!” He croons from his spot on Yuuri's leg, shifting around to get comfortable.
Yuuri gives one last panicked look to Phichit, who graces him with a, “Good luck. I know you won't need it.”
And then he was gone, door closed, back turned.
And Yuuri was alone in his shitty car with Victor half on him.
“Ah..” Yuuri starts, then pauses. “Erm,” He tries again, and doesn't allow himself to lose steam this time. He's sure he'll regret this, but the way Victor's laying looks uncomfortable at best. ”Victor, the front seat is open, if you want it.”
His eyes shift open, but only barely. The bright blue hidden behind silver looks a lot like bedroom eyes, a lot like a lot of things Yuuri wants.
“WOW!”
That breaks him out of that right quick, and then Victor is scrambling into shotgun, thankfully not kicking him.
“I love being driven around, wow, this is so cool!” Victor immediately gushes, rolling down his window and sticking his head out. His next words are muffled, due to the fact that his head is outside the car, but Yuuri has a feeling he wasn't really expecting a response.
Yuuri is glad Chris had the foresight to input Victor's address into his phone ahead of time, because it didn't look like Victor was going to be all that useful. Or, you know, useful at all.
But, well. If the phrase was “sit there and look pretty”, then Victor was going above and beyond in his role, because he looked ephemeral. Exquisite. Delectable.
A ton of other adjectives that Yuuri really, actually did not need to be thinking about right now.
He sets Maps to Victor's address, waits as it guides him to the filthy rich part of town.
“Victor, uh.” He pops back in the car immediately, blinks bright eyes at Yuuri. They're so blue Yuuri wouldn't believe it if he wasn't seeing it, if they weren't staring right back at him. He had no metaphors for how lovely they shone, because nothing else could compare. The stars were dull, the sun simply an afterthought in the wake of such a sparkling, crystalline blue.
“Yes, Yuuriii?” Victor croons his name, and he remembers he had been trying to say... something.
Oh god. Oh god, what had he been trying to say? “You need to put your seat belt on.” Oh god, why had he said that?! Now Victor was going to think he was lame, and a nanny, and...
“Oh, thank you Yuuri! I almost forgot.” He's smiling, mouth curved into a heart shape, and Yuuri...
Is broken, probably. Because all he can think about is that mouth, how cute the heart shape is, how cute Victor is –
and how he should be driving.
His hands feel too thick and clumsy as he shifts in into drive. Desperation to get Victor home and forget all about this stupid infatuation flows through him.
There's a possibility he drives more aggressively than he ever had in his life, but Victor doesn't seem to mind. His head is alternatively shoved out the window or far too close to Yuuri's face; either way he was rambling on and on about his dog, and the city lights, and how Yuuri was such a nice person and how he was so happy to be here. It's stupidly endearing, all his lighthearted chatter, and Yuuri is even starting to relax when - “OH MY GOD, YUUURRII!” Panic fills the driver, because people screaming while you were piloting a chunk of metal at 75mph generally does a lot for the sympathetic nervous system, and right as he's about to scream right back (are you okay?! was the first thing he thought of, which may or may not say something.) Victor continues, “CAN WE GET MCDONALDS??”
Yuuri feels like he might cry. Or laugh. He settles for a huff that's maybe somewhere in the middle, and pulls off the freeway where he knows a symbol of America resides. Victor is gushing, cooing, and generally doing awful things with his vocal chords, but they make it to the drive through anyways. He asks the lady to please give him a moment, and then he's trying to decide if he wants anything.
“- and then, he was telling me that cats are superior. Can you believe that?! Cats are cute and all, but dogs, man. It was so weird, almost as weird as how much I've been watching hentai lately.” Yuuri chokes on air at that, but Victor doesn't even seem to notice as he steamrolls right over Yuuri's poor feelings. “It's been crazy, like normally it's maybe a third of the porn I watch, but I don't know if I've seen actual humans fucking in like – weeks?”
Yuuri's mouth is hanging open, and he's curled as far into the corner of his chair as he possibly could be. This conversation wasn't happening. Victor Nikiforov is not talking to him about hentai in a McDonalds drive through. He was having a weird fever dream, obviously. Maybe he was dying. Yeah, dying. That sounded.. preferable.
A moment passes. Then, another. His life doesn't end and Victor doesn't stop talking (about hentai?? Boku no Pokemon or something?) He turns his wide eyes at the speaker, looking for help, maybe, or at least someone to tell him that he was right to be taken aback. Maybe someone to assure him that he actually was dying and wouldn't have to endure this any longer. It crackles at him, and he feels judged.
“Ah, Victor?” He immediately stops his tirade on the merits of – something awful, jiggle physics or giggles or tv tropes – and looks at Yuuri with his wide, bright eyes. “Do you, uh, know what you want?”
“Ah!” He taps his pointer finger against his lips, because of course he had to bring attention to his perfectly rounded, delectable, beautiful - “Nope!” He finishes brightly, and Yuuri thanks whatever gods are listening that his train of thought was broken.
“Er, alright.” He says, but he seems to have done his job and Victor is now actually looking at the menu, at least.
“I'll have a happy meal! With chocolate milk, please.”
Yuuri has broke.
Come back later.
First of all – adorable. Completely and utterly adorable. Victor Nikiforov just ordered a happy meal. With – with chocolate milk.
Second of all – it seems both morally and for-the-sake-of-Yuuri's-continued-existence-ly wrong to go from hentai to chocolate milk so fast. He can't keep up. His emotions are rolling over each other, an ocean of what-the-fuck.
Victor, he realizes, is staring at him. Yuuri's mouth, he realizes, is flopping around like he's a fish drowning on air.
“Sure?” It probably wasn't supposed to be a question, but Yuuri is currently questioning a lot.
Victor continues to stare at him as he pieces himself together enough to order. “Uh, can I have a... a Happy Meal? With, um – chocolate milk?” The lady confirms this, and asks if he wants anything else. “Er, a burger? And, like, fries?” After being prompted on which burger he just goes, “Whichever. A cheap one.”
The lady rattles off something that sounds like food, at least, and he hastily agrees to buying whatever it is. Then she's telling him to pull up to the window and Victor is smiling and everything is so, so confusing.
He manages to make it to the window without any small catastrophes, and while he pulled up a bit far from it, the rest of the transaction went smoothly. Or, well, as smoothly as it could go when Victor is climbing on top of him to get at his food first, proclaiming the whole way about how excited he was for chocolate milk and that Yuuri was just so soft and perfect to climb on (This made Yuuri into a vegetable, basically, so Victor continued to climb over his limp body with no resistance.).
When, finally, all the food is safely in the car and Victor is back in his own seat, slurping down a chocolate milk with gusto, Yuuri asks, “Home, now?” He doesn't really understand what he wants the answer to be, maybe something like, no, I want to just keep driving around with you and getting fast food until our arteries clog or Why don't we just stay here and chat? Or, maybe, I want you to take me right here right now.
Ahem. It doesn't matter what Yuuri wants (as usual), because Victor answers with cheeks puffed out with food, a resounding, “Mmhm!” Accompanied with the curved, wide smile that Yuuri might as well pray to, with how much he worships it.
When he reaches a gate, he almost chokes; because no matter how much sense it makes that Victor lives in a gated community, getting the actual proof was... Scary, really. Victor was so stupidly out of his league that Yuuri feels guilty for even dreaming.
“Erm, Victor, do you remember the code?” Yuuri asks, hopeful, because if he's too drunk to, then Yuuri will have to figure out what to do, and he's never been any good at that.
Victor smiles and taps a finger to his mouth, a gesture that makes Yuuri short out. When he comes to, Victor's fingers are on his chin and his mouth is precariously close to Yuuri's ear, breath hot and tantalizing. For a long, hanging second, Yuuri thinks he's about to lick his ear and Yuuri will ascend to the heavens, but he just whispers, “It's very confidential,” He purrs the very, making it sound much more seductive than such an innocuous word has any right to be. His mind is already churning out a metaphor involving the word 'very' and Yuuri's being, but then Victor's mouth is working again, and Yuuri doesn't really process what it means when he says, “1.” Yuuri shudders as Victor breathes in, has to wonder if he was doing it on purpose. “2.” It drops from his lips like honey, like a perfect, golden, drop. Yuuri could imagine licking it up, tasting all the sweetness from Victors lips, and - “3.” Yuuri holds his breath, and simply waits, “4.”
Then Victor is pulling away, and Yuuri is staring after him, no doubt looking more than a little lost and hopefully not as horny as he felt. It takes a second for what Victor said and why he said it to process, and before his brain can actually tell Yuuri what to do, he's laughing. “Are all rich people this ridiculous?” He asks, and immediately regrets, but Victor just looks gleeful.
“Of course!” He practically yells, and Yuuri is reminded that he's drunk, through and through. Then he's leaning closer this time - and oh god, not this again – but he stops in front of Yuuri's face (Far too close, but at least not breathing on him.) and says in a low, conspiratorial voice, “The money rots your brain.”
Yuuri doubts that, honestly, because Victor is a known genius.
But then he's looking at Yuuri expectantly and Yuuri suddenly remembers what the numbers are for.
And starts laughing again, of course.
He punches them in and watches the gate swing open slowly, amazed and surprised all at once. Rich people really were that ridiculous.
Victor directs him down street after street of mansions that loom ominously, until he's finally directed to stop at a McMansion that has a pink Cadillac parked in front, which only affirms his realization that rich people were ridiculous.
He carefully pulls up by it, leaving far more space than is probably really necessary, but he has a chicken sandwich and about three dollars to his name at the moment, and he thinks a scratch on that Cadillac would cost much, much more than that.
Victor doesn't seem to give the slightest shit about it though, because when he loses his footing and stumbles back, he just allows himself to fall right into it's open cab. Yuuri's there without realizing his feet moved, and the sight of Victor, splayed across white leather with glossy eyes and pink lips, is enough to make him into a tomato. Figuratively, of course, because he's blushing so hard you could probably see it from Neptune, but he wouldn't argue being turned into a literal tomato at this point.
He doesn't realize there's a plushie of a dog in the car until Victor is snuggling it, his hair curling against the fake dog's; and Yuuri completely and totally does not think about how Victor's hair would look tangled with his own (Probably delightful, though).
He's so busy thinking about not thinking about that that he doesn't realize Victor's fallen asleep. In his car. That has no roof. So anyone could come, and do...anything.
Which means Yuuri has to get him inside, somehow.
“Erm, Victor...” He tries, and gets absolutely no response. “Victor?” He tries again, a little louder, but that also doesn't work. He reaches out a shaky hand, but stops it before he reaches Victor. He didn't want him thinking he was a creep, touching him while he slept... but it was normal to shake someone awake, right? And Victor certainly hadn't shied away from physical contact, so... His hand continues grabbing at Victor's shoulder. Victor actually stirs this time, a little mumbled string of consonants. Then, he stills again. “Victor, please.” No response. “Victor, please?” Nothing. “Victor! You gotta go inside.”
He hums, a low noise that seems to replace Yuuri's bones for a second. “Why? It's comfy here.” Yuuri is relieved that he got a response, but when the actual meaning of that response sinks in, he can't help but sigh. Victor's made him feel many things before, (embarrassment at being alive, embarrassment at being near him, embarrassment about all of Yuuri's meager possessions, and of course, the blinding, ravenous type of horny that's made him spend entire nights moaning into his pillow.) but exasperated had never been one of them.
“Victoorr,” Yuuri wishes he could ignore the way he whined Victor's name, but it bounces around his skull like a particularly harmful projectile. Victor just curls tighter around the stuffed dog.
Fuck.
Yuuri's got to think of something that could coax him in, but nothing comes to mind. “Victor?” A moment passes before said man responds, a low hum that didn't necessarily mean anything. “Erm, your bed's inside?” He tries, but knows it won't be enough before the words leave his mouth. Like he thought, it doesn't even stir Victor.
Yuuri didn't know what to do. He staunchly was not considering the option of carrying Victor in, not least because it was a bad option. But... he also wasn't really considering anything else, because he couldn't think of anything else to consider.
What did Victor like??
Yuuri's face is shoved in his hands, eyes scrunched tight, when he gets it. “Dog!” He yells, and is only a little surprised when it actually makes Victor stir. “Victor, your dog's inside!” His eyes open, and he's the exemplification of a precious sleepyhead when they squint at him.
“Dog..?” He sounds confused. Yuuri does not squee, no matter how bad he wants to.
“Yeah, your dog is waiting for you inside!” Victor's sleepy eyes travel over to the plushie he's still aggressively cuddling, before they turn back to Yuuri, confused. “Your real dog.” Yuuri clarifies.
He squeezes the fake dog, before seeming to come to. “My..dog?” He blinks, once, twice, “Oh MY GOD, MY DOG!” He squeals, falling out of the car and grabbing Yuuri as he hurtles to the door. Yuuri stumbles after, and doesn't even realize till he's thrown through the door that he's entering Victor Nikiforov's house.
He stumbles in, and immediately falls, because he's Yuuri and he just sucks. He didn't suck so much that he tripped over his own two feet, but tripping over Victor's dog is hardly better, especially when Yuuri starts drowning in it's apology slobber.
Luckily, Victor doesn't seem bothered by how clumsy Yuuri is. He's burying his face in the dog's fur, and cooing little noises at it. Yuuri thinks he might be crying. He keeps exclaiming things like ohmygod I have a DOG and wow! You're the most beautiful thing (Which Yuuri does not even consider pretending is directed at him.)Yuuri recovers enough to hear “Makkachin!”, which he decides is the dog's name, because it's the only thing that really makes sense.
Victor stops his cuddling long enough to let out the longest, cutest yawn Yuuri has ever heard, after which he blinks sleepy eyes at Yuuri. “Victor? Would you like to go to bed?” He asks, then immediately blushes. There's no way he'd take that wrong, right? Probably not, but...
“Yuuri!” Victor squeals, which Yuuri is starting to think is just how he communicates. “I would love to, c'mon!” And then Yuuri is being dragged through a house bigger than the local Walmart, Makkachin bounding around his ankles precariously. Victor practically throws him in a room, slamming the door shut behind him. He literally belly flops onto a bed Yuuri is sure is worth more than all his possessions. He actually bounces on it before it settles, but then Makkachin is climbing up and it's jiggling all over the place and Victor is laughing and looking at him with so much happiness.
Yuuri takes a breath. A deep one.
And he looks at this scene, takes in every corner of his room, the subtle curve in Victor’s mouth, even when he’s not smiling. How shiny Makkachin's fur is, how plush the pillows look, the photos and posters that give insight to a life many could only dream of. He takes all of this, the moonlight shining in the huge windows, the way it gleams in Victor's silver hair. He takes it, and he saves it.
Because right now, he can almost pretend. It's the closest he'll ever be to his dreams, the closest he'll ever be to having Victor. Right here, right now, Yuuri can pretend Victor's sitting there, waiting for him to come to bed.
He takes another breath. A deeper one.
“Goodnight, Victor.” He turns away, and doesn't see Victor's face fall. The door is unimaginably heavy, but he pushes it open anyway. He takes a step, then-
“Wait!” He resolutely does not cry as he turns back to Victor, but the face he's making doesn't help. He just sits, and waits for whatever tantalizing shred of anything Victor's going to dangle in front of him. “Um...” Victor looks down, sad eyes finding Makkachin. The dog snuggles against his face. “You could... Stay?” His blue eyes are locked on Yuuri's now, so fierce, like a flood. Yuuri's being carried away. He's drowning, dying, and Victor... Is holding out his arms for him, warm, inviting.
“Is that... okay? You're drunk and..”
“Of course it's okay! I'm sober enough to decide I want to cuddle with the cute boy who brought me home. Cuddles can't hurt anyone!” Yuuri's brain gets stuck on cuddle, and while he's trying to piece that out, his feet move for him.
He's by the side of the bed by the time his brain finds the word 'cute' in all that, and being Yuuri, he goes, “You think I'm cute?” And then blushes with the force of 1,000 suns.
Victor looks at him like he's said, 'You think I'm real?'. “Yes, of course!” His voice is gleeful in the dark room, and Yuuri wonders how he can cycle through emotions so easily. “You're entirely adorable!”
“Move.” He says it soft, but Victor responds like he'd screamed it, shuffling over and pulling up the blanket for him. Yuuri slides in, sighs. Victor touches his shoulder, but hesitates.
“Can I?” He doesn't wait after Yuuri hums yes, curling around him like a particularly affectionate octopus. Yuuri responds, his body shifting and wrapping around Victor's until they were one warm human pretzel, with Makkachin laying over their feet. Black and silver mix by Yuuri's head, and he can't help but think it looked just as delightful as he thought it would.
“Goodnight, Yuuri.” His name sounds exquisite, coming from Victor.
“Goodnight, Victor.” He says, and he doesn't even sound sad.
As he listens to Victor's breaths even out, he can't help but think that Victor was wrong. Cuddles could definitely hurt him.
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Lunacy/Eclipse Update!
If you felt left out of our summer travel plans (SDCC and Midsummer Scream were outstanding!) then perhaps the following will make it up to you: a cluster of small scent collections serving as a veritable sampler platter of the best 2017 has to offer.
Firstly, the path of this month’s solar eclipse has inspired a Limited Edition series of thirteen scents, in addition to our usual Lunacy fare -- Harvest Moon 2017 to set you soaring into September, and Single Note: Honeysuckle to make sure you turn every head along the way.
We’re also rolling out the long-awaited next installment of Neil Gaiman’s 15 Painted Cards From a Vampire Tarot, bringing the number of scents in this collection up to 7. These bottles, accompanied by an actual tarot card drawn by Madame Talbot, will raise funds for the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.
Last but far from least, the latest winner of our #BPAL7WordStory contest (ENVY Edition) has finally been announced… and you’re gonna want to sniff those words.
In all, that’s a gallery of 19 new creations to wander through as the world outside swelters and the sun itself threatens to go out.
++ THE GREAT AMERICAN ECLIPSE
On Monday, 21 August 2017, all of North America will experience an eclipse of the sun, with a total eclipse stretching from Oregon to South Carolina. During this event, the moon will completely cover the sun, and the sun’s corona will extend its golden tendrils from behind a shadowed veil. Solar eclipses have been held responsible for the fall of empires, the onset of wars, the birth and death of great people, and the onset of terrible plagues and natural disasters. Is this rare and awe-inspiring event an omen? Grab your nearest soothsayer or augur; it’s big business for seers this year!
This series is a paean to this once in a lifetime event: an amber-gilded sampling of the poetry, prose, notable persons, mythology, and historical accounts surrounding solar eclipses.
++ SONGS OF MIDDAY DARKNESS
ALL RUINOUS DISORDERS
These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us. Though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide, in cities mutinies, in countries discord, in palaces treason, and the bond cracked ’twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction—there’s son against father. The king falls from bias of nature—there’s father against child. We have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund. It shall lose thee nothing. Do it carefully.—And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished, his offense honesty! 'Tis strange, strange.
- William Shakespeare, King Lear
Amber, bergamot, and honeyed saffron blackened by smoked oudh, patchouli, ti leaf, scorched thistle, leather, and yew.
DISASTROUS TWILIGHT
As when the Sun, new risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the Moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs.
- John Milton, Paradise Lost
Star-touched blue amber, gurjum balsam, pale orris, Somalian myrrh, benzoin, red sandalwood, and ylang ylang.
ECLIPSES BE
Eclipses be – predicted –
And Science bows them in –
But do one face us suddenly –
Jehovah’s watch – is wrong.
- Emily Dickinson
Rose amber, carnation, and clove.
THE SUN HAS PERISHED
…and the Sun has perished
out of heaven,
and an evil mist hovers over all.
- Homer, the Odyssey
An evil mist hovers over all: Tunisian amber, wilted asphodel, myrrh, and smoke.
++ HISTORICAL ACCOUNTS, LANDMARKS, AND PERSONAGES
18 JUNE 1860
On this date, the first wet plate photograph of an eclipse was taken. Shimmering amber, collodion, silver nitrate accord, and white lavender.
NOTHING IS UNEXPECTED, NOTHING IS FORESWORN
Nothing is unexpected, nothing is foresworn and
Nothing amazes now that father Zeus the Olympian
veiled the light to make it night at midday
even as sun was shining: so dread fear has overtaken men.
From this time on everything that men believe
will be doubted: may none of us who see this be surprised
when we see forest beasts taking turns in the salted field
with dolphins, when the echoing waves of the sea become
Dearer to them than the sand, and the dolphins love the wooded glen
- Archilochus
Red amber and heady red wine, benzoin, ash, and bourbon vanilla.
THE DRUNK ASTRONOMERS
Credit for some of the first recorded accounts of eclipses are attributed to the legendary Drunk Astronomers, Ho and Hsi, circa 2137 BCE. Ho and Hsi were royal astronomers in the court of Chung K’ang. They were in charge of predicting the celestial dance – all movements of the Heavenly Bodies. They were also reprobates, and spent a fair amount of their time in debauch, drinking and carousing. In a drunken stupor – though they knew an eclipse was imminent – they failed to notify the emperor of the event, and they failed to perform the sacred rites that would prevent the celestial dragon from consuming the mighty sun. They were summarily decapitated for creating chaos and confusion in the celestial chain by leaving their duties unperformed.
Here lie the bodies of Ho and Hsi,
Whose fate, though sad, is risible;
Being slain because they could not spy
The eclipse which was invisible.
Jasmine tea, blood musk, and pale yellow amber.
IN HIDEOUS DARKNESS
The elements manifested their sorrow at this great man's departure from England. For the Sun on that day at the 6th hour shrouded his glorious face, as the poets say, in hideous darkness, agitating the hearts of men by an eclipse; and on the 6th day of the week early in the morning there was so great an earthquake that the ground appeared absolutely to sink down; an horrid noise being first heard beneath the surface.
- Historia Novella, William of Malmesbury on the death of Henry I
Golden amber and ambergris, sage and white cedar, rockrose, bourbon tobacco, and vetiver.
MABEL
Mabel Loomis Todd is probably best known as the first editor of Emily Dickinson's poetry and editor of publications of Dickinson’s posthumous works. She was also a fearless and experienced adventuress, eclipse chaser and astronomer, and trekked over the globe locating unobscured sites to witness solar eclipses. She published Total Eclipses of the Sun in 1894, a list of past and future total solar eclipses, and recorded her experiences in her travels through painting and journals.
Rose-tinted amber, golden chypre, ambergris, tobacco leaf, and clove.
THE SUN IN ANGER SWORE
And the moon in haste eclipsed her,
and the Sun in anger swore
He would curl his wick within him
and give light to you no more.
- Aristophanese, Chorus of Clouds
A withdrawn, seething red amber spiked with dragon’s blood resin, black pepper, red musk, and red oudh.
OIL AND PITCH
It has been known since antiquity that looking directly at an eclipse can cause serious damage to the eyes. Islamic scholar, Al-Biruni, observed that you could minimize the damage by viewing an eclipse reflected in the surface of still water. In his Naturales Quaestiones, Seneca observed, "Whenever we want to watch an eclipse of the Sun we set out basins filled with oil or pitch, because the heavy liquid is not easily disturbed and so preserves the images it receives."
Amber swirled in opoponax, black labdanum, and poplar tar.
THE THALES ECLIPSE
In the sixth year a battle took place in which it happened, when the fight had begun, that suddenly the day became night. And this change of the day Thales the Milesian had foretold to the Ionians laying down as a limit this very year in which the change took place. The Lydians however and the Medes, when they saw that it had become night instead of day, ceased from their fighting and were much more eager both of them that peace should be made between them.
- Herodotus, on a prediction of by Thales of Miletus
Red amber and leather, patchouli, champaca flower, frankincense, oudh, castoreum accord, and black musk.
++ BIBLICAL CATASTROPHES
The Bible is filled with the eclipse’s ill-omens. Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s blood-red moons and midday darkness have indicated to Biblical historians that the date of the crucifixion was November 24th AD 29 (solar eclipse) or April 3rd AD 33 (partial lunar eclipse).
THE CURTAIN OF THE TEMPLE WAS TORN IN TWO
By now it was about midday and a darkness fell over the whole land, which lasted until three in the afternoon; the sun's light failed. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus gave a loud cry and said, 'Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit'; and with these words he died.
Radiant golden amber suffused with holy incense smoke compounded from acacia, myrrh, cassia, balsam, frankincense, cinnamon, onycha accord, and galbanum.
++ 15 PAINTED CARDS FROM A VAMPIRE TAROT
V. THE POPE
This is my body, he said, two thousand years ago. This is my blood.
It was the only religion that delivered exactly what it promised: life eternal, for its adherents.
There are some of us alive today who remember him. And some of us claim that he was a messiah, and some think that he was just a man with very special powers. But that misses the point. Whatever he was, he changed the world.
Life everlasting: clove-smoke, benzoin, rose maroc, Jerusalem cedar, cistus, and frankincense.
VII. THE CHARIOT
It was genetic engineering at its finest: they created a breed of human to sail the stars: they needed to be possessed of impossibly long life-spans, for the distances between the stars were vast; space was limited, and their food supplies needed to be compact; they needed to be able to process local sustenance, and to colonise the worlds they found with their own kind.
The homeworld wished the colonists well, and sent them on their way. They removed all traces of their location from the ships’ computers first, however. To be on the safe side.
The scent of white-hot metal and stardust, limned with glowing bergamot aldehyde.
X. THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE
What did you do with the doctor? she asked, and laughed. I thought the Doctor came in here ten minutes ago.
I’m sorry, I said. I was hungry.
And we both laughed.
I’ll go find her for you, she said.
I sat in the doctor’s office, picking my teeth. After a while the assistant came back.
I’m sorry, she said. The doctor must have stepped out for a while. Can I make an appointment for you for next week?
I shook my head. I’ll call, I said. But, for the first time that day, I was not telling the truth.
An antiseptic white scent, splattered with blood.
++ BPAL 7 WORD STORY
ENVY
“Galatea wept as Pygmalion carved new statues.”
-- Tyler Butler
Marble-white sandalwood, vanilla blossom, and orris root veined with whorls of ambergris accord, rose-touched with life, slowly shattering tears of bitter carrot seed and cistus.
++ A LITTLE LUNACY
HARVEST MOON 2017
Harvest Moon is celebrated in almost every culture, and the bounty of the season is marked in a myriad of ways. Harvest Moon touches the Equinox, the festival of Janus, the culmination of Homowo, the "crying of the neck" in Cornwall, and the Women's Festival of the Moon. This is a day that celebrates abundance and beauty, fertility and progress, and the light of this full moon blesses new undertakings and reunites lost loves.
The Harvest Moon, by definition, is the Full Moon that falls closest to the Autumnal Equinox, and thus, it shares some of that Sabbat's characteristics. This Full Moon was thus named because it rises within half an hour of the sun's setting, in the Northern Hemisphere, and at this time farmers are able to work longer into the night by the light of this Moon. As the year draws to a close, the Full Moon rises an average of fifty minutes later each night, with the exception of a few nights surrounding the Harvest Moon, which only rises 10-30 minutes later. This moon is also, to the human eye, the fullest and largest of the year's Moons, hanging gloriously huge, yellow and low in the night sky, and many lunar illusions play tricks our eyes at this time.
The Harvest ushers in many celebrations, including the Equinox and the Festival of Janus, God of Doors. Janus is the Roman Lord of Gateways, beginnings and endings, and transitions. Thus, the Harvest Moon is a time for blessing new ventures, the onset of new and progressive phases in one's life, and rites of passage into adulthood. This time of year also marks one of the Festivals of Dionysus, Lord of Ecstasy and the Vine.
This Harvest lunacy combines the autumnal scents of dry leaves, mulling spices, balsam fir and spruce tips, cedar, juniper berry, clove, saffron, wild apple, sage, yarrow, and lily twined with Dionysus' sacred grapes and ivy, a bounty of blackberry and pumpkin, deep russet sunflowers, the amaranth and lingum aloes of Janus, all touched by a gentle breath of festival woodsmoke and sweet wine.
++ SINGLE NOTES
WILD HONEYSUCKLE
#bpal#eclipse#solar eclipse#eclipse 2017#total eclipse#black phoenix alchemy lab#neil gaiman#madame talbot#honeysuckle#tarot#tarot cards
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Weather, Wounds, Wire
For this week’s Synchronised Screaming Flash Fic Challenge. Prompt was: Any Prologue Norwegian - Barbed-wire Winter
Snow again, as always
coats the town in white shrouds
like sheets wrapped
over friends
and neighbors
and the people you couldn't stand.
Winter has ever been sharp,
but this year allows nothing else.
Icicles form
over barbed wire
and we wait.
At first, no one noticed when the world changed. They thought it was local, the closed road and the endless rain keeping them cut off from everyone else. Reports of an illness and closing borders were met with shrugs and complaints about day-old newspapers. Some few, more prone to worry than most, took the warnings seriously. They ferried in supplies and loved ones; they holed themselves up to wait. The good news they hoped for never came.
Sigrun had never thought of herself as a particularly hopeful person in the first place, though. Sure, she wasn't a worry-wart like Aksel, but when things went bad she didn't sit around assuming they'd get better. She grumbled along with the rest of them—no fresh supplies, electronics that worked less and less well as the weeks went on, rain that kept them all soggy—but she didn't go around saying things like 'it will all be better when spring comes.'
"Ugh, this snow! I can't wait for spring."
"It's only December, Aksel. It's going to get worse before it gets better."
Aksel shot her a sour look and pulled his collar closer around his neck. "Thanks, Sigrun. You sure know how to cheer a guy up."
Sigrun bent down and casually scooped up a fistful of snow. She passed it from hand to hand, not really looking at Aksel. "Yes, well. You know that's always been my goal, making you feel better. And think of it this way—it could be so much worse! Your grandmother could still be in her old apartment, slowly starving to death while her cat nibbles on her toes." They'd heard reports that food was scarce in the city, even worse than it was in Dalsnes. And of course, rumor spun that information into all kinds of horrifying scenarios, most of which Sigrun didn't believe. The same could not be said for Aksel.
"Sigrun! Don't say things like that! I'm so thankful she made it here safe, where the rash and the cannibals can't get to her." Aksel pressed his hands to his chest. "And she'll be even safer once the wall is finished."
Sigrun grimaced. That damn wall—of all the changes they'd had to make, that was the one that made her the craziest. Who were they trying to keep out? Dalsnes was isolated enough, especially with the road washed out, that no one would be stupid enough to approach on foot. The ban on water travel had come through just before the radios malfunctioned, so they hadn't seen a boat for weeks. But no matter how unnecessary it was, the people in charge were paranoid enough to add more safety precautions.
"I still say it's a dumb idea," she said. "It's just going to make it harder to get food, if the hunters have to go through some kind of checkpoint every time they leave."
"Yeah, but...isn't it better to be safe than sorry? I heard the rash doesn't just make people sick, they've started seeing it in animals, too."
Sigrun stopped, snow clutched in the curve of her red-mittened hands. "Really? Like plague rats? I don't believe it."
"Well then, you can be the one to test it out. I'll do my best to avoid being bitten, thanks."
Right. That was enough of the gloom-and-doom talk. Sigrun pushed past Aksel, dropping her snowball down the neck of his jacket as she did so. His shouts followed her all the way home.
Sun spreads red
across the roofs,
morning
tinting the town.
Mourning
shades every face
except for those
whose minds
are no longer their own.
The barrier fence was halfway complete when the first attack came. Three people dead, two wounded. Four more possibly infected, held in quarantine and made to tend the injured. From what little they'd gleaned from news reports—when news of the outside world still came in—it would be two weeks before they knew for sure.
"Do you...do you want to talk about it?" Aksel asked, sitting down next to her. Sigrun shook her head. Blood had started to seep through the bandage on her hand again; she’d have to change it soon. It wasn't even a scratch or a bite from one of those twisted creatures; that would at least have been interesting. No, she'd managed to catch herself on the damned barbed wire.
"Are you going to gloat a little? Rub my face in it?" She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. Aksel looked wounded.
"Why would I do that? You’re hurt, that’s awful!” He picked up a fresh roll of bandage and took her hand. “I’m just glad you weren’t anywhere near the area of the attack, or they’d probably have quarantined you, too.” He unwrapped the dirty bandage carefully, as though her hand might break if he didn’t.
Sigrun glared at him. “Yeah, but then I’d know. Waiting like this is the worst, because even when this heals I won’t know if I’m immune to the rash. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder for the next attack. How am I supposed to live like that?”
Aksel shook his head. "How else are we supposed to live now? All we can do is wait. Maybe the rash will die down."
"Or maybe we'll die," Sigrun muttered, "Go crazy hiding behind walls that we hope will protect us." She'd heard the stories. She knew the rash made people lose themselves, slowly dwindling into something less. If the cut on her hand had come from an infected animal instead of a wire, that could have been her.
"Sigrun—"
"I think I want to be left alone for a while," she said. "Thanks for redoing my bandage." She looked away.
Aksel stood, sighing heavily. "All right. You know where to find me if you...if you need anything." He squeezed her shoulder and departed.
Sigrun sat for a long time staring into the fire, trying not to look at her hand. Trying, and failing, to think of anything other than the people in quarantine on the other side of town.
Quiet dark
creeps under our skin
into bones
and veins
and souls.
We await
our sentence:
transformation
or release
nothing in between.
We wait
for spring.
They finished the fence, but that only kept them safe to a certain extent. Some people had to leave the walls, to guard and to hunt and to salvage whatever they could from abandoned buildings. And beyond the walls, there was no guarantee of safety.
"Aksel."
He didn't respond, just curled more tightly under his blanket. Sigrun sat on the edge of the bed.
"Aksel, come talk to me."
"Go away."
She rolled her eyes, grasped the edge of the blanket, and yanked. Aksel yelped and sat up to glare at her.
"Hey!" He reached for the blanket, but Sigrun held it away. "Not until you let me check your injury. You're not allowed to die in quarantine if you don't actually have the rash." Her own wound was shallow; easy enough to check it herself. The one on the back of Aksel's leg was more worrying.
"Fine." He rolled up his pant leg and turned his back so she could see it. "This doesn't get any less awkward, does it?"
Sigrun undid the bandage and cleaned the wound, keeping an eye out for signs of infection. For signs of any kind of infection. They were a week into quarantine, and so far neither of them showed any symptoms of the rash, but they still had a week to go.
"Looks okay," she said eventually, carefully securing the new bandage. She gave him a reassuring slap, which made him jump and glare at her again.
"Sigrun!" His face burned nearly as red as his hair, and he hurried to adjust his clothes.
"What?" She feigned innocence. "I can't give you a 'congratulations, your wound isn't septic' pat?"
Aksel reclaimed his blanket and wrapped himself in it. "Is that what that was? I thought it was a 'hey, I felt like slapping your ass' pat. It's hard to tell the difference with you." He lay down again, but this time he stayed facing her.
Sigrun watched him for a minute. Thought about going back to her own bed in the other room, where the woman in the neighboring bed wouldn't stop crying. Her partner had shown signs of the rash that morning, and had been taken away to a different part of quarantine. They all did their best not to think about that part.
In the spirit of not thinking about things, Sigrun barely hesitated before joining Aksel on the bed. "Gimme some blanket," she said.
"What are you doing now?" He grumbled. He made no move to stop her though, even when she wormed her way under the blanket and poked his shins with her cold toes. She tucked herself against his chest and wrapped an arm around him.
"The way I see it," she said, "We're stuck in here until we find out if we're dead or alive. Might as well keep each other company. It's warmer with two, anyway."
And it made it easier to avoid thinking of their predicament when she could focus on other things. Aksel's breathing, instead of the scratch on her arm that might have killed her. The beating of his heart, rather than the howling winds and monsters in the dark. The warmth of his skin: normal, healthy, human warmth. Not the burn of fever. None of that yet, and maybe, if they were lucky, it would never come.
Aksel must have felt the same, because he didn't bother arguing. He draped his arm over her, let her share his warmth and his space. They waited.
Snow turns to
slush turns to
ice turns to
water.
Winter turns
to spring.
Sigrun shouldered her rifle and kept her eyes on the trees, doing her best to listen for anything unusual. It was hard, what with the noise the repair crew was making. She didn't envy them their task. Reinforcing the fence, mending the hole where an attack had gotten through, was hard enough; the added challenges of mud and half-melted ice made it all worse. Guard duty was far preferable, in her opinion. It was just as well she was immune, and could stand outside the barrier with minimal risk. An infected creature could still kill her, but the rash couldn't.
Aksel came to stand beside her, juggling his gun and a flask. “Tea?” He asked, offering the latter to Sigrun. She took it from him with a nod.
“Sure, if only to keep you from dropping it. Get your gun in position, you’re going to shoot something on accident.” She took a swig; the hot beverage warmed her all the way down to her toes.
“Sorry,” he said, hastily adjusting his grip. “I just thought you might want a hot drink. It’s still a little chilly, even with the thaw.”
“Yeah.” Sigrun knew how fickle spring could be; they weren’t out of the woods yet. And they didn’t know what new dangers might come with warmer weather, either. But with longer sunlit hours every day, it was safe to say that winter was starting to relax its grip. They’d made it through in spite of everything. Maybe they’d make it through the next winter, too.
#my writing#flash fiction#stand still stay silent#synchronised screaming#sigrun larsen#aksel eide#poetry
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Because we’re all needing a lift after yesterday
Where is My Galant Knight
John would be lying if he said he had lived a boring life.
A youth spent in fighting, questing, flirting, and where had it got him? A name that conjures an image that they weave in tapestries and write about in poems and a head full of memories. Granted, it was nice to have instant recognition whenever you walked into a new town, complete with every yokel in the land wanting to buy an ale for the gallant, the famous, Sir John Watson. But memories are tricky things. Fallible and all too quick to kick a man when he’s down.
Like, for instance, when you wake up and remember that no matter what you accomplish in life, the woman you love can still run off and marry the local king. Just because.
Yup. Daybreak and already time for a drink , John thought, groaning into his pillow as he reached blindly for a handy jug of table wine.
He hadn’t always been a slovenly has-been. Shaggy hair, unwashed, unshaven. There once was a time when John thought nothing in the world would knock him off his high horse. He had the finest clothes, the best armor, hired the most qualified squire in the land to assist him on his quests. John had amassed a wealth that any dragon would envy. In fact, he grew his own by nabbing the hoard of more than a few slayed dragons. He had worked hard to make himself successful and done any and everything to stay that way. He ran off bandits and churlish mercenaries. He slayed beasts of every kind. He went off to fight wars for the king. He rescued damsels in distress for god’s sake!
But, despite feeling like he’d never come down from the heavens, one event made him crash to earth like Icarus to the sea. A wedding, almost a year gone by, stripped John of all sense of hero-ness.
Unwanted, unasked for, the image of that fateful day replayed in his head even as he tried to erase it with the drink. The echoing voices of time past called to him from inside his head.
John, newly returned from questing, came back to his idyllic town hoping for the arms of his lovely lady, Mary. But alas, the villagers screamed and wailed at him, “she’s been kidnapped, sir! By King Richard!” It had been a week since and no news of Mary had been forthcoming and John feared the worst for his poor sweetheart.
He rode hard for King Richard’s castle, determined to rescue Mary. While stopping just long enough to rest his horses at an inn, he learned that the next day was to be the date of a rushed, royal wedding. That King Richard had found himself a beautiful angel of golden hair and witty demeanor to be his new queen.
Armed with this knowledge, knowing that it could only be his Mary, he pushed his horse to ride through the night to make it just in time to see the sun rise above the castle. He was able to stop the wedding before the binding words “I do”.
John swept into the over decorated cathedral, packed with courtiers and flowers and soldiers to rescue Mary from her kidnapper. Proudly, confidently, he strode the length of the rich, purple carpet laid out in the aisle, smiling all the way.
“Mary, my love! I am here to rescue you from your peril.”
Mary beamed at him. “Oh, John!”
“King Richard, you can have your guards fight with me from dawn till dusk, to an even draw. If you’re sporting for a tourney. And yes, you can offer her riches beyond all our imaginations, comfort for all her days, and endless support and an easy life. But I, only I, John Watson, can give her what her heart truly desires. True love. And that, my King, is what she chooses.” He ended his speech with a courteous bow just before them, waiting for his lady love’s confirmation.
Silence. Confusion. John looked up to see Mary’s pained expression.
“Actually…”
John’s stomach sank, mouth suddenly dry.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since King Richard kidnapped me and...I’m going to go with the fortune and security.” Her expression turned soft, guilty. “Just seems like an easier life, you know?”
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The pain of rejection coupled with the public humiliation made his head swim. He was so shocked that he never had time to react before King Richard’s men grabbed him and carried him outside, the sound of Mary’s “I hope we can be friends!” calling after him before he was beaten like a rug.
And, god help him, he let them. He was a broken man, might as well look the part as well.
Grunting at the acidic taste of bad wine in this mouth, John swallowed it and the memory down. He flopped back into bed, willing his aching head to go stuff itself down a well. Peace, quiet, and a jug of decent ale were all he dared hope for these days.
The door slammed open and John’s squire, Greg, came waltzing in, happily bidding him good morning. “How are we feeling today, Sir?”
“What in god’s name do you want, Greg?”
“I see we’re getting an early start on your to-drink list this morning,” Greg chuckled back. He pried the jug from John’s fingers and John protested loudly with groaning before sliding back down between the sheets.
“You know ever since Mary-”
“Don’t say her name,” John groused.
“-married the King,” Greg continued over him, “you haven’t been quite the same.”
“You don’t say,” John spat back sarcastically.
“Don’t you think it’s time to get back out there? Go on questing again? Bring down a couple dragons, maybe a gryphon, enchant a few forest nymphs, keep that name of yours infamous.”
“A perfectly selfless suggestion, I’m sure.” John buried his head in his pillow, refusing to open his eyes and entertain the idea. “My questing has nothing to do with your squire duties and your own career at all.”
“None at all,” Greg facetiously agreed.
“You know I’ve given you more than a dozen chances to leave my employ. You’re the one insisting on coddling me.” John rolled onto his back to stare at his grubby ceiling. “And I let you because I am a selfish man.”
Greg sighed and crossed the room to look down at John. “Would you at least entertain the idea of a quest?” Silence answered him. “Because there is a man bringing with him a great opportunity. One that I think will whet your appetite for adventure again.”
Greg strode over to the door and opened it, welcoming someone inside. “Sir John, I present to you, Lord Mycroft Holmes.”
A man, dressed impeccably in black breeches and coat, stepped into John’s tiny hovel and nodded his head in John’s direction. He gripped a walking stick in his hand, leaning on it slightly as he took in the details of John’s home. Greg saw himself out, giving Lord Holmes an opportunity to beg his case.
“Sir John, I presume.”
John sat up, cursing his aching head as he did so. He looked at the man before him and grinned a crooked grin, giggling as he took him in. “So the legends say.”
“Hardly legends,” Mycroft said under his breath.
“Depends on who you ask.” John bent down to put his boots on. “State your business. The quicker you do, the quicker I can toss you out, eh?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and said. “As your squire said, I have a quest for you,” the man stopped short and asked, “dare I ask what that smell is?”
John huffed a brief chuckle, rising from the bed. “That’d be me.”
Mycroft sniffed in disgust. “Right. Anyway, I’m sure you know who I am.”
“Yes, yes,” John began as he stalked his way over to his chair and table, searching for a bit of breakfast. “Lord Mycroft Holmes, heir to the realm of Posh-ville and advisor to your father the King. What could you possible want from me?”
“A quest that would be mutually beneficial.”
“That is how quests usually go. Mutually beneficial-y.”
“Two years ago my brother and I had an argument. I thought that it was rather minor but apparently I underestimated his emotions. He snuck out and ran away from home. After ten days of tracking we finally found him. He had locked himself in a tower and cast a spell upon himself.” Mycroft pulled out a well-worn letter and read it aloud, despite obviously having memorized the words.
“Dear brother-mine, you’re growing slow in your old age and added weight. I suggest laying off the cakes chef’s making and spend more time on your sparring. Can't have the future king keeling over due to a fatty diet, god forbid. Had you done so from the beginning, you might have prevented my taking the decision to bring me back out of your hands. Good luck breaking the spell. Ta-ta, don’t let the door hit your gigantic arse on the way out.” Mycroft calmed folded the paper and put it back in his pocket and added, “he has quite the flair for the dramatic.”
“And you obviously want me to go retrieve your stroppy brother is that it?”
“In a nutshell.” Mycroft leaned heavily on the walking stick and said, “there are certain parameters to this spell he put on himself that must be followed if it is to be broken.”
“What did you do,” John asked.
“I’m sorry?”
Finding an apple amongst the debris on the table, John took a bite and asked again, “what did you do? You obviously did something to warrant such a, as you say, dramatic exit. And what sort of spell are we talking about? I’m not exactly a wizard or magician, here.” Not that John was terribly interested in donning his armor and charging out on his horse any time soon. Still, he was curious.
“That does not concern you.”
“It could,” John pointed out.
“It really couldn’t,” Mycroft insisted.
Shrugging and taking another bite of apple, John motioned for the man to continue. “The spell my brother, Sherlock in case you were wondering, has put him in an eternal sleep.”
“Sounds like a hard prognosis to cure.”
“To break it,” Mycroft went on, ignoring John’s input, “requires two things. First, that he is not moved from his resting place. Secondly, that he be woken with a kiss.”
John laughed.
He actually, truly laughed. From the depths of his belly, climbing up his throat and bursting from his mouth like a stream, his laughter gripped him suddenly and tightly. It had been so long since he laughed without abandon that his stomach and cheeks soon hurt with the convulsions. He wiped his tearing eyes and said, “sorry, sorry, that’s just.” He broke out into a brief laugh once more before sobering enough to get a sentence out. “Oh, that is rich. Thank you for that.”
“I’m glad to have amused you,” Mycroft said, clearly unamused.
“But that is some fairytale shit, Lord Holmes. And I’m no fairytale hero.”
“That’s not what the legends say.”
John huffed, suddenly unamused. “Hardly legends.” Another bite of apple. “You said so yourself.”
Mycroft eyed him for a long minute, categorizing details, making John want to squirm in his seat. After a few full minutes of heavy silence Mycroft said with a sneer, “what happened to you?”
John put his feet up on his table, leaning back and presenting his whole self, no longer caring what anyone thought. “I lost everything. Everything that meant anything to me. And my family has a nasty tendency to drown their sorrows in the drink.” He reached down to grab an empty bottle for emphasis before tossing it aside. “Add all that together and,” he gestured to himself and said, “ta-da!”
Mycroft looked pale, uncertain and disgusted. “Irrelevant. I need your skillset and unfortunately that skillset is attached to you.”
John huffed humorlessly under his breath, “irrelevant.” At once, John stood and said, “nice to meet you.” John pointed to the door, “door’s on the wall.” He spied an unopened bottle of wine and raised it in mock-cheer, before heading back towards his bed.
Mycroft reached out and stopped him with a hand to John’s shoulder. “Please.” His voice screamed of a man unaccustomed to asking twice or saying please. “You will be generously compensated.”
“I’m sure.”
“You’ll increase your fame and glory.”
“Oh, most definitely,” John agreed.
“And you’ll serve a purpose besides being serving as an incredible mimic of a dungheap.”
“Absolutely.” John smiled at him, throwing an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder, leading him to the door.
“So, you’ll do it?”
John opened the door, smile growing wider. “Not a chance.” He shoved the rich ponce out his door before slamming it in his face.
Tags under the cut. Continued on AO3 - (X)
If you don’t wish to be tagged in future installments, please let me know. Or, if you do wish to be tagged, please let me know.
@ellipsicalelle @sweeter-than-cynicism @benedictgingerbatch00 @thedownfaller @readermagnifique @soldierjhwatson @fuck-off-watson @salve-regina-mills
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