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freddiekluger · 3 years

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please drop the essay length analysis Judas and Jesus (extra gay Swedish edition), O great and knowledgeable monarch of our times

alright, you ask i deliver! please excuse any typos, my eyes aren't exactly working rn

welcome to my probably super subjective but correct analysis, aka

Judas Was Right and Jesus Was A Victim (At Least, In Swedish)

Before we get started, a couple points: i’ll try to avoid comparisons to other specific productions, i’ve only seen the other recorded 2012 british version which i didn’t like for reasons including but not limited to the amount of white people with dreadlocks. Also, my understanding of swedish is limited to a couple words and phrases, so most of the lyrics i reference will be english subtitles from Ola Salo’s swedish translation and therefore might not be the most accurate !

There’s so much i could cover in this, but for now i’m going to focus on how jesus and judas are portrayed in the 2014 swedish arena tour of Jesus Christ Superstar (JCS) starring Ola Salo as Jesus and Peter Johansson as Judas, along with how this production more implicitly views god.

From the opening number, translated into swedish as En Dimmig Himmelsdröm (A Foggy Heaven’s Dream), Peter Johansson’s acting and semantic differences in the lyrics present us with a deeply sympathetic portrayal of Judas. Looking purely at language, the english equivalent Heaven On Their Minds instantly paints Judas as much more of a faithless doubter- lyrics exclusive to the english version like “all your followers have gone blind / too much heaven on their minds” and “they think you’re the new messiah / and they’ll hurt you when they find they’re wrong” strongly enforce Judas’ main motivation for his actions being that he has less belief in Jesus and God’s plan than any of the other disciples with strong statements judging the other disciples for following him and claiming that Jesus ISN’T the messiah. The swedish translation doesn’t paint exactly the same picture- the focus of Judas’ number becomes his fear for Jesus’ wellbeing, not because he isn’t the messiah (the production remains fairly ambiguous on this point), but because Jesus can’t cope. The root of Judas’ concern comes from fear for Jesus’ wellbeing, and the disciples are referenced as regularly misunderstanding and wilfully twisting Jesus’ words. The swedish equivalent lyrics for the above examples are “they say, “jesus is god’s son” / but you know how people can change” (judas isn’t concerned with truth, just the danger that jesus will be in if the tide turns), and “the kingdom of heaven is within us, that’s what you said / bu they sew it, stitch by stich into some kind of foggy heaven’s dream”. Judas is showing that he HAS been listening and cares for Jesus’ teachings, but ‘they’ [his disciples] are turning them into something else entirely, and Judas’ worries that the support of the masses is fragile at best- the lines “and everything you say gets twisted by your lackeys / it will be anything but what you’ve said” and “you are being used by people who want you in their battle” reinforces this again. When combined with Peter Johansson’s tough but tender performance, in which he dances between disdain for Jesus, the institution, and affection for Jesus, the man (an important distinction), Judas is the harsh realist doing his best to look out for the man he loves. The way he takes Jesus hands and looks at him with love and urgency straight away establishes that his motivations are pure- Judas is doing what he thinks is best, even though it feels like no one will listen to him.

That was long, but En Dimmig Himmelsdröm is the perfect character introduction for Judas. He’s not totally unrecognisable, still delivering digs about ‘Jesus, the little carpenter’s son’, his manner is still rough and at this point we’re not sure whether or not the claims he makes about the disciples have any truth to them, BUT we can also see how much Jesus means to him, an important point that give context to the intensity of their future arguments and really makes the whole story much more heartbreaking.

This brings me to Ola Salo’s Jesus. Delightfully camp and queercoded, Judas describes him as being caught up in his own magic and mystery and buckling under the pressure, and he’s not entirely wrong. Throughout the first act, Jesus basks in the luxuries that being messiah can give him (the oils Mary paid for using disciple funds that were supposed to go towards helping the poor, him absolutely thriving in the shopping cart in What’s the Buzz?), and is shown actively avoiding any reminders of the seriousness of his position. He’s sick of the disciples asking him for a plan, he chooses the comforting Mary, who’s theme consists of telling Jesus everything is okay and he doesn’t need to think about anything, over Judas, who is less perhaps ‘cosy’ but is actively trying to warn and protect Jesus from an awful fate. During The Temple, he starts to crack as he’s overcome by the followers begging him to make him well, fear in his eyes as he raises his arms while frozen on the spot trying to avoid being devoured by the frenzy in desperate need of a messiah. Judas’ point about Jesus buckling under the pressure is starting to look more and more reasonable, and the dashes of showbiz campness add to the sense that much of Jesus is a persona constructed for the masses to give himself enough distance to prevent him from being crushed by the weight of God entirely. Jesus, the institution, prances around, lays his hands on his followers, and projects an air of easygoing calm. Jesus, the man, is scared and alone, and Jesus, the man, really comes out in Last Supper, but before we get there, I want to circle back to the Jesus/Mary/Judas thing.

Jesus, Mary, and Judas are presented as a love triangle: so much so, that Judas seeing Mary sing of her love for Jesus (I Don’t Know How To Love Him) is actually played as the inciting incident that sends him to the pharisees. Judas, the picture of the jealous lover, storms onto the scene, breaking them up and attempting to kiss Jesus, who instead shoves him to the ground in disdain. Judas, who is perhaps a little controlling, realises that any influence he had over Jesus has gone, and it’s likely a combination of jealousy and the knowledge that Jesus won’t stop that prompts him to head to the pharisees. In his meeting with the pharisees (known in english as Damned For All Time, although that phrase doesn’t appear once in the swedish), Judas’ expresses outright that “I’m the one who sees / Jesus, he can’t handle it anymore” “the truth is that this hysteria is making him lose control”, once he can get past explaining how much this plan of action feels like a last resort. He never even verbally or physically accept the pharisees’ offer of money, he denies it twice before it is eventually thrown over him after he reluctantly gives them the date and time to find Jesus- we never even see him pick it up, unlike other productions which show Judas grabbing for the cash and place a higher emphasis on Judas making sure he ‘won’t be damned for all time’, painting Judas as far more self serving. When it comes to Jesus, Judas is active- he’s running around trying to help, caressing him, embracing him, grabbing his hand, kissing him. They share countless moment of intimacy, especially at the start, establishing the fondness between them instead of instantly jumping to their conflict. When it comes to Mary (and admittedly, this is partially because she’s a secondary character- don’t get me wrong I still love her and Gunilla Backman does a brilliant job), she’s much more passive. Other than the much more gentle kisses in I Don’t Know How To Love Him and her penchant for dabbing Jesus’ forehead, she’s mostly just ‘there’. She cares for Jesus after the fact, and even when performing acts of intimacy like the oil and the kiss, she maintains a lot of physical distance- her songs touch on this as, much like Jesus (admittedly for different reasons), she actively distances herself from feelings to protect herself, so naturally she literally places distance between herself and the object of her love.

This brings me back to Last Supper, Gethsemane ( I Only Want to Say), and the kiss of death that broke all of our hearts. Throughout this segment, this is when Jesus, the man, really comes through, and it’s devastating. In Last Supper, he properly expresses the sheer amount of loneliness he feels, reiterating how he feels everyone will forget about him once he’s gone, and doesn’t really care about him as a man (”for you, my blood is not worth more than wine / for you, my body is not worth more than bread” “you will have forgotten me as soon as i give up my life”). This devolves into the disciples fighting each other and, you guessed it, ignoring him. For the first time, Jesus meaningfully lets out his anger, and as it turns to Judas, Judas does the same. Because of the set up of their complicated romantic relationship and the stakes involved, the amount of personal attacks and anger that comes out of Jesus and Judas’ repeated fights (which get physical) make complete sense- Jesus’ frustrations come from the fact that his entire fate has been predetermined and to him, Judas is just another instrument in the ways he’s been controlled (both with Judas being his betrayer, but also the way that Judas’ constant advice and interference with Jesus’ life (most obviously, the mary thing) are acted by Ola Salo as becoming increasingly frustrating to Jesus)- these frustrations are directed at their real cause, God, in Gethsemane. Judas’ frustrations come from the fact that no matter how hard he tries to help Jesus and keep him safe, Jesus keeps rejecting his efforts resulting in “all that we’ve built up [being] destroyed”- Judas’ heart hasn’t just been broken by Jesus rejecting him romantically, but on every level. Here, he’s actually shown to be the disciple most passionate about helping people practically and long term, being the only one concerned about Mary taking money which was supposed to help people, manipulated by the pharisees with the promise of doing good for the masses, and criticising Jesus for how they could be doing so much for people, ending his part of Last Supper with “every time i look at you i ask myself why you let all your things go so wrong? / all i ever wanted was to help you”.

This is also the point where Judas’ claims about the disciples are essentially confirmed, and this productions intent to portray Judas as more of a tragic hero become absolutely clear. In the english version, the disciples chorus remains virtually the same each time it appears, generally being far too calm considering their leader is about to die, revealing their aspirations to be apostles, and their intent to write the gospels to be remembered. the swedish translation still achieve this, but with variations from chorus to chorus it becomes much more poignant. i’m just going to stick to ttwo, which are choruses 1 and 3. In chorus 1, lines roughly translate to “i’ve always wanted to be an apostle / life is so nice when you’re saved/ then when we’ve got time we’ll write the gospels / then everything will be the way we want”- the apostles declaring that life is so good when you’re saved supports Judas’ opening statement that they care more about some idea of heaven than anything else, not to mention ignoring the absolute horrors that Jesus will have to go through to be saved, while the final line about the gospels introduces their intent to change whichever details they need to make ‘everything the way we want’: once again, exactly what Judas warned us of in En Dimmig Himmelsdröm. In chorus 3, taking place after Judas storms out for the last time, these lines change to “never really liked that judas / never saw what jesus saw in him / then, when we’ve got time we’ll write the gospels / and we’ll angle it so he gets all the blame”. Judas as a sympathetic character is confirmed here, as the disciples straight up admit how they don’t like Judas anyways and intend to write him as a villain (also inadvertently admitting that, since they have to write the gospels to make it look like only Judas’ fault, Judas isn’t really the sole one responsible for everything that is to come). It’s deeply unsettling, and for me was the point where I really began to question how good any of these disciples were, and by extension, how good is this production’s God if his truly sanctified followers are acting like this?

Jesus vents out all of his anger and desperation in Gethsemane. He acknowledges his own powerlessness and begs him to change the plan, but with the dark stage and no response (along with Ola Salo’s spectacular acting) it becomes clear that if anyone is there, they’re certainly not listening (”you, who have all the power / can you please change the plan / for i can already feel the pain burning in me”). It’s worth mentioning that a lot of the imagery in this swedish version is much more intense than the english, both in this song and the production as a whole. Jesus plainly calls god “thoughtless”, begging to understand, and it’s that this point we realise that he agrees with much more of what Judas has been saying than he’s been letting on- Jesus’ faith appears to be the only thing keeping him from listening to Judas and running away. Judas’ messages about people misunderstanding Jesus’ words also come out (”you care that everyone sees / but not that anyone understands”), and his eventual agreeing to die is played less as an inspiring act of faith, and more an act of desperation as he realises, he realise has no other choice. In this song, we see just how much of Judas Jesus has valued and taken on board, and that his air of carefree aloofness which frustrated Judas was, as we’ve already touched on, a complete act. The line “might as well finish what i’ve... what YOU’VE started” is absolutely miserable, reinforcing one of the major themes of this production: the idea that Jesus and Judas were both just ordinary men tormented by futures defined by forces out of their control. Just as Jesus has absorbed Judas’ logic, as an audience so we have, and it’s difficult to view the rest of the play’s events as anything other than an immense and unnecessary act of cruelty.

we’re almost done i promise!

Even knowing what Judas has/will do, Jesus still greets him with love. Judas, still under the impression that Jesus will be okay and that he’s doing what’s best, approaches him with the utmost tenderness, and the kiss is a beautiful signifier of two things. For Jesus, the return of his love for Judas shows his realisation in Gethsemane that Judas isn’t the one who’s sealed his fate and has only being trying to help, it’s god himself who has decided Jesus’ future. For Judas, the kiss shows that despite all of the anger and frustration that has been pouring out of him, he truly does love Jesus, and the way he cradles the scared and alone Jesus to his chest afterwards shows just how much he wishes he could be the one to help him and keep him close. Even with all their arguments and dysfunction, here Jesus and Judas find comfort in each other, and it almost seems like everything will end up alright. It’s in this moment that Judas and Jesus are most identifiable not as enemies, or as villain and hero, but as archetypal lovers from a Shakespearean tragedy. Neither of them set out to hurt each other, but through miscommunications, their own flaws, and external forces (both natural and supernatural), their love is simply never to be. Furthermore, in the following torture and spectacle, everything that Judas predicted for Jesus is about to come true. Another detail I find interesting is the way that Jesus and Judas both sport black nail polish, leather pants, and similar length hair: along with just looking cool as hell, the similarities really reinforce how close they are and how much they influence each other- it feels like a contemporary version of carrying a cameo or a lock of your lover's hair with you, a way for 'star crossed lovers' to keep a piece of their beloved no matter what.

The disaffected persona of Jesus, the institution, comes back as he’s taken by the authorities and subsequently insulted, degraded, and whipped. Also the swedish version of The Arrest, when the chorus starts singing questions, contains this dick joke and I think we all deserve it: “why were you dating a whore? / talk about a huge magic wand!”

Skipping forward to Judas’ Death, this is where both his character and the production’s conception of god beautifully (and miserably) align. When Judas runs to the pharisees, minor semantic changes (along with the genuine concern and great acting from Peter Johansson) reinforce that this Judas genuinely didn’t know that Jesus would be beaten and sentenced to death the way he has been, and Judas’ concern regarding how things look is played less as ‘oh no people will hate ME!’, but how having sentenced the man you love to death is one nightmarish thing, but for everyone to think you did it knowingly and willingly and then congratulate you for it is unthinkable. Where the english shows Judas’ attempting to evade responsibility for Jesus death, the swedish is more focused on Judas’ guilt, horror, and regret. The english “I’d save him all the suffering if I could / don’t believe our good / save him if I could” is swapped in swedish for “If anyone should die here I should / don’t say I’m good / better if I died”. While the english statements are somewhat empty (sure, Judas says he’d save Jesus’ suffering if he could, but he can’t so we’ll never truly know) and are still focused on Judas’ attempt to construct himself as a good guy, the swedish translation has Judas admit his guilt (even if it’s not really his fault), and make the promise of “better if i died” which, given the name of this sequence, he later delivers on. When english Judas sings “Christ, I’d sell out the nation / For I have been saddled with the murder of you”, swedish Judas sings “Jesus, I’ve been deceived / because of my act your blood’s now being spilt”, and instead of ending this first section with “I should be dragged through the slime and the mud”, swedish jesus returns to the theme of character assasination with “i will be cursed as the one behind your murder”.

The swedish translation of the next rework of I Don’t Know How to Love Him also places much more emphasis on Judas’ genuine romantic love for Jesus- we’d be here for hours if i listed everything but here are a few key contrasts. The english has Judas sing “I don’t know how to love him / I don’t know why he moves me”, whereas the swedish has Judas crying while singing “how do I show my love / all I want is to be close to you”. Along with acknowledging Judas already loves Jesus, the entirety of this segment is shifted from Judas singing about Jesus in the third person ‘he’, to a direct address. Judas isn’t performing his sadness, or venting his emotions, he’s emitting one last desperate cry to the man he loves as he sobs on a stage completely shrouded in darkness, and it’s devastating. Peter Johansson lets his voice run raw as he’s belting, and interrupts lines with sobs, and this Judas answers the question of “do you love me too? do you care for me?” with a quiet “no”- Judas is about to go to his death convinced Jesus must hate him, just as Jesus will face his knowing his love inadvertently put him there.

We finally reach Judas’ actual death, and the production’s far more ambiguous (if not negatively geared) depiction of god comes to a head. Judas’ screaming at god the moment he realises that his god essentially forced Judas to be the one to kill Jesus (an act of ultimate cruelty given their love) comes across as horrifying in it’s validity, unlike in other english language productions where it follows the more common characterisation of Judas being an unbeliever who can’t take responsibility for his own actions. When he spits on the ground, screaming “you have murdered me!”, we can’t help but agree- Judas was trying everything he could to stop Jesus from dying, and yet here he is. Most notably, Judas doesn’t set up his own suicide- a noose literally descends from the heavens, already tied, and Judas is literally trapped between the edge of the stage, and the symbol of death behind him. Much like he didn’t choose to kill Jesus, Judas has no choice in his own suicide- it’s suggested to merely be another part of the plan god has for him, and Judas raising his arms to form a crucifixion pose before he finally turns and jumps, disappearing into the depths of the theatre as the rope trails down (somewhat evocative of a leap to hell), highlight the sick joke. Much like Jesus begging in Gethsemane, a plea with god that in anyway implies fault or cruelty is met with silence followed by a death sentence.

When Judas reappears to the broken and bloodied Jesus in Superstar, he appears as more of a twisted hallucination than the literal spirit of Judas. He’s the opposite of everything he was in life, draped in colour, surrounded by red lighting instead of the signature blue, his hair quite literally let down, joking and dancing. Despite singing about him, Judas virtually ignores Jesus for the whole song except when he’s taunting him, snatching his hand away after a broken and desperate Jesus reaches out for the image of his beloved (refuting Judas’ belief that Jesus would die hating him), along with the swedish additions of Judas repeatedly addressing him as “little Jesus”. Where the living Judas was serious, sometimes harsh but always well intention, often paying more attention to Jesus than he received, this Judas is the opposite: light hearted but cruel, not caring about Jesus one bit. It’s somewhat an inversion of the beginning of JCS, where the tormented Judas was constantly reaching out to Jesus, and often met with scorn and insult (see: most of their arguments, this line from Everything’s Alright: “the thought is beautiful but quite unrealistic / yes, even quite stupid”). As the song goes on, and even as Jesus is crucified, the victorious scoring of the Superstar theme ends up reinforcing the cruelty and questioning of god distinctive of this production: Ola Salo’s Jesus is one of the bloodiest Jesus’s (Jesii?) I’ve been able to find, with blood covering his torso, his arms, and all over his face, not in passive dribbles, but violent ‘swooshes’ spreading out from his eyes, emphasising the fear and pain contained within them. As the music suggests how great and wonderful Jesus’ death is, the images straight out of a horror movie before us don’t seem to match up: as both Judas and Jesus question, if no one is understanding what Jesus is saying, why kill him? instead of making a point, you’re ensuring that the falsehoods continue to circulate, unless spreading the true message isn’t really the intent at all. or, simply that Jesus was wrong: his interpretation and teachings of god were far too kind and practical, and the true god really is the one that he briefly saw in the garden of Gethsemane, and that Judas saw before his death- a cruel and vindictive god using them for his own sick purposes. If you're a strong Christian, I'm sure you could watch this production and still believe that God was right (although I think Jesus and Judas being in love counts as blasphemy), but I think in doing so you'd lose part of what makes this production so hard hitting and, as i keep saying, devastating.

that’s pretty much it for this one! i feel like jesus and judas as a queer couple is less significant to this production than the fact that it’s specifically jesus and judas that are in love - they don’t face explicit homophobia as such, although i do think the paratextual and historical associations of queerness (both with them each looking visibly queer, and them as a couple) adds a beautiful dimension by subverting the standard christian teaching of Jesus’ sacrifice as “a love that changed the world” and making the love that truly could have been transformative (and was, to a degree) the love between Jesus and another man, not to mention the way in which queerness is often viewed as radical perfectly upholding the ‘radical’ views of god and the story of Jesus shown in the production. Why wouldn’t the love between two men be the love which has us questioning god, faith, and that which many of us have been taught since birth? Ola Salo has talked about how he’s able to be positive and negative towards christianity, along with how he wanted Jesus and Judas to really represent two sides of the same coin (’faith and intelligence’), and being bisexual along with having alluded to being raised christian (not to mention Breaking Up With God, a song by his band The Ark), it’s not surprising he’s managed to present such a nuanced and layered interpretation of Jesus Christ Superstar that even me, a trans exvangelical, can fall in love with.

UPDATE: @bands-and-hobbits has just let me know that Ola's dad was a priest! Apparently he's said that he liked the organs and the music, but that was all when it comes to christianity, which (when combined with Ola stating in interviews that the JCS soundtrack has been one of his favourite albums since he was 14) makes a lot of sense about the level of familiarity he had with the text giving him confidence to go in and make changes to really capitalised off of some of the themes that are hinted at in the english version- you have enough information to understand how everything works together, but aren't so dedicated to preserving belief that you feel you can't improve/change things (and my god are we glad he did)

#thank you if you made it this far!#also the inherent rhythm in swedish as a language just makes all of the songs sound better i'm gonna say it #english is really hit and miss when it comes to music and can get especially clunky with musicals requiring exposition #also sorry there's so much i've left out !#anyways enjoy #jesus christ superstar #jesus christ superstar swedish arena tour 2014 #jcs #peter johansson #ola salo #also i have barely edited this so i hope it's coherent

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fallenrepublick · 3 years

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Hello again!!

So...now that my life is back in order and I have returned... I have had many thoughts in my brain...

So the first thing is more technical:

I've been considering starting a sideblog. That would be the place I would move my Original ideas, such as everything to do with Vayn, and I would delve into his mother (possibly), and the like. That would also be where I put any "art" garbage that may arise. This way, it'll be out of the way of anyone who has no interest in seeing it, and if anyone wanted to ask about any "original characters," they could do so there. If I were to make this sideblog, would anyone be interested? If not, I still won't do any OC or art work on the main blog, just to keep the theme in place, so don't worry about that! Just trying to get a feel for what the people desire!

The rest is just headcanon prompt thingies, because I can't relax

I like to think about how all of Maul's studies left him with a huge amount of information on every star system in sight, how you can stargaze with him, and he can point to any tiny spot in the sky and tell you what it is, what lives there, every story they have. He can tell you the mythologies of every constellation, too, the gods that hide in every light. Silently, he'll try to find a place for you to fit, as well, for his own star, who deserves a happy ending more than anyone.

He also has his wedding vows memorised for when you were married. He hears them in his head each night before he falls asleep.

Love is stored in the hubby's chest tattoos~

Thrawn is concerned for your safety regularly, there's no doubt about that. But the cutest way he shows it is when he suddenly becomes nervous and holds his arm out to the side, gently coercing you behind him, and you reply by taking his hand as reassurance.

Thrass has a tiny heart tattoo at the base of his neck that's hidden by his robes. He makes a noise if you bite it.

You've only seen Ziara lose her cool once, and it was due to a misunderstanding. Incorrect information led her to believe that you had been sent out to a battlefield without her approval. However, you returned from your engineering duties to find her yelling at everyone in the vicinity to find you, and find you now. You can imagine her relief and panicked hugs when she turned to find you standing there with only a bit of oil smudged on your face.

Okay this last thing is an NSFW under the cut because I had a Thrass thought at like three in the morning so bear with me here

I feel like... your first time with Thrass, he's crazy nervous. After being with you so long, after loving you for even longer... well, he'd be lying if he said his imagination hadn't gotten the better of him once or twice.

But this, in this moment, is more incredible, and nerve wrecking, than he could have possibly dreamed. He takes it slow, just as he always will, and he tries, he tries so hard to keep it together, to not completely lose himself in it. And yet... that nearly immediate feeling of being inside you, of finally being with you this way, it destroys him anyway.

A slight gasp and a sound that may be a cross between a hum and a whimper, and his face flushes worse than you've ever seen. Tense shoulders still leaned over you and eyes that won't meet yours, he immediately begins breaking out into apologies, stammering to find the right words to explain how much the anticipation had affected him, not even noticing your small laughs at how cute he's being.

It's alright, though. Flip him over onto his back and see how long he'll last then. You do have all night, after all.

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lustresky · 4 years

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make me feel [bi!bucky barnes x bi!f!reader]

summary: Let’s just say that you and Bucky aren’t as bright as you both think you are. (Or, a story in which you both find out that the other isn’t actually completely over the fence— If you know what I mean.)

wc: 2800ish.

themes: reader and bucky are both bi disasters, misunderstandings, pining, a lil’ bit of angst?, crack? (idek at this point lmao), happy endings, not so subtle the witcher references, everyone else in the team getting tired of reader n bucky’s dumbasses.

a/n: title is a song by janelle monáe! also this is inspired by seb saying ‘bi rights!’ and well... also by me being a dumbass bi. this felt like the longest x reader i’ve ever written when in reality it’s the shortest one i’ve ever written lol. :’) oh well!

if you have any questions about this fic, feel free to send me an ask! c:

“Isn’t she just—“ You sigh dreamily, one of your arms coming up to rest at the table; your head then promptly laying on it. “God, I’m like— so gay.”

Bucky just laughs, ignoring the twinge of emotion in his chest. He sips his coffee, eyeing you through the corner of his eye.

Your eyes had been stuck on the Russian spy for the past ten minutes, now. Natasha, however, hadn’t noticed it all; which Bucky finds both funny and depressing.

Funny, because seeing the usually alert assassin being oblivious to your feelings is amusing; and depressing, because he knows that he’ll never be the object of your affections.

The reason isn’t even because of his past— you had made it clear to him numerous times before that you don’t think any less of him because of his history. It isn’t even about his arm— you had called it “Cool.” and “Awesome!” a handful of times before.

No; the reason that he’ll never be able to be with you is because you swing your bat for your own team.

Bucky just lets out a quiet sigh, blowing his coffee to cool it down some more.

When Natasha turns her head to give you both a smile, he doesn’t contain the small chuckle coming out of his throat when you suddenly flinch in your seat.

He wants more, he always had, but he knows better than to hope for things that he can never have.

I’ll just have to settle for this.

Bucky takes another sip.

“Damn.”

You look up from the TV; your view being greeted by Bucky as he sits next to you on the sofa, metal arm gleaming from the dim light of the screen.

The said television currently displays a very delightful and deliciously naked scene of Geralt of Rivia; the camera panning up from his thunderous thighs to his thick upper body— the only thing keeping the whole moment ‘Netflix-Show-Friendly’ is the white cloth haphazardly thrown across his waist, covering his dignity.

You snort as Bucky continues to hungrily stare at the fictional character, unashamed. His eyes are wide, pupils blown and you can’t help but feel the knot in your stomach tighten.

“Looks like someone’s a lil’ gay too, huh?” You laugh, trying to swallow down the feeling of heartache.

Bucky just chuckles back, eyes still focused on the screen. “You can say that…”

You tear your gaze off of the super soldier, doing your best to keep your disappointment at bay.

It isn’t his fault; you of all people know that you can’t exactly control what and who you’re attracted and not attracted to.

In fact, it’s your fault for falling for someone who’ll never like you that way.

Bucky will never look at you like that— you know that— but there are times, times like this…

Times where his arm is wrapped around your shoulders, times where your head is tucked under his chin, times where your back is pressed against his chest…

That you fool yourself into the idea of maybe you two can have something more.

Even if you know better.

Bucky hears the clacking of heels behind him, followed by the familiar whistling of Sam when he sees something he likes.

“Goddamn, Y/N!” He hoots, promptly making Bucky turn around from his area on the stove upon hearing your name.

His breath hitches up in his throat as he sees you: a form fitting and long sleeved black dress hugging every part of your body, ending quite high above your knees and showing off a garter on your left leg. Your hair is tousled, framing your face. The whole outfit is paired with black heels, and Bucky knows for sure that anyone else who’ll see you in it will do a double take.

You laugh at Sam. “Sorry, honey, but you know that I don’t see you that way.” You give him a wink, eyelashes fluttering as the eye-shadow on your eyelid glitters. Bucky can slowly feel his knees turning into jelly.

He quickly brushes off the butterflies in his stomach, trying to regain his composure.

Bucky clears his throat and sends you a smile, which he hopes doesn’t look too strained. “You look great, Y/N.”

Whatever his complicated feelings are, he isn’t going to let them stop him from giving you a genuine compliment. Bucky knows how happy it makes you whenever he gasses you up.

As he had expected, you give him a huge smile. “Awh— thanks, Buck.”

Before Bucky can reply, Sam slides back into the conversation. “So what’s all this for, then?” He asks, one eyebrow up. After a beat, he smirks. “Got a date?”

Bucky ignores the heart wrenching feeling in his chest.

You laugh, and that’s when he notices the folded flag in your hands. You unfold it and wrap it around your shoulders. “Nah, just got a parade to go to. You know how it is.” You send him another wink.

The flag has a tricolour design.

Bucky had never seen it before.

Sam just laughs, bright chuckles filling up the otherwise empty space. “I see you, honey. I see you.”

You tie the flag into a knot around your neck, giggling. “Well,” You say, arranging your hair, grabbing a clutch from God knows where. “Enjoy yourselves boys, I know I will.”

With a final wink— and even a salute— you step out of Bucky and Sam’s view, heels clacking once more as you make your way to the elevator.

Bucky’s trance gets broken as soon as he hears Sam snickering. He turns, feeling his cheeks flush with heat.

“What.” He says, furrowing his eyebrows, trying his best to look annoyed even if embarrassment is slowly eating away at him.

Sam just laughs. “God, you need to tell Y/N that you’re into her. I’ve been seeing you pine over her for months, dude. You gotta tell her the truth.”

Bucky scoffs and turns back to the stove, seeing his food now burnt to a crisp. Great. “Yeah, no thanks.” He says, embarrassment now being replaced by exasperation.

Sam groans back. “She’s clearly into you—“

“No, she isn’t,” Bucky cuts Sam off before he can even say anything else; annoyance quickly turning into rage.

He looks back at Sam. “I know she isn’t.”

After a beat, Sam scoffs. “As much as you think you know shit,” He starts, shaking his head.

“You don't know shit.”

You can’t help but let out a small whimper once Bucky’s fist collides with the boxing bag.

The way his muscles flex at every punch, the way the veins in his neck pop out at every grunt, the way his tank top clung to everything…

God. He looks absolutely appetizing.

Wanda snickers from beside you. She passes you a water bottle and you take no more than five seconds to chug it all down. “Well,” She laughs. “Someone’s thirsty today.”

You wipe your mouth, groaning. “Shut up.”

Wanda just giggles. “Awh, come on Y/N, you can be honest with me.”

You turn to look at her, being greeted by her wiggling eyebrows. “Ugh, I don’t wanna talk about it, Wanda.” You roll your eyes and turn your head back again.

Which is a mistake on your part— because as you do so, you’re welcomed by the sight of Bucky’s toned stomach; his hands grabbing onto the bottom of his tank top, rubbing the sweat off of his forehead.

You proceed to choke on air.

Wanda just cackles harder and louder— but at least she has enough empathy to pat your back.

Bucky, upon hearing the boisterous laughter, drops his hold on the tank top. His eyebrows furrow for a moment, before his eyes land on you; his lips then curling up into a small smile.

The heat in your cheeks becomes even hotter, but you manage to compose yourself just for a second to send him a grin; albeit crooked and a bit awkward.

Thankfully he doesn’t notice anything.

As Bucky turns back around to face the other side of the gym, you turn back to Wanda— face fuming.

“Be quiet!” You hiss, irritation and embarrassment settling in. “He can’t know that I’m into him, okay?”

Wanda raises an eyebrow, face contorted to a look of incredulity. “Why?” She proceeds to poke you on your shoulder. “It’s clear that you guys both like each other— just confess already. I’m tired of it.” She groans and rolls her eyes.

You scoff and let your eyes fall downcast onto the wooden floor.

“Trust me…” You sigh, feeling the disappointment bubbling in your stomach. “He doesn’t like me that way.”

Wanda lets out a noise of disagreement. “I don’t even need to get in his head to know that he’s into you—“

“Wanda just—“ You cut her off, lifting your eyes up from the floor to stare at her fully. The disbelief in her eyes upon hearing your words is clear, but it isn’t enough to erase the feeling of heartache in your chest. “Just trust me...”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Oh come on— Y/N!” Tony shouts, sounding exasperated, making you lift your eyes from the chicken on your plate and onto his upon hearing your name.

You cock an eyebrow at him, hands paused midway into cutting your meal. “Yeah, Tony?”

Steve raises a hand up to cover Tony’s mouth, but the billionaire manages to swat it out of the way. “Would you— as in-eloquent as this may sound— bang Mr. Barnes?” He asks, face determined and jaw set tight.

The rest of the chatter on the dinner table promptly stops. Natasha and Wanda both look amused, but the rest of the team just looks either: A) Confused, B) Disgusted, or C) An equal yet unfortunate mix of both.

You don’t say anything for a few seconds, caught too off guard to even answer. After a minute your mouth opens, but it closes back just as quick— open and close just like a fish.

Tony groans, arms crossing around his chest like a child. He leans forward to your direction. “Well? Yes or no?”

You force your lips to part with the intention of saying a reply, but Bucky beats you to it.

“Stark, I think we all know that Y/N would never say yes.” He says, voice dark and unamused.

“Well, I— for one— don’t,” Tony replies, not even letting you speak. His brows are furrowed as he shakes his head. He lifts one hand up, a finger going down as he says, “First off, and I say this totally platonically, you’re jacked. Second, we’re not blind— we see you both cuddling at the sofa when you’re watching The Witcher; and third, as a super soldier, your stamina in bed—“

Bucky cuts him off before he can even continue. “It’s because I’m a man, Stark.” His eyes narrow, annoyance and anger clear on his face. “Don’t you see that Y/N’s not into that?”

Your eyes widen, and before anyone else can interrupt you, you say, “Hold up— what?”

Bucky just stares back at you; and you notice the irritation on his face slowly morphing into hopelessness. “Aren’t you— you know…” Bucky lets out a sigh, metal hand waving in the air. “Gay?”

“What?” You respond back, eyebrows now knit together in confusion and surprise. “I mean yeah, but— no?”

Bucky just looks back at you in confusion.

“I’m not— I’m not gay. Not exactly,” You shake your head. “I’m bi— you know, as in bisexual?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, eyes wide in shock.

A silence reigns over the table before Tony breaks it again.

“Well that means that that lil’ reason is unjustifiable, then!” He claps his hands. “So what is it, Y/N? A yes? A no?”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of rejection starting to bubble in your stomach. You know your answer, but it didn’t matter in the end.

“I don’t think what ever I’ll say will be worth it in the long run, Tony,” You try to play off the heartache by turning back to your plate. “Besides, I don’t have a chance, anyways.” You laugh half heartedly.

A beat passes— even Tony doesn’t reply to your words— until…

“What do you mean you don’t?” Bucky asks, low enough to be a whisper, but loud enough for you to catch it.

You look up, staring back into his cerulean eyes. “Well...” You try not to show your feelings as you shrug your shoulders. “Aren’t you gay?”

A pause, then— Bucky snorts. Actually snorts.

“Doll, I’m not—“ His eyes are crinkling, smile stretched wide. “I mean, yes, but I’m… I’m into women just as much as I am into men.”

You let your jaw drop.

Wait… So that meant…

This time, Steve interrupts. “Okay… I think I’ve had enough of dinner, how about we watch a film?” He stands up from his seat, his own chair loudly scratching against the wood as he tries to act nonchalant.

Everyone else— except you and Bucky— stands up, a chorus of “Yeah, sure.”‘s and awkward coughs filling the room. The team heads out in a straight file into the communal space.

Tony, before disappearing into the corner, sends you both a wink; Steve promptly whisks him away.

You look back at Bucky.

The two of you just stare at each other wordlessly; still reeling over the fact that you two had both been absolute idiots.

For a few minutes, silence engulfs both of you, until Bucky coughs.

“You still—“ He lifts up an arm and rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tick that you instantly recognize. “You still haven’t answered Stark’s question…”

You sit straighter in your seat, surprised at his words. The heat creeps up to your cheeks; and although you know now that you actually have a chance, the weight of rejection is still heavy.

After all, you had already accepted being turned down because of his ‘supposed’ attraction not including your sex— which, truthfully, hurts less than being rejected because of anything else.

You let out a chuckle, but it doesn’t end up sounding as happy as you had wanted it to be. “It’s not that important, Buck— you don’t want to know, trust me.” Your eyes fall down to your unfinished meal once more.

Bucky lets out a sigh, and for a few seconds he doesn’t say anything. Until…

“That’s the thing, Y/N… I— I want to.”

You look up, making eye contact once more.

“I want to know,” He says, eyes full of hope yet also doubt. “I’d rather know now than never.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

“So?” Bucky smiles, a small, unsure one. “Do you— as per Tony’s words— want to bang me?”

The laugh escapes your mouth as soon as Bucky pronounces those words, and you just take a second to compose yourself. God, isn’t this night just eventful?

As the last few giggles come out, you shake your head, feeling the courage to say the truth run up your veins.

Fuck it.

You fix your gaze into Bucky’s eyes— those cerulean blues that you can get lost in for days.

“I do want to bang you, Sergeant Barnes,” You say, and as his eyes flash with joy as your mouth quirks into a grin.

“But I don’t want just that…”

Before you know it, you had stood up from your seat and are now walking towards him; the fearlessness in you becoming bigger and bigger with each step you take.

Once you reach him, he stands up from his seat as well. He towers over you easily, but instead of being intimidated, you feel comforted.

“I want to… I want to go on dates with you, I want to cuddle with you, I want to talk about everything and nothing and just—“ You look up at him through your eyelashes, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach as you grip onto your nerves.

“I want you.”

Bucky doesn’t respond for a moment, prompting you to worry that you might’ve misread the situation, but instead of words he leans down— capturing your lips with a soft peck.

It’s quick, chaste— but it’s enough for your heart to soar.

You gaze back into his eyes, feeling your cheeks burn and the butterflies in your stomach having a party.

Bucky smiles, lips quirked so high upwards that his eyes crinkled. You think— no, you’re sure— that you’d never get enough of the sight.

“I want you too.”

“Buck, how in the hell did you not know that I was bi? I walked around with a whole ass pride flag on my back!”

“It isn’t my fault that we didn’t have those back in the day— and besides, I’ve never heard you talk about having a crush on another guy!”

“That’s because I had a crush on you, dumb-ass. Plus, what about you? You spend all your time ogling at Geralt, I’ve never even seen you stare at a woman!”

“That’s because the only woman that I have my eyes on is you, doll!”

thanks for reading! as always, requests are open! & pls don’t forget to like and reblog, thank you! c:

#lily’s lil’ stories #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #tony stark #steve rogers #wanda maximoff #wanda maximov #sam wilson #one shot #bi!reader #bi!bucky barnes

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bittysvalentines · 4 years

Text

The Stranger the Better

From: @hockeydyke

To: @bitty-smol

Summary: Kent’s had a bad day and he figures date night with Bitty will improve his mood. But when Bitty watches a hot stranger get stood up, he decides to invite the man over to join him and Kent for the night. The only problem? Kent knows the guy.

Rating: T

Tags: Alternate universe- no one plays hockey, Established Eric “Bitty” Bittle/Kent “Parse” Parson, Eric “Bitty” Bittle/Kent “Parse” Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Misunderstandings

Kent hadn’t had the best day so far.

All things considered, though, he was doing a pretty good job of holding it together. In fact, he was actually proud that he hadn’t snapped at his boyfriend at all despite his bad mood, because he was still feeling rational enough to know that he didn’t actually want to push Bitty away or do anything to make things worse. Instead, he was trying to ignore it and go about his daily routine as usual.

And sure, maybe it wasn’t the best thing in the world for Kent to push down all his feelings and frustrations, but Bitty had a tendency to pick up the moods of the people around him, and Kent didn’t want to make Bitty grumpy just because he had the misfortune of being both physically and emotionally close to a particularly pissy Kent Parson on what could otherwise be an entirely pleasant Friday night.

So Kent had texted Bitty during work and suggested a low-key dinner date, because enchiladas and a couple happy hour drinks from Cactus Cantina across the street from their apartment certainly couldn’t make things worse. All Kent knew was that the place was casual, the dessert menu was up to Bitty’s standards, and the drink selection rotated often enough to keep him happy, so it was a win for both of them, and they usually ended up there at least once a week.

And that’s what brought Kent to where he was currently, sipping a half-priced strawberry swirl margarita and pouting because his boyfriend wasn’t paying attention to him. This was particularly offensive to Kent since Bitty was busy looking over Kent’s shoulder at some hot guy who’d sat down on the other side of the room around when they’d arrived. The nerve of it all. Sure, Kent and Bitty had an open relationship, but that didn’t mean that Kent never got jealous-- especially when he was two margs in and in need of attention as he tried to tell an entertaining story about Jenna from Marketing.

Bitty rested his chin on his hands and made heart eyes in the hot guy’s direction again, and Kent finally gave up and sighed as loudly as he could get away with in public. “Come on,” he said, sounding only slightly whinier than he’d intended. “Is this guy really that hot? You’ve been staring at him for ten minutes.”

He began to turn, but Bitty darted his hands out and grabbed the collar of Kent’s shirt to keep him from doing it. “I swear to god, Kent. Do not look at him right now. It’d be so obvious that we’re staring.”

Kent threw his hands in the air. “Alright, alright! I’m not looking, okay? You can describe him to me.” He stared in front of himself instead, at the turquoise accent wall and exposed brick and generic cactus-themed decor. “See, not looking, so paint me a damn picture. But make it a sexy picture, at least.”

Bitty leveled Kent with a stare. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but he did take another good look over Kent’s shoulder. “He’s got gorgeous blue eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass. Honestly, he looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“What kind of familiar?”

“Like, B-list reality TV star famous. Or maybe some kind of modeling? He has the bone structure for it. He’s easily the hottest person here, other than us, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Kent repeated. “And he’s seriously been alone this whole time?”

“Yes! The waitress has checked up on him, like, five times. Poor thing,” Bitty said, frowning. “Someone definitely stood him up. We should go see if he wants to come sit with us to take his mind off of it.”

“Are you kidding me? I bet he got stood up because he’s an asshole.”

“Kent.”

“What if he’s a serial killer?” Kent said, then sat up straighter and poked at Bitty’s forearm. “Even worse-- what if he’s the kind of guy who golfs on weekends?”

“Oh, shush. You’ve been such a grump today,” Bitty said, which, ouch, but true. Maybe Kent wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he thought, which was possibly something that he should talk to his therapist about. “We’re going to do something nice and we’re going to feel good about it.”

Feel good. A Freudian slip, or maybe a complete coincidence, but it was enough for Kent to jump to a conclusion that he felt pretty good about. He grinned.

“You just want us to have a threesome with him, don’t you?”

They stared each other down for a few moments. Bitty had a decent poker face, but Kent had known him for long enough to recognize the faint pink blush on his cheeks as a dead giveaway that he was right.

Finally, Bitty gave in. “Okay, fine, I think we should invite him home with us. But once you see him, you’re gonna agree with me. He’s exactly your type.” And before Kent could speak, he added, “Your other type, sweetheart. Not like me at all.”

“Big guy?”

“Mm,” Bitty hummed, gazing over Kent’s shoulder and nodding, chin resting in his hands again. “Thighs for days. Dark hair, very mysterious. Could definitely play a vampire in a movie, but like, a vampire who works out.”

“Fuck, okay. Invite him over,” Kent said, just as their waitress passed by again. While Bitty stood and headed out of Kent’s view, Kent waved her over so she could get him another margarita. She brought the drink out immediately. Kent was just lifting it up to his mouth for a sip when Bitty returned, smiling and bouncing on his toes as he sat back down across the table from Kent.

And then next to him, because Kent Parson’s life was a nightmare or at least a mildly uncomfortable stress dream, Jack Zimmermann sat down, looking stunningly handsome but also sheepish and shy right up to the moment when he met Kent’s eyes. Immediately, Jack’s annoyingly perfect face collapsed into a frown, looking for all the world like he’d seen a ghost.

At least, that’s what Kent felt like, because here was the same Jack Zimmermann who Kent had been moping about all day, after seeing on Facebook that morning that he’d moved back to town after more than five years away. Kent hadn’t seen him in person for nearly as long, since the last time he’d made a pitiful attempt to win Jack back at the Zimmermann family holiday party was just a month before he’d met Bitty. This was that Jack Zimmermann, back in his life without any warning.

It was all Kent could do not to spit out his entire mouthful of tequila and sugar, and the only reason he didn’t was because his shirt was white and he didn’t feel like spending his evening trying to remove a pink stain from it, but God, he wanted the drama of it.

Bitty dove right into introductions, seemingly unaware of Kent’s hopefully well-disguised mental and emotional crisis. “Jack, hon, this is my boyfriend, Kent. Kent, this is Jack. He just moved in across the street from here.”

Kent swallowed. His drink felt like it had gone stale in his mouth. “We’ve met,” he said, dry.

“Oh, really?” Bitty asked, looking up at Jack again, narrowing his eyes.

Jack didn’t say anything at all. Instead, while he sat there slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Kent had to explain what was going on. “This is Jack Zimmermann,” Kent said, trying to use his eyes to convey his sheer panic to Bitty. “I played hockey with him in high school,” he said, because that was easier than saying that Jack was the one who broke his heart, and anyway, Bitty knew the entire story and would be able to infer.

Bitty continued to force a smile. “Goodness! Well, I really walked right into that one, huh? No wonder you looked so familiar,” he said, patting Jack’s arm in a way that Kent knew was meant to be both comforting, but actually made Jack look like he was about to implode.

“Eugh,” Jack started, helpful as ever, and something about his rich tenor made Kent’s blood feel warm. It was also possible that the tequila had just hit. “I can go. I don’t want to, um, upset anyone. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to! We’d still be glad to have you join us,” Bitty said. “I know that Kent has so much he’d love to talk to you about, and I’m sure it’s the same on your end of things!”

“Bits,” Kent hissed. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been betrayed this badly. Bitty was definitely sleeping on the couch tonight, but he couldn’t say that right now, because that would probably look bad in front of Jack.

Kent didn’t want that, probably. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure what exactly he did want from Jack now, at this point in his life, at age 25 and happy with his boyfriend, job, cat, apartment, and basically every other aspect of life that showed that he had proudly moved on from Jack Zimmermann.

And yet Kent couldn’t help but let his mind drift to how happy he was that he hadn’t had time to change after work, because he looked pretty damn good in his slacks and button-down. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but he had spent a very long time in front of the restroom mirror touching up his hair after his lunch break, so he felt pretty confident that it looked good right now. Comparatively, this was a much better way of running into Jack than, say, running into him during a late-night grocery run when Kent was wearing ratty sweatpants and a shirt with a picture of his cat on it.

Kent thought he looked okay. And he did want Jack to know that he was okay.

Jack was still frowning, and the worry lines in his forehead and around his eyes were deeper than they used to be. His eyes were also, somehow, so much more blue than Kent remembered, as if time had somehow erased their intensity. After a moment, Jack cleared his throat, stilted and awkward, and said the one thing that could convince Kent to give this a shot: “I’ve missed you.”

It was too much.

“Yup,” Kent said, standing up fast enough to knock into the table and jostle it, loudly shifting the plates and glasses and fake cactus on top of it. “I gotta hit the bathroom. Bitty?”

Bitty stood, much more graceful, and slid out of the booth. “It seems like I also have to use the restroom. Stay here and we’ll be right back,” he said, and something in his tone was commanding enough that Jack obediently remained seated and didn’t argue.

Kent pushed through the main room of the restaurant and back to the hallway where the restrooms were located and closed the door once he and Bitty were both in the one-stall men’s bathroom. He took stock of the situation: shockingly he wasn’t having a panic attack, but he was still feeling thrown off and almost dazed.

“I think I’m in shock. Could I literally be in medical shock right now? Am I crying?” he said to his own reflection in the mirror, eyes wet and hair wild. His hair had cowlicks, it seemed, remained tamed. Over his shoulder, he could see mirror-Bitty facepalm, then move closer so he could pat Kent’s shoulder.

“Kent, honey,” Bitty started, then paused as Kent leaned over the sink and splashed water in his face, hoping to refresh himself. “I love you, but you really have zero common sense. You’re getting your shirt all wet.”

“Good!” Kent said. “Does it look like I’m crying? Because I’m totally not crying.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been crying because you’ve basically trained yourself not to cry properly, which is absolutely not healthy, but I’m not going to lecture you about it right now,” Bitty said. “But even if you were, it’d be fine! I’m sure he’s freaking out just as much as you are right now!”

“Is this a pep talk, or are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Kent asked. “Because I don’t feel guilty. He ignored me for years, Bits. It never meant anything to him.”

“Kenny.” Bitty grabbed Kent by the shoulders. Kent could feel them flex and press into his shirt as Bitty raised up slightly onto his toes. It was a habit he’d developed from years of trying to close their three-inch height difference, and the familiarity of it lulled Kent’s pulse to a more reasonable pace. “You’ve been wanting closure with him for as long as I’ve known you. I know he broke your heart. But you’re both adults now and I think you’re finally mature enough to talk about it, so why don’t we give it a try?”

Kent leaned forward until Bitty understood what he wanted and wrapped his arms around him in a proper hug. He sighed. “Yeah, okay. Even though I hate it when you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Bitty said, giving Kent’s back one final pat and then gently pushing him back out of the restroom and into the main floor of the restaurant.

For the first time, Jack smiled. “Did you spill a glass of water on your shirt?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kent said. “What really matters is that my boyfriend thinks you’re hot. Can you buy him a drink and also explain why the fuck you’re back in town?”

“Oh,” Jack started, then faltered. “I guess, I-- well. I got a new job.” He took a deep breath, then turned to Bitty. “Sorry, what would you like to drink?”

“Just a regular margarita, thank you,” Bitty said, sliding into the booth next to Jack. “So, Mr. Zimmermann. Please tell us all about this new job of yours.”

And so Jack did. Kent was quiet during their first round of drinks, listening and watching and learning about this new, older Jack Zimmermann. He was still reserved and still a little bit slow on the uptake when it came to the jokes and slang that Kent and Bitty easily tossed around, but he also cracked a few jokes of his own, which was something he never used to do when they were teenagers. He was more relaxed, too: although Kent spent several minutes watching Jack’s hands, he didn’t see them shake at all.

Their conversation flowed easily enough that two hours passed without Kent noticing. He only realized that it was close to ten-- closing time-- that their waitress had started to hover around the table, pacing at the edge of Kent’s line of vision. At ten, she shuffled up to the table, but didn’t say anything yet. The girl was young, probably in high school, and Kent felt bad for her. He’d hated waiting tables, too, back when he’d done it in college. He looked at Bitty, then at the waitress, trying to subtly let him know that it was time to go.

Bitty nodded, and then, under the table, kicked Kent. It was all Kent could do to keep from yelping, but he somehow managed it and shot a glare in Bitty’s direction, thankful that Jack was oblivious and rambling happily about his photography. Bitty kicked Kent again. Clearly, it was up to him to decide how they were going to end the night.

“Alright,” Kent said, before his leg had to sustain any more damage. He waved the waitress closer and motioned for the check. “How about we move this to our place? You can meet my cat, Zimms.”

Jack looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he said, accepting the check and sliding his card into the holder before either of them could stop him. It was a convenient way for him to avoid eye contact. “I don’t know if you want anything like that, and if you want to just ignore me so we go back to pretending each other doesn’t exist, I could get over that too.”

“But,” Bitty prompted, kicking Kent again.

“But I’d like it if you’d come home with us,” Kent said, finally looking up from where he’d been fidgeting with his debit card.

It was dim in the restaurant this late at night, the colorful string lights and candles doing little against the dark outside, but Jack’s eyes were shining. He nodded, thoughtful. “This was nice. I’d like that too.”

“Thank God,” Bitty said. “Okay, let’s get out of here. I’m dying to get out of my work clothes,” he said, giving Jack a wink that made him choke on his last sip of the single pint of beer he’d been nursing all night.

As they left the restaurant, Jack and Kent walked on either side of Bitty, who looked as pleased as the cat who’d gotten the cream. “Told you we’d feel good about this,” he said, knocking his hips against Kent’s own and smiling, and that’s when Kent realized what should have occurred to him the moment that Bitty invited Jack over to their table.

That little shit knew who Jack was all along.

“Oh, man,” he said, throwing his arm around Bitty’s shoulder. He nuzzled his nose against Bitty’s ear before blowing in it and laughing when Bitty squealed. “You’re lucky I love you.”

#bittyjackkent #pb&j #bv2018 #bitty's valentines #omgcp fandom #omg check please!

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almondharry · 5 years

Text

you look so good : three

you look so good [10.8k]

“Don’t do it, M.”

“Do what?” Her voice was all too innocent.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Part three: Neumann’s Game Theory

Neumann’s Game Theory

July 5, 2003

Genevieve’s forearms were gripped in an iron tight hold. Her mother’s long and bony fingers wrapped around like medieval vine; they curled and held Genevieve in place. With lips set in a thin line, her mother’s perfectly plucked brows were drawn in a scolding glare. The strength behind it could cut diamond.

“How did this happen?”

“I… I don’t know,” Genevieve mumbled. “I was playing and running really fast and I didn’t see the rock.” Her chin met the center of her collarbone. Loose pieces of gravel rolled under her shoe, the crunch calmed her. It was her favoured alternative over maintaining the heavy eye contact that glared from above. A drop of red splattered onto the pavement.

“Oh, Genevieve.” The defeated sigh that slipped from her mother’s lips had less to do with mourning the dress, but more to do with the innocence that framed her rose tinted glasses. “Darling, there is only one thing I ask of you.”

Genevieve was no foreigner to her tone. It was laced with a classic sweetness, one that teachers liked to lay on thick when explaining instructions to kindergarteners.

Genevieve waited. She poked a finger in the horizontal slit of fabric that hovered above her knee. The broken threads were an easy fix; she had seen her mother tackle far worse from her work. She hypothesized it would take her six minutes at her sewing machine to restore the misalignment. It wasn’t those fancy new electric ones that had ten different settings. It was fashioned mechanically and had a joint foot pedal that Genevieve pretended was its best friend. It was humble and did all the required stitching.

“Yes, Mama?” Thin red streaks slid down the sides of her leg, tiny rivers went their separate ways. They darkened the navy blue of her dress.

Her mother’s eyes skimmed over Genevieve’s features in desperation. They took in her sweaty hairline, scratched cheek, and pouty lips.

Her tone dropped to a hush. It was a secret meant to be sealed between only them. “Never chase a boy, Genevieve. Don’t do it.”

***

October 31, 2019

Genevieve wasn’t used to the stop and go. It was something she never thought twice about when she was younger and needed to get across town, but now it was painfully obvious. A middle aged man in a green tie and second hand suit sat across the aisle from her. His ankle crossed over his knee and a newspaper open in his lap. At the front, three seats folded up and made room for a teenage girl in a wheelchair. She untangled the cord of her white headphones. A mother attempted to calm down her shrieking toddler. The boy, red faced and wet with tears, stomped his feet and waved his arms impatiently.

Genevieve didn’t mind the ruckus. Between being trapped in a self-imposed exile at a still library or the solitude of her apartment, the hustle of the city gave her much needed normalcy. Her head pressed against the window, she regretted her decision when the driver hit the brakes suddenly. The potholes on the concrete made her bang her forehead several times, but she kept it there because she liked to see her breath fog up the glass with each little puff. The cloudiness stained the window for a second before it disappeared. She enjoyed counting her exhales to pass time.

She was at a prime number, sixty-one, when the buzzing of her phone interrupted her recording.

Incoming Call. Meena.

Her thumb slid across the screen and she brought the receiver closer to her head. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Where are you?”

“Right now? Just by King Street. Shouldn’t be any much longer. Maybe twenty minutes tops.”

“Well, hit the gas, you’ve been requested.”

Genevieve mentally went over the list of people who beckoned her. She had already texted Liam and informed him that she was running slightly behind schedule. That only left Niall.

“Niall?” She laughed. ”Tell him I can’t give him a ride tonight, my car is at the shop.”

“No, not Niall— wait, how are you getting here?”

“The bus.”

“Ooh,” she hummed in realization. The toddler was now invested in a juicebox, his nose sniffled and palm wiped at his eyes for dried tears. There was still honking on the street and Genevieve nodded along to the soft music from the car radio beside them. “Those things are never on time, no wonder you’re so far away.”

“Sixteen minutes now.”

“I could’ve given you a ride if I had known.”

“It’s alright, I’ll be there soon anyway.” Green Tie flipped the page, Genevieve briefly glanced at the stock market numbers. “What’s going on there? Have they got on yet?”

“Nope it’s some poetry thing right now, they won’t be up until later. Liza said something about two more people on the set list.”

The invitation for Liam and Genevieve had stretched out to a few more familiar faces. It was Halloween night, that meant The Cabinet had colourful drinks, orange and yellow streamers on the walls, and faux cobwebs lining the bar tops. Usually Ted wouldn’t have put much thought to it, but when he noticed the direct correlation in risen sales, he made it a full blown out theme. There was a popular promotion; if you came in with a costume you get a small percentage off your drinks.

“Liam just popped into the loo to fix his face paint. There’s a guy here with a very detailed Ironman getup. Niall has taken a liking to a brunette in a lingerie set. I think she’s supposed to be a bunny, or a hamster. My drink is making my lips blue.”

“Riveting.”

“I think so too. It makes me a more believable zombie while getting me buzzed. Talk about a two for one special—” There was shuffling, ice cubes clinking against glass—“oh shit, I think… I think I see Professor Biggins.”

Genevieve groaned. He had become a common topic of conversation with Meena. She would mostly drag his name through dirt for giving her a mark that she strongly argued she didn’t deserve. He was the type of professor that had a God complex. To do above and beyond in his class—the only thing that Meena allowed herself to do—you had to fight through the trenches with your own bare hands. “Don’t do it, M.”

“Do what?” Her voice was all too innocent.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“It’s a perfectly casual setting. I’ll just buy him a drink and ask him to give me his thoughts on my rough draft,” she said. “I have a copy on my phone.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“Okay, well it isn’t a rough draft.” She let out a disgruntled huff. “It’s actually my final that I worked my arse off for the past week. But I’m not gonna let him know that, of course. Knowing him, he will rip it to shreds and make it seem like a mess of jot notes instead of well developed arguments.” Genevieve heard a gulp over the line when Meena threw back her drink. “You know I saw Lucy Wallace leaving his office hours in tears. Lucy Wallace! Can you believe it? I’ve never seen that girl with less than a four point oh, and he broke her, Gen.”

“Oh my God, leave him alone, he’s probably there to relax and not be bothered by students.”

She scoffed. “Relax? If I can’t sleep because of this bloody essay then neither should he. It’s only fair.” Genevieve could picture Meena squirming off her bar stool. “And if he really didn’t want to run into his students, he should’ve thought of that before choosing a pub on campus.”

“You’re walking towards him, aren’t you?”

“Yup, ten steps away,” she said, without an ounce of shame. “I hope he recognizes me behind this makeup. For being such a young prof, you’d expect him to be somewhat lenient and not have a stick up his arse. I swear to you Gen, this man hasn’t a clue what mercy means.”

“I’m sure you’ll give him a proper schooling on it then. With the whole definition and everything.”

“And nothing less,” Meena agreed. “Text me when you get in, yeah?”

“Take it easy on him.”

“Not a chance, see you soon.”

***

Genevieve spotted Liam instantly. His Captain America shield, leaned against the wooden peg of the table, really gave him away. A simple light fixture dangled above them and spilled a dull orange hue. Across from him, Angie sipped a pink drink and Liza was in the middle of telling a story with expressive hand gestures. A witch hat contained her curls and matched the long black maxi dress that she had on. Genevieve grimaced at the dried beer on the floor; the soles of her shoes grew tacky with every step towards the table.

“—She was a complete psycho! Had too many screws loose!” Liza exclaimed with brows at her hairline. “I had a feeling from the start, Liam! But it seems like anything I say falls on deaf ears!”

Angie rolled her eyes with a bored expression. The jewelled bracelets that covered her wrist hit against the neck of her glass as she brought the rim to her lips. “She wasn’t that bad.”

“She wouldn’t let you come out with us.”

“That was a... misunderstanding.”

“She refused to get along with any of us for more than twenty minutes.”

“Some people like to keep to themselves. Introversion and all.”

“She threw your clothes off the balcony and almost started a fire.”

Angie hissed at the painful memory, her face crumpled as she swallowed her drink. It was easy to mistake her reaction as a liquor burn. “Okay, yeah, maybe that bit was a little too much.”

“Wait a second, she threw your clothes? From the balcony? Don’t you live on the twenty second floor?” Liam’s eyes could drop out of their sockets and roll on the table like a pair of dice.

“Lived. And it was the whole suitcase, unzipped, the whole shabang. Quite the show.” Genevieve’s eyes wrinkled with amusement when Angie waved her hands in a jazz like theatre fashion, a sarcastic smile pulled at her painted black lips. “I was just happy that my clothes broke the fall for my laptop. But she did manage to crack my camera lens.”

“She sounds delightful,” Genevieve said at last when she approached close enough to the group. Her teeth caged her bottom lip to bite a smile. Liam’s head whipped around and he stood up to grab an empty stool to join the table.

“Gen, don’t get her started, please,” Liza scoffed. She leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Genevieve’s neck to pull her in for a quick hug. Despite being taken aback by the immediate friendliness, Genevieve relaxed into her embrace. “We prefer not to have a reenactment of her many grieving nights. Thank you for making it.”

“Of course! Liam wouldn’t let me miss it. When do you guys go on?” Genevieve balanced herself on the stool after her jacket was shrugged off on a nearby hook. She shot Liam a nod in thanks.

He raised his glass of beer. The foam rested well below the halfway level. He pointed his index finger at it and his brows curled in question. Genevieve’s lips mouthed ‘sure’. He threw back what was remaining of his drink down his throat before he headed towards the bar. He slid at the empty spot beside Niall, who didn’t pay any attention, too engrossed in the brunette in front of him. He was given a twisted pinch on his side, he jumped and yelped in his seat and Liam snickered as the brunette walked away.

Liza’s eyes snapped to the inside of her wrist, they doubled in size when she analyzed the hour and minute hand. “Shit, in about fifteen. I should get going.”

The Cabinet was far from a fancy establishment. Genevieve recognized a few people from her course littered around the space, everyone had a drink in hand. There was a modest platform that served as a makeshift stage. Amps, mics, and a keyboard was plugged in and the thick black wires resembled withering snakes.

Liza’s block heels sounded against the floor as she hurried towards the side of the stage where a crouched down Zayn fiddled with a specific setting on the amp, dressed in all black. His neck arched towards her when she was close enough. He had a guitar pick between his teeth like a toothpick, it made his smile crooked. He plucked it out and gave it to her in exchange for the microphone in her hand. Beside him, another girl turned the knobs on a bass, probably giving it some last minute tuning.

“If I remember correctly, you must be Gen. Liam and Liza mentioned you a bit.”

“I am. All good things, I hope?” She laughed.

Genevieve was impressed by Angie’s outfit. Her shirt’s bell sleeves were wide and the length of her skirt stopped at two inches below the knee. Layered necklaces and rings glinted under the light. A scarf tied across her forehead held back her hair, but it peeked out slightly. It was the crystals on the table and a deck of cards that founded her hypothesis. “Let me take a guess… you’re a fortune teller?”

“Close, try again.”

“A gypsy?” Her voice squeaked in a higher pitch.

“I’m Angie, the tarot reader.”

“I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know the difference at all.” All the trinkets that laid on the table overwhelmed her. There were crystals in all shapes and sizes and charms that sat in a green bowl.

“Don’t worry, most people don’t. Here, do you want to give it a try? My great aunt swears by this deck.” Angie raised a brow. “She said something about how she had it spelled by a Sufi in India. Just between us, I think she’s ripping off the storyline of The Monkey’s Paw. But with her, who knows? Or maybe it’s the retirement home rotting her brain.”

“What is this exactly? How does is work?” It piqued an interest. Genevieve watched closely as Angie scooped the deck of cards to shuffle with expertise.

People tended to be a bit wary about myths, legends, and the ‘other world’. Genevieve understood the fascination that came along with it, but her belief regarding the supernatural was as weak as a packed public library’s wifi signal. Her belief stayed with something she could see and understand. For her, this was the existence of concrete numbers. If anything, a deck of cards was just another application of game theory. It was all permutations and combinations that were behind seeing the past or forecasting the future, not magic.

“There are two types of reading. You can do a question based or more of an open reading,” Angie said. “We’re gonna do an open one because that was the only one my aunt was willing to teach an eight-year-old on a snow day.”

“Sounds good, how do I start?”

“After the deck is shuffled, I’m going to lay out four piles of three cards each. All you have to do is tell me which pile you gravitate towards and we can go ahead with your reading.”

Genevieve nodded.

Angie’s fingers tapped the edges to align the corners; soon, the pile was neatly ordered. She gripped the two ends of the deck and bent them in a concave curve. One of her thumbs let go and the tension released, the cards slapped against one another in a harmonic way. After the shuffling, she distributed the cards on the table, her fingers looked like they were snapping at a poetry show except no sound came out, the card between her thumb and index prevented it. The cards were faced upside down, the intricate swirly blue pattern was identical on each card.

“You know what to do,” Angie hummed after she finished with the deck. She took a generous sip of her drink while waiting for Genevieve’s response.

She rapped her fingers on the table. There wasn’t a specific reason as to why her fingers drifted to tap the second pile to her right. Maybe because Genevieve’s hand was already propped on the table and it was the nearest deck her fingers could reach. Or maybe it was the Indian Sufi controlling her actions. Whatever it was, Genevieve hoped for the best.

Angie flipped the three cards over to reveal their faces. The blue pattern was replaced with three distinct images.

“Wow,” Angie said sharply under her breath. A whistle blew from her lips as she scanned the cards to interpret their meaning. On the first card, three women stood over flowers and fruit, all holding identical cups in the air. The second card had a skeleton in black armor riding atop the back of a horse. In his hand was a black flag. The last card had a royal figure behind a veil, a well-built pillar at each of her sides. “Three of cups, death, and the high priestess. Now that’s a complicated combination.”

“How so?”

“Well the three of cups means friendship which goes against the death card. And not to mention the high priestess means new knowledge. Which is a bit off. I think this has more to do with—”

Genevieve smelled his cologne before she saw him.

She felt heat lift off his skin from his close proximity. The space was packed, leaving him no option but to step into her bubble. His presence made Genevieve’s spine solid as a metal rod. The little hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Threatening scavengers wheeled hungrily above their table.

A glass full to the top was slid in front of her, the frothy foam almost dribbled over the rim.

“Don’t listen to her, this is all rubbish,” a voice to her left sounded, his breath hitting the shell of her ear. Genevieve wiggled on her stool at the jet of warmth that shot down her arm.

“Harry, you twat! Not on the cards! You know I have to give them back!” Angie lurched forward to swipe the cards nearest the drink. She began to collect all the spread out cards into her deck with a scowl. Genevieve could’ve sworn she felt a shy lingering palm hover over the small of her back, but Harry wasn’t brave enough to actually do it.

“It’s best you put them away before you give away another false reading. Wouldn’t be the first time, right Ang?” His voice was light and airy. It gave Genvieve the impression that Angie was the easiest to pick on in their group. From jokes about scorned exes to innocent jabs here and there, she took the brunt of it all.

As if it was even possible, Harry leaned further towards Genevieve, she was half a centimeter away from falling off her stool. He tapped the wood beside the glass with his pointer finger. “Liam sent this over by the way.” Genevieve nodded, without turning in her seat. Her throat was too dry to give a response, she gulped down her drink like it was water.

“Oh piss off,” Angie brushed off. Her eyes scanned Harry’s outfit and her mouth dropped open in offence. “What happened to the pirate get up? Wait, hold on a minute, do you guys know each other?” Her curious eyes bounced back between the two. Was the Indian Sufi working overtime?

Genevieve downed a large gulp to refrain from spitting her drink out. “What? No! Why do you ask that?” Genevieve coughed before Harry could answer.

Angie shrugged. “Looks like you coordinated outfits.”

Genevieve’s eyes snapped to green ones before they flickered down to his chest. The print was a carbon copy of the fabric that hung off her shoulders except for the number in the dead centre of the shirt. Thing 1. Thing 2.

Genevieve rolled her lips as she tried to think fast on her feet. Harry saw it in her eyes, the acute sense of panic. The answer being a simple yes prompted too many questions. Genevieve didn’t want to get into the how’s and the why's. It would be like untangling knotted necklaces that had very thin chains.

Sure, they did know each other at a different time. Now, years apart, the answer failed to uphold any truth. It was the same as admitting they didn’t know the other at all. Something passed between the two of them—a mutual understanding, a silent conversation.

Harry cleared his throat, his attention gravitated back to an expectant Angie. “By coordination, you mean picking the most common shirt as an excuse for an outfit, then yes, of course, we coordinated. Along with whoever is wearing a size small in this halfway across the world.”

“Forget it, I need another drink.” Angie’s curiosity went as quickly as it came. She slid off her stool and marched towards the bar. Her necklaces and rings jingled together like windchimes with every step.

And then there were two.

Harry pretended not to notice Genevieve wrap a broken fray of her jeans around her pointer finger. It was one of her many ticks. She picked at her clothing before an important presentation, a tricky exam, confrontation. She gave the thread a hard tug and it ripped off. She had one leg crossed over the other tightly on her stool. Her thumb caged the first knuckle of her ring finger.

Harry attempted to make eye contact, and she met his gaze for the length of a heartbeat.

Harry watched as Genevieve released a relieved breath. Her tongue ran over her lips. “Thank you,” she sighed.

Neither of them knew if it was for bringing her drink over or keeping the veil on their past.

Before Harry could respond, there were two taps into a microphone. The electric shrill came to a stop; heads turned towards the stage.

“Having a good night everyone?” The small crowd gathered near the stage grew slowly as Liza adjusted her mic stand. It was like the beginnings of the holy mecca. An incoherent response was given in a cheer. “We’re The Red Day, thank you for having us! Our first song is one I’m sure will sound somewhat familiar. Here is Nine Hearts!”

Niall and Liam whooped and hollered from their new position closer to the stage. Encouraging claps and cheers were shouted. Angie raised her drink in support. Meena abandoned her professor for their set.

At the first few chords of Liza’s guitar and Zayn’s keys, Harry’s head turned to catch a glimpse of Genevieve’s reaction. He didn’t know if her music taste differed from what it was. Was she still into the same bands? Did she still hate karaoke? Somehow he thought his questions will be answered with a hopeful glance. Then his chin met his shoulder, a frown pulled at his lips. The stool beside him was vacant. She left a wet ring of water on the table, the only proof of her presence.

Genevieve was no longer there.

***

Sweat coated the back of Genevieve’s neck and the high points of her face. Drinks sloshed over rims and a couple drops misted her skin. The small space began to feel like a furnace, the dial set at the highest setting. Energy vibrated with ease through the huddle of strangers she found herself among. Her lack of height and the dim lighting did little to aide her view of the stage. Genevieve elbowed towards the flash of blond that caught her eye.

The song switched when Genevieve stumbled beside her friends.

“There you are!” Niall screamed, but his voice was muffled. He trapped her neck in the crook of his elbow, pressing a messy kiss to her matted hairline. “Haven’t seen you all night!”

“You have me now!” Genevieve knocked elbows with a boy who rushed to the bar. Her index finger and thumb squished Niall’s cheek. Even with the facepaint, his skin was flushed a certain shade of red he only got when was buzzed or severely sunburnt. “What’s this?”

“I’m a mime!” His costume only registered to Genevieve when her eyes landed on the black and white striped shirt. Her mouth parted in a drawn out Oh.

He pushed his drink into her hands before his raised to spread in front of him, an invisible glass barrier became apparent.

“You’re the loudest person I know, whose brilliant idea was this?” She snorted when his face contorted into extreme expressions. “Could’ve mistaken you for a clown. It’s more fitting.”

That prompted a deep chuckle from Liam. He was an arms length away. A blue drink in hand. With closed eyes, he nodded his head to the mellow beat of the music. A few lighters were in the air.

“Two costumes in one, I am going above and beyond! For the people, you know?”

“So generous.” Genevieve helped herself to his drink. It would be something that Niall would snatch from her if he was sober. Instead he swayed with the rhythm and mouthed the lyrics obnoxiously all while he clutching his heart.

Genevieve could only imagine the heat of the potted stage lights aimed at Zayn, Liza, and the unnamed girl. Sweat beaded their temples. She hadn’t been lucky enough to familiarize herself with their sound. As Genevieve concentrated on the music, a stubborn knot in her shoulder dissolved.

Liza was the frontwomen, a guitar strap slung around her neck and red lips kissed the mic. Zayn was a natural behind black and white keys, practiced fingers knew their placements as if he was recalling the alphabet. No-name controlled the bass with expertise, the sound traveled through floorboards and made toes curl. They were skilled at holding down a beat. The tempo and chord arrangements went together effortlessly. It testified to the hours spent at their craft.

Liza’s voice was deep and rough and settled in your bones. Zayn occasionally leaned forward into his mic to add light harmonies that complimented her voice. The contrast between them made for a balanced sound. The amps thundered as they progressed into the pre-chorus. The crowd became rowdy with anticipation. It was an electric, needy, callous disorder.

“I need to pee,” Liam winced, his eyes pinched in pain. He was in the middle of a funny dance. He adjusted his bulge and shoved his unfinished drink into Genevieve’s hand.

Genevieve’s protest didn’t make it out in time because Liam was gone in a flash. Her mouth hung open. His figure drowned in a sea of people.

The song neared an end. A roar flooded the bar, the praise and claps were deafening. It was obvious as daylight, they were pocketing hearts away with every strum of a guitar. Liza’s chest heaved to catch her breath. Her hair bounced as she crouched down, the mouth of a plastic bottle met her lips. While she hydrated, to keep the momentum up Zayn pressed closer to his mic.

“Evening everyone—”

Niall cupped his palms around his mouth in a makeshift megaphone. “Yeah, Baby!”

Zayn closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath before he gave an acknowledging nod. “And Niall.”

“Woo!” Niall—an embarrassing soccer mom on the sidelines—didn’t quite know when to stop with the positive reinforcement. A couple heads turned towards Niall and by association, Genevieve. Zayn began to thank the crowd and plugged the student radio that he had started with Liza as another place to find their music.

Genevieve’s elbow dug in the soft pillow of Niall’s side. “You know him?” She raised a brow and pointed her chin towards the stage.

“Who? Zayn?” Genevieve nodded in confirmation. “Top lad. I smoke with him at the back after every gig. You should come. He has the best stuff.”

Genevieve’s jaw hung open in mock offence. “He’s your pot buddy now?”

“That’s what you get for abandoning me.” Niall shrugged. “I move on fast, you know?”

Genevieve recalled the last time Niall had reached out to give his invite. It was one of those weeks where too many things piled right after the other. Where days blurred into one because professors couldn’t grasp the concept of strategically placing due dates, despite having fancy doctorate degrees. “It was finals week!”

“More the reason to do it, if you ask me.” He wiggled his brows. He sighed when she pouted. “Don’t be jealous, there’s still enough of me to go around.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes freely and took a swig of the amber liquid, it slid down her throat with ease. The chords of the last song floated into the air and Genevieve didn’t bother to fix the strands of hair that stuck to her face. Her feet swayed with Niall’s, featherlight and carefree. Their arms pretzeled each other’s shoulders as they lost themselves in the music. It was a mix of knocking knees and withholding the other’s weight. Their drunken stumbles didn’t hinder their experience, if anything, it amplified it.

Liam and Meena nursed their drinks on the other side of the bar. Attempts at reclaiming their spots proved futile as the crowd grew more relentless and chaotic. All hopes of a good view died at once, like an annoying house fly under a swatter.

Meena caught Genevieve’s glazed eyes. They held eye contact, it was something they did at parties or pubs. Touching base to make sure all things are in order. Are you okay? Do you want to leave?

Genevieve shot her a thumbs up with a bubbling smile to dismiss Meena’s worries.

Meena narrowed her eyes on Genevieve’s shoulder. Her own fingers came to pinch at her top. Don’t you sleep in that?

And?

It’s wrinkled.

Genevieve spotted Meena’s professor over her shoulder. He laid some bills down on the table and folded his wallet. He then made his way slowly approaching Meena. Of course, he wasn’t in her peripheral so she had no idea. Genevieve raised her pointer finger and pointed behind her. After half a second of confusion, she turned around and plastered on the fakest smile for Professor Biggins; a perfect enactment of a comedy and tragedy masks. And so the conversation of her shirt was dropped.

Liza and Zayn wrapped up the last song, coming to a graceful end. They said their goodbyes and were off the stage in no time. Zayn proficiently folded the stand of his keyboard. Liza made sure her guitar was snug as a bug in its case.

It was a blur. Niall shoved around the group of people which were taking too long to dissipate. Genevieve squeaked when a harsh tug trapped her wrist. Niall lead her towards the door of the back exit where Zayn and Liza helped themselves to a few water bottles. Their equipment leaned against the wall.

Niall threw his arms around Zayn instantly, the sudden force caused him to stumble back. Zayn recovered easily from his falter, then beamed at Niall with a wide smile.

“You lot killed it! Insane! Absolutely smashed it!”

Genevieve nodded at Niall’s words. “It was amazing to watch, I’ll be sure to catch the next set.”

“We will definitely let you know when we get it lined up.” Liza glowed with post stage euphoria. You could reach out and practically touch the energy still buzzing around her. “Oh, Zayn! This is Gen!”

The quick introduction was met with a kind smile and nod.

“Ah, yes! Liam mentioned you.” Zayn’s thumb struck towards the iron gate. A red exit sign was fixated on hinges above. “We’re going out for a quick smoke. You’re welcome to join.”

It was a common theme, Genevieved noted. There was no awkwardness or tough exterior that needed to be cracked to befriend Zayn, Liza, and Angie. No deadbolts or fastened chains, instead a welcome mat situated boldly outside their door. Genevieve found herself taking a step in.

“Liz, you coming?” Zayn inquired when he spotted Liza shuffling towards the opposite direction.

“Gonna grab some drinks first. Rum and Coke good for you?”

“Yeah, hurry back.” Zayn pushed open the door and they stumbled outside one by one.

The cool breeze made it seem like they just exited a sauna, the heavenly contrast stretched a wide dopey smile on Genevieve’s lips. It was a narrow alley of two red brick walls. Flies circled the lined dumpsters, but they were far enough that the smell wasn’t unbearable. She had been here on many occasions. She once held back Meena’s hair as she vomited in the corner, then again when Niall needed a place to quietly cry after his first breakup, and once more when Liam became insanely paranoid after a happy pill.

Zayn and Genevieve bounced back the typical introduction. He studied life sciences, had three younger brothers, and was doing research with a professor Genevieve once had. Alongside his work at the radio, he proctored exams and did part-time hours at a record store down the block. He smiled with his tongue flattened behind the row of his top teeth. He had buzzed his hair to purposefully display the tattoo behind his ear.

Niall and Zayn got talking about the upcoming game. They made light conversation until the door flung open, abruptly. It slammed against the wall with great force.

“Fuck.”

The ugly screech of metal against brick didn’t falter Genevieve. The sight the door revealed did. Zayn grabbed the swinging door just before it had the opportunity to collide again.

“Jesus, H, you’re gonna have to pay a fortune if that falls off its hinges,” Zayn warned.

“All I have is ten quid.” The self deprecation was laid on thick, a nonchalant shrug tacked on the end of his sentence. In his hands were tall glasses, the pad of his fingers turned slightly white from their hold. “—And your drink.”

“Where’s Liz?” Zayn asked holding his drink to his lip as he looked over the rim.

“She popped into the loo for a bit,” said Harry. She is thankful for the few drinks circling her veins because it helped lessen the intensity of his gaze when he noticed her standing there. “She’ll be out with Angie in a minute.”

It feels like she’s in elementary school and in trouble. Her previous departure was still fresh in his head, it flared an insecurity in him that he thought was long put to bed.

Lately, Genevieve made him feel one prominent emotion. Her quick dismissals made him invisible, like a little boy in red shorts at a gym class line up that everyone knew would be picked last. He was a blackened steel pot pushed to the backburner. However, the difference between that boy and Harry was the years that separated them. He has learned the art of confrontation. He won’t hide in bathroom stalls during lunch, he will not cower from her rejection. He is here, whether she likes it or not.

Genevieve avoided him by taking an interest in the sky above with her fingers braided behind her back. She expected him to hand the drink and turn around, but like always—she is proven wrong about him.

Genevieve doesn’t realize how tight the ally was until Harry’s shoulders brushed the crest of her collarbone to take the vacant spot beside Zayn. She had instinctively pressed her back to the rough brick wall to create as much distance as possible. The back of her sneakers squished old cigarette butts lodged in the cracks of the pavement. She held her breath for a moment and deflated when the only thing left of him was a gust of wind.

“Perfect.” Zayn dipped his fingers to the back pocket of his jeans.

They were pre-rolled. The white of the paper is less transparent at one end and more opaque on the opposite. The two joints are rolled into a twist in a way that doesn’t make the length lopsided and uneven.

Genevieve wasn’t an habitual or chain smoker. In fact, she hated the smell of reminiscent smoke. She indulged herself every once in a while. Especially when the pace of everything increased to uncontrollable speed, when deadlines weighed down on certain pressure points and occasionally, when Niall begged her to. It was effective to take the heaviness off her, the feeling of carrying extra body weight would evaporate.

Zayn and Niall picked up their conversation, Harry adding his two cents here and there.

You can hear stumbling drunks coming out from the front doors of The Cabinet. A pair of heels dangled from a girl’s grip as she made a run to cross the street with a friend. It was nearing the time where tabs were closed out and cab rides would be split.

“Fuck,” Zayn groaned with one spliff trapped between his lips and the other one behind his ear. He patted his front and back pockets like he was looking for his car keys or wallet. His brows frowned as he repeats it again. “I think I dropped my lighter.”

“Oh, that’s no problem.” Niall waved. “Gen, you always keep one on you, yeah?”

It’s humiliating.

The simple question among different company wouldn’t be much of a concern. It was innocent and didn’t hold much significance in a stranger’s eye. But Harry’s ears perked up and brows jumped at the little piece of information. The way his eyes fixated on her added a double meaning, it was enough to make something crawl under her skin.

Tiny centipede legs stomped all over her. The scales of a snake slithered itself around her neck, gradually suffocating her airways. Her mouth filled with live cockroaches.

Genevieve’s stomach churned.

“Gen?” Niall elbowed her side, breaking her out of her trance.

“Yeah?”

“Lighter?”

“‘Course.”

It was a weak fumble, her fingers trembled as she plucked it out from her back pocket. It was the most mundane looking thing on the planet. The white colour was chipped at the sides. The sparkwheel was dulled, but worked just fine. The flint spring was probably a bit beaten down.

With the back of her nail, Genevieve flicked the guard off. Her thumb pushed down and her free hand cupped around the igniting spark. It took two tries before the fork gave away and released the gas from the valve. A candle light heat absorbed into her skin. She brought the flame towards Zayn. His face was a soft yellow, and the tip of the spliff glowed a burnt orange. The flame died when it was no longer needed. His hollow cheeks inhaled a drag. Lips curled and he hummed in content. When he exhaled, a pungent smell of cannabis floated through the air.

Zayn handed it to Niall before swapping it out with the unlit blunt. Genevieve repeated her motions once more.

“Shit,” Niall sighed in bliss. “This one’s a good one.”

He handed the joint to Genevieve. Her thumb and index finger pressed the rolled paper to her lips. The smoke was smooth and Genevieve held it in her lungs for a moment. White smoke puffed out and Genevieve wishes it was thick enough to block Harry’s intentive peering. Zayn offers him a hit, but he declined by raising his drink to his mouth.

Genevieve takes another drag and taps off the ashes before passing it back to Niall.

It goes on like that for a bit. A calming silence fluttered between them. It took about twenty minutes for the high to settle in. There is an upward buoyancy in oil which is greater than the downward force of its gravity. That is why oil floats when mixed with water. Genevieve’s insides feel like someone stirred a spoon in the mixture; uneven bubbles of separated oil danced towards the surface freely.

She noticed her reactions weren’t as sharp when she laughed a beat after Zayn’s joke. It was easier to smile; two invisible strings pulled at the corners of her lips like she was a puppet in a grand show.

One side of her face was warmer than the other. The alcohol and weed blurred the edges of her view, but she felt his eyes on her. She stamped her eyes shut and threw her head back, soft giggles broke through. Everything was funnier when you were stoned. Her knuckle collected an escaped tear from her glassy eyes.

If Genevieve was sober, Harry would’ve looked away when she caught him. There was something charged in the air. He hadn’t seen her like this much before. She anticipated him to blink away when Genevieve locked her eyes on his. But he was shameless, and as usual, she held his stare for a moment too long.

Her fingers swiped the blunt from Niall. She took another hit in hopes of deluding herself into thinking that the tension between them was imaginary.

She inhaled too quickly. The smoke trapped in her windpipe and she spluttered a few coughs. Her eyes stung and fresh tears surfaced. Genevieve passed the spliff back to Niall and tipped her head back. The wall behind her propped her weight as she took a minute to calm her breathing.

In her compromised state, she could only think one thing clearly. She had to get out of here.

“I’m gonna grab some water.”

She didn’t wait to hear their response. She pushed herself off the wall. The door pulled open under her grip and Zayn and Niall said something she couldn’t make out. Her eyes squinted to focus under the soft yellow lighting. She made a beeline towards her jacket. It was easier to navigate the premises since a large amount of people had filtered out. Genevieve took out her phone and typed away.

Going hooome. -Gen

A bing sounded from her phone. The name of the group chat lit up as she wrestled an arm into her jacket.

If you wait half an hour, I’ll take you. Need to sober up first. -Meena

Gen whyyyy, stay for a bit longer! -Liam

I’m so stoned. I’m gonna go home and stuff my face with food. Or sleep. -Gen

Don’t worry, M! I’m already out! Where are you btw, didn’t see you? -Gen

Washrooms! There is a huge line :( -Meena

A girl is wearing a nice skirt, should I ask her where she got it from? -Meena

Munchies? -Niall

You know it -Gen

Eat a bag of chips for me -Niall

Maybe two -Niall

Ask her about the skirt. I have my money on H&M -Niall

Text when you get home safe -Liam

Genevieve walked for five minutes. The door of The Cabinet was far enough to be a miniature entrance of a dollhouse. She had missed the last departure time of the bus and decided the crisp night air would make for a sobering walk. Her reflexes were still a bit delayed. The traffic lights glowed on the sidewalk pavement until she harshly blinked to steady the blurred image. Everything was sluggish, her vision muddled and a few green and red circles floated about.

She recalled the corner shop from her childhood house, it sold cheap DVDs. The sleazy man at the counter never denied burning them illegally. The image quality was broken and poor. Her hands were a clump of squared pixels that took a minute to buffer.

The last button of her jacket was secured when loud footsteps mirrored hers from behind. She gripped the metal chain link of the bag sat on her shoulder tightly.

It was dark. Especially now that she passed the strip of convenience shops, no open signs lit up the streets.

She inhaled a shaky breath through her nose and a jagged puff came from her parted lips. The sweat from her palms caused her grip on the bag to slide down.

It could be nothing. Maybe she was hearing things. She didn’t want to assume the risk of turning around. Instead, she counted her steps from each lamp post to the next. They weren’t consistent. The range was from ten to sixteen. The mean would lie around twelve. The mode was eleven.

Before she began to compute the median, she choked on a sharp intake of air as the footsteps neared closer than ever.

Her neck stretched and examined her surroundings. You were intentionally supposed to put yourself in a very visible place or somewhere where a witness could be found, something she once read in an article online. Genevieve made note of the houses that still had their lights on.

“Are you avoiding me?” An exhausted voice huffed out. Impatient with a hint of naked hurt. “You are, aren’t you?”

Fear clenched her jaw. Her brain waved tiny red flags, the ones that topped cupcakes. The familiarity of the voice shot a clear fishing line and sank its hook in the flesh of her shoulder. The reel was being taken in and slowly she turned around. The crunch of gravel distracted her from the erratic thump thump thump of her pulse.

“Harry?” She wheezed. She expected his name to roll off easily, but she stuttered and added another syllable. His name sat on her tongue with the weight of a rounded pellet.

“‘Course, who else would it be?”

“Holy fuck.” Stress alleviated only when he stood under the light of a lamp post. Her shoulders eased as the impending horror diluted. “Don’t you know not to creep up on someone who is walking the street alone? I thought you were a murderer!”

“Oh–shit, I didn’t think of that,” he confessed with a sheepish smile. A wave of humility flooded his features and he glanced towards the sky. With his fists deep in his jean pockets and head thrown back, he never looked more youthful. “Well if it’s any reassurance, I’m not.”

“Lovely.”

He spluttered a laugh at her impassive tone. “Is that a new thing of yours? Not answering questions?”

“What gives you the impression I’m avoiding you?”

“You ran out of there like a bat straight out of hell.”

“I have an 8 a.m tomorrow.” She didn’t. “Nothing personal, don’t be so sensitive.”

Harry uttered a string of words under his breath so incoherent they never made it to Genevieve’s ears. His boot kicked a pebble off the sidewalk to the empty street. Genevieve and Harry watched it skip twice before it laid in an anticipated still.

His boots resumed their trek towards the direction she had previously set her path to. It was a line of residential houses. Each one had identical roofs, a sharp triangular hat. He passed four houses before it dawned on him. He didn’t feel another presence trail after his shadow. Long legs halted in an abrupt stop. He peered to his left before he turned around fully, arms raised in question. “Well, come on then! What are you waiting for?”

“What are you doing?”

“Walking you home.”

Genevieve snorted. “That is the last thing I need”

“Oh, come off it. You’re out of your mind, literally. And you yourself said that there are actual murderers on the street.”

The prolonged silence didn’t falter for a moment. Crickets chirped and a frog groaned from the nearby pond. Genevieve held his stare without remorse. He needed to offer a compelling reason as to why walking her home was his concern. It hadn’t been for the past three years. She was far from a little girl who needed her hand held to cross the street.

It took a moment, but he finally caved.

“I’m headed in that direction anyway.”

Genevieve didn’t throw him a bone right away. His proposition molded into a clay-like fixture and took shape in Genevieve’s mind. The newfound tangibility allowed her to rotate it on an xyz plane to analyze from every which way.

Her weak inhibitions, admittedly the reason behind her decision, coupled with a lack of energy to put up a fight contributed to possible human error. She dragged her feet towards him, a ball and chain clasped snug around her ankle. Her mother’s words vanished into thin air.

The moon, a clipped toenail, played a game of hide and seek with surrounding clouds. It would peek out every other second—a shy toddler that clung to their mother’s calf. Thin overgrown grass blades swayed with the wind and became italicized, upright, then italicized again. A steady and delicate whoosh sounded between them rhythmically, their own personal metronome.

It was alien to walk side by side him. Short legs worked twice as hard for every step he took. To her memory, it was never this demanding. Her breaths, once even, began to puff out in quick jabs after a few steps. It blemished the silence and perked Harry’s ears. In an instant, his pace was adjusted and Genevieve was no longer the victim to his strides.

Harry’s index fingernail scratched above his top lip. It was his attempt to hide a budding smile. “You smell like maple.”

Harry had a tendency to short circuit, there were times he blurted out a phrase or thought meant to be kept in the space between his ears. He had explained it to her as an involuntary muscle spasm, he could control the twitch at times but he would slip up once in a while. His statement was full of surety, an irrefutable fact. For a second, she ignored it.

He turned to her with a boyish grin, it coined a painfully deep dimple to his left cheek. It conveyed that this was no slip up, it was deliberate.

“What?” Her laugh was dry and perplexed under his observation.

“And weed, but mostly maple—like the syrup. Is it a new perfume?”

Genevieve pressed the neck of her shirt to her nose and sniffed the cotton. She only smelled the weed. “I think you’ve finally lost it. Haven’t you?” Harry grinned to the floor, bashful and content. His hair flopped on his face. “Along with a couple of inches. Finally figured out where the barber is located?”

“You don’t like it?” He feigned offence.

“Doesn’t matter what I like, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your ears. It’s different, that’s for sure.”

“Good different? Bad different?” He prodded. “You gotta give me something to work with here.”

“Neither… I guess? It’s just changed, is all.” The pathway curved into a right turn. They passed by a low shrill of a heater attached below a window. “People change, it’s expected.”

“Not as much as we like to think, no,” he countered, his fingers threaded his hair back. “You are a prime example, haven’t changed a bit.”

Genevieve was unaware if he had taken to being the devil’s advocate as a part time hobby, but regardless she took his bait. They still had quite the trek to cover. “What makes you think that?”

“Well for starters, you still run a bit late.” A snicker fell from his lips, adolescent yet collected. A thumb jutted out from his closed fist.

“Well, it is better than not coming at all.”

“You only drink Stellas.” His index finger appeared. She felt like he put her smack dab in the middle of a boxing ring. He was red gloved offence which left her to fulfill the defence vacancy.

“—A classic. Can never go wrong with it.”

“Can’t smoke without coughing.”

“Hey. Happens to everyone. Mild error.”

“And carry that lighter.” The slow ringing in her ear ascended in volume like a train arriving at a platform. Tight sheets of saran wrap roped around her face. “One that’s not yours.”

Ah, there it was.

Her lungs were empty, winded as though he had delivered a suckerpunch to her gut rather of a small observation. Out of the four fingers, his middle one had a metal band. An ornate rose— bloomed, its petals laid vulnerably wide open. Would it leave a scar? Her bottom lip cushioned the front row of her teeth as she sorted her brain for something, anything.

“It’s a very useful tool. Comes in handy multiple times, more than you can imagine.”

He had a good eye, perfect vision, and an even better insight to see right through her.

Harry pursed his lips. “I’m sure it has.”

The shift in the atmosphere right before it begins to pour mesmerized Genevieve. The air would be stale and thick. It held a suffocating weight and the unbearable humidity made it harder to draw a breath; each inhale came through the narrow valley of a plastic straw. That’s how it felt standing beside Harry. She had forgotten about it for years, but now it mocked her head on.

“But these—” the pad of his index finger tapped his temple twice—“These are new, right?” He expertly switched topics when her head bowed down and an ashamed stare fixed on the pavement for a moment too long.

The reply wasn’t immediate and Harry kicked himself for bringing it up in the first place. He disrupted the natural current of the conversation and it was achingly obvious. He should’ve kept his mouth shut, probably even locked it and tossed the key down the gutter. They don’t talk about it, it’s something they don’t do.

A punishing silence dragged on for an eternity. She forgot how to string together a sentence. Time was needed to collect the pieces of her scattered brain.

Eventually, she gave out a long defeated hum. “They are, how do they look?”

The glasses sat on the bridge of her nose were wide framed. If you looked closely they had a tortoise pattern, the colour of toffee. When she smiled, the apples of her cheeks pressed to the underside of the plastic.

“So good.” He didn’t miss a beat.

She smiled, halfheartedly.

Good. Nothing had felt good for a long time. Genevieve didn’t realize it for a while. Denial was a wicked witch that masked what lay in front with a dozen spells. The days continued to come one after the other. Consecutive and strict. Then Mondays got confused with Thursdays. Months came and went. And suddenly it was years later. Everything was gone. He was gone, until he wasn’t.

“Enough about me.” She cleared her throat before it knotted in on itself. “How’s Esther?”

“Annoying as ever.” He rolled his eyes, words dipped in fond admiration. It was love, gentle and timid. “She doing great. We’re talking more now.”

“That’s good,” she sighed. That was the bitterest pill of them all. Harry was good. So good.

“She wanted to meet you.”

Her head shot up, she brought her hand to her chest. “Me?”

“Yeah, she asks about you a lot.” Genevieve gulped at the piece of information. She assumed Harry would have avoided bringing her up to others. The only way Genevieve could see herself in his current life is as an abandoned cardboard box, shoved in the back of his closet. Only opened to reminisce about what was. “Didn’t know how to tell her you won’t pick up my calls.”

“I got a new number. Dropped my phone in the toilet.”

“‘Course you did.” Her building came into view and Harry feels like someone flipped an hourglass. Each grain fell too quickly. Harry’s vision darts around his surroundings as if he is in search for a lost valuable. He doesn’t look for an item in particular, but he hopes to find another topic of conversation to prolong the definite departure. His hands tremble. No matter how tight his fist clenched, the grains slipped.

He began his sentence without knowing how it will end. “You should… you should come over for dinner.”

The helplessness in his plea made Genevieve question his invite. “Dinner?”

Shaky fingers combed his hair back. He gripped the crown of his head in tepid frustration. “Yeah, or I don’t know, lunch? Breakfast? Brunch?—”

Genevieve saw the anxiousness grow in his eyes, a beast slowly rising from its slumber. If he had all the time in the world, he would spend it on completing his list. They would be there all night.

She knew better than to make promises she couldn’t keep. Committing to dinner with a non-existing appetite wasn’t at the top of her list, priority wise.

“—This is me,” Genevieve stated to put him out of his misery. A yawn escaped her. She wanted nothing more for her pillow to bear the weight of her head, which felt like a million pounds and more.

“I know.”

She coughed in her fist, a flush crept up her neck. Of course he knew. She busied herself with plucking the bundle of keys from her bag. “How far off are you?”

“Oh not by much.” His unclear answer made Gen tilt her head. A question mark hung in the air. “Just that way,” he added. A thumb pushed towards the street on the left. It didn’t even have a name plate on it.

It was one of the things about him that made Genevieve red in the face on multiple occasions. It was never a linear answer with him. He danced around to an nth degree. What do you want to eat? Anything. What time can you come around by? I don’t know, maybe seven. Where will you be at Tuesday? Can’t tell. Can you do this for me? I’ll try. At times, Genevieve wanted to dump a can of grey paint on him because that is the only colour he knew.

“Where do you live, Harry?”

“Are you inviting yourself over?” He was all cheek and wit. A tactic Genevieve saw him pick up from the master himself.

“Just answer the question.”

Genevieve doesn’t know why his living accommodation takes an interest. She conditioned herself to stop caring for his well-being and whereabouts ages ago. That’s something they don’t tell you about broken friendships. You can never resort to a hundred percent erasure of someone. There is no backspace or delete button.

Maybe a part of her wanted to know if he was actually safe, secure and stable, or if it was a front. She wanted a person to compare herself with. Sometimes Genevieve pictured them as two athletes on a track field sprinting towards the finish line. The white line signified growth, healing, and closure. Genevieve was always behind him.

“Edison and Fourth, apartment nine,” he clarified. His weight shifted from his heels to his toes. “It’s decent, but has a slight mice problem. Zayn has set up traps.”

Genevieve blinked robotically when she mapped the intersection in her brain. She frowned when the red pin dropped on the map. “That’s like a thirty minute walk in the opposite direction.”

“I’ll manage, I think I saw a bus stop not far away.”

It would’ve been a much shorter and efficient route straight from The Cabinet. Instead, his insisted pit stop tacked many more steps than needed.

“You really didn’t have to go out of your way to walk me.”

“Yes I did,” his firm tone didn’t waver. The next words flowed like ripples do in a river. “I always will.”

Genevieve slipped her fingers into her back pocket and retrieved her phone. It was warm from her body heat. Her thumb hovered over the screen until it lit her home screen, the bottom half of her face illuminated with a fluorescent light. Her thumb tapped over an application before she typed in the address previously given as the desired destination. A bubble popped up with a potential driver and route. “I’m calling you an uber.”

“No you aren’t. It’s a waste of money.”

She looked up with a bewildered expression. “Don’t be crazy.”

“Cancel it.”

She hadn’t confirmed it, her credit card information covered the screen, but she wasn’t going to let him be privy to that. “No.”

It was unexpected, to say the least.

He jolted towards her in a way that blinded her eyesight to only the colour of his shirt. Red. Red. Red. Her nose brushed against cotton over his shoulder, lint rubbed against her nostrils. His smell reminded her of the grocery store aisle with all the detergents and softeners.

The lack of distance distracted her for a moment. “What are you—hey give that back.”

His fingers brushed against hers were like hot coal. The device was swiped away as if he had the hands of a practiced kleptomaniac.

“I said I am fine as is.”

Maybe it was the effects of alcohol and weed that set something off in Genevieve. It flicked a switch that she had no idea existed, his fingers crawled deep in her chest and pushed the lever up. Anger bubbled and frustration swelled in her. The simmering volcano rose.

“Can you just stop! All of it!” The pads of her fingers dug into his shoulder as she gave a hard push. He staggered back two steps from her force. When space was created between them, Genevieve exited a narrow tunnel, seeing the whole picture and not just some biased misrepresentation. “Showing up everywhere, giving me drinks, walking me home.”

Harry’s face crumpled like a ball of paper being thrown in the nearest trash can. His posture slumped, shoulders caved in on themselves.

“That’s a bit harsh, no?” When Genevieve didn’t reply to him he bit his lower lip. His unsure steps neared her, his voice dropped to a different modulation. Tender and watchful. “Genny...”

“—No, no.” Her words broke by a parched laughter that bordered hysteria. She backed away cautiously when his eyes glimmered with something. He was doing it again. The signature pleading glaze enticed its prey. It got him many things in life: assignment extensions, a bed, with a blonde if he was lucky. “I’m not doing this with you, not again.”

“Can you just hear me out?”

Genevieve’s expression was frozen in a revengeful scowl. She compressed her lips together, an attempt to not spew out nasty words. The skin around her lips turned a shade of white from the lack of blood flow to the vessels. There was only so much self control one could contain. She reserved her ration for a particularly complex problem or when Jonah was getting on her last nerve. Genevieve hadn’t penciled in a portion to give to Harry in such a long time.

“What’s there left to hear, Harry?” She exploded and his shoulders dropped immediately. A yellow light turned on behind a window pane in the building above her from the sudden raise in volume. She inhaled a slow breath in order to contain herself. Her fingers knotted in her hair and she inadvertently felt her throbbing pulse. Her hands motioned in the space that divided them. “This, us? Whatever you’re trying to find again, is not there. You’ve got an amazing life, even better friends. Hell, they’re probably a thousand times better than I ever was.”

“Not true, don’t do that—”

“You don't get it, do you?” Her voice croaked. Genevieve trained herself to not break composure near Harry. She memorized the floorboard to such a detail that she could navigate the house blindly, but now her weight gave away on a loose piece of hardwood and it creaked. “You’re making me think about it all again and it won’t be long until I go weeks without sleeping. I need you to...” Her nostrils flared to inhale a breath, she held it in her lungs as if it delayed the inevitable. But the silence spoke.

I need you to leave me alone. I need you to go away.

He shook his head rapidly. Stern determination fixed in his every word, “I’m not doing that. Not again.”

“Why the hell not?” She spat. Her nails pressed stinging half moons into her palm. Her words, rather vindictive and eroded, were rightfully just. “You were so quick to do it before.”

She looked into his eyes, they were level headed and cool; a complete juxtaposition when compared to hers. Harry wondered when her face became gaunt and the darkness of eyebags took up a permanent living.

“Genny.”

She wasn’t five years old anymore, but a horizontal sting settled above her knee. Her skin ripped open, red splattered all over the floor. He wore red. She saw red. She spilled red.

“I’m tired, Harry.” Admitting this made Genevieve feel small. She closed her eyes and waved her white flag.

Being around Harry was gruesome. Genevieve could only compare it to a drained battery. She didn’t have enough fuel to do this with him. The cogs were rusted from not being used in ages. He brought the rim of a metal container to her lips. His fingers clamped on the back of her neck to keep her in place as he tilted the container up. He poured battery acid down her throat. Concentrated sulfuric acid blackened her insides and poisoned her with every sip.

“I’m so tired.”

***

“On Hallowe'en the old ghosts come about us, and they speak to some; to others they are dumb.” - Hallowe'en by Eleanor Farjeon

---

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donars-oak · 4 years

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Worshipping the Woods - The Destruction of Pagan, Celtic, and Native American Forest Legacies

Lately I’ve been obsessed with learning the history of the once massive forests and huge trees that covered North America. When Europeans first colonized/invaded America in the 1600s they were completely blown away by the size of the trees they found. There was nothing like that in Europe. They would write letters home, in shock and in awe of the size of trees.

In Europe mass deforestation had been been happening for centuries. The Celtic and Pagan traditions that saw trees as conscious, living beings, had practically vanished as Rome and Christendom saw these traditions as witchcraft and satanism. Pagans in Germany were hunted and killed for their woodland ceremonies. Celtics in Ireland watched their dense forest almost completely vanish from their island as the British turned into farmland to support their feudalism goals.

For Pagans and Celts, the forests were their temples, places of magic and beauty. Trees that would give structure for their homes, food for their bellies, cures for their diseases, and the ultimate aesthetic spiritual experiences. But to Christendom and the growing power of capitalism, forests could not be trusted. They were dark and evil. They stood in the way of progress.

A story in particular that has stood out me - and inspired this blog of the same name - is the story of Donar’s Oak. Winfrith Boniface, better known as “Saint” Boniface, was sent in the 8th century by the pope to convert the large pagan communities that still existed in Germany. Seeking to, as he explained, show pagans their was no spiritual power in nature, Boniface decided to cut down a oak of incredibly massive size. This oak was worshipped by the pagans as Donar’s Oak (Thor’s Oak).

Boniface, surrounded and protect by soldiers, chopped down the the tree as pagans watched and cursed his name. He then, after the pagans watched in shock as the tree fell, proceeded to add insult to injury, and began building a Christian Church from the wood of this tree. Wow. Not only did he kill their god, but he built a monument to his god, from the bones of their god.

History tends to repeat itself and a similar scene occurred a thousand years later and six thousand miles away.

John Galt, a British-Scottish explorer, colonizer, and a key figure in the British invasion of what soon became Ontario, Canada, was staring up at the most massive tree he had ever seen. Walking through an “uncleared portion of the primeval forest” somewhere in what is now Hamilton in the 1820s, Galt had come across an oak tree so big he praised it as the “Goliath of oaks” and “the greatest known.”

I had a similar feeling to what Galt had about a year ago. I was walking through what remains of undisturbed forest in Guelph, Ontario (A city Galt founded), and I stumbled upon a massive oak. Tiny by historical standards, probably a quarter of the size of tree Galt saw, but massive in comparison to what I was used to. Like Galt described the Oak he found, it dwarfed the other trees around it and made it seemed like it ruled over them, as the “monarch of the woods”.

Galt however also had a very Boniface-like reaction mixed in with his awe. He immediately fantasized about “cutting it down, and sending home planks of it to Windsor Castle”.

What?

To stumble upon something that amazing and immediately think about destroying it....

Like Boniface saw Donar’s Oak as standing in the way of progress and built a church out of it, Galt saw this massive Ontario Oak as something to be felled, sent across the ocean to Britain, and turned into fancy furniture. Boniface and his Christian God. Galt and the British Empire. No patience or time for something that took a thousand years to grow.

As Boniface stole something important from pagans, Galt was there to steal the forests from Native Americans.

I recently visited Huron Natural Area in Kitchener, Ontario. When I hike around Ontario, I’m so used to seeing forests dominated by invasive species that lack anything nearing old growth or diversity. However sometimes you find these incredible stretches of old forests. Areas that have never been cleared for homes or farmland or golf courses. They don’t have the massive trees they would have had centuries ago (these likely were selectively logged or died from new diseases and threats brought by the Europeans), but they have their descendants. Huron Natural Area was one of those old forests. It was incredible. The friend I was hiking with commented ‘how we were going to be here all day’ because I couldn’t stop examining every single tree.

Something I especially loved though, was the information on the signs (designed by @EmilyDamstra) at the entrance. These let you know that the Huron Natural Area wasn’t really a “natural” environment, in the sense that we think of “natural“ as being undisturbed. This incredible forest had been the home to multiple Native American groups over thousands of years. Groups that had grown with the forest, used it, shaped it, and most importantly, sustained it.

There is an old lie about Native Americans that we can’t seem to dismiss. The lie that America was mostly empty when the Europeans came. That America was full of forests that were untouched by human hands. These are the “truths” taught to us in school that we can’t seem to dismiss despite the growing evidence. The evidence that the population of Native Americans rivaled that of Europe at the time of first contact. The evidence that Native Americans didn’t so much “live in the wild”, as designed and cared for it. (Highly recommend the book 1491 by Charles C. Mann to help kick these misunderstandings).

That Oak tree Galt wanted so badly to cut down, was likely a tree Native Americans groups in the area were well aware of. They probably made use of the acorns, the bark, and the twigs. Hell, its possible they even planted it. Lots of Native Americans planted and grew oak trees and other nut trees for food. They maintained Oak Savannas, which look much like European parks with grass and spaced shade trees, which allowed the tree branches to spread low so acorns can be picked. It shocked European settlers who came upon them because they appeared to be so obviously human maintained, which in their eyes couldn’t be possible for these savage Indians.

Currently I am reading an autobiography by Diana Beresford-Kroeger, an Irish botanist now living in Canada, who was raised as a child with old Celtic traditions and knowledge about nature. In it she talks about her anger at discovering that the great Irish forests, where this Celtic knowledge was created and passed down by ancestors, were no more due to the invasion of Christianity and the British. She also talks about her wonder and thanks for the Native American people of Canada for maintaining the Canadian Forests. For not letting Canada turn into a forest-less county like Ireland.A theme throughout is her concern for the future as forests are still vanishing.

It saddens me, learning about these massive forests that I’ll never get to see. But like Beresford-Kroeger, I am in awe of the forests we still have in Canada and thankful for them.

Just a few nights ago, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in a long time. I went camping all by myself. I packed my tent, sleeping bag, and some food and walked about 5 hours north from my place in Guelph. Just as the sun was beginning to go down, I found an incredible old forest between two farms. Much like the forest of the Huron Natural area, it was area that had been sustained and allowed to grow old. There were some incredible trees, like the Blue Beach, the muscle-wood tree, that can only be found in older forests like this. I claimed a spot on the top of a hill where i would get lots of light and wouldn’t have to worry about rain. As I sat watching the sun peak through the trees as darkness fell on the wood, I noticed I had camped near a large oak, that would protect me that night.

#forest #trees #celtics #nature #pagans #nativeamericans

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mittensmorgul · 5 years

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So how do you see Dean and Cas's storyline progressing next season? I'm not asking for predictions, but I guess i am asking for your thoughts on their narrative and what that's going to look like going forward since i'm not so good at things like that.

Hrm… I mean, I’m not really sure about this, because guessing about how a storyline will progress is the literal definition of making predictions in this context. I can point at what happened last season, and now knowing for absolute sure that we’re looking at the absolute endpoint of the series and kinda wave a hand in a general direction of what’s likely to happen in the absolute broadest strokes, but we still have a LOT of missing data in this set, so there’s no way any predictions can be even remotely guaranteed (not even these broad strokes).

Missing information: Is Misha contracted for his usual 15 episodes, or will he go all out in the final season and be in every episode? Will Jared and Jensen feel the same, after having asked for more time off the last few years, will they decide to push it for one last year? And the biggest piece of missing information of all, now that the spiral narrative has jumped the track, what direction are they even heading for the end of the road? We all HOPE they’re ending for an ultimate victory and a happy (or what *we* think of as happy, in my case the “evergreen ending” where TFW lives and finally frees themselves from the cosmic game they’ve been forced into their whole lives) ending, and I’m tempted to guess that this is what the writers will give us, but there are no guarantees, and even if they came out and did guarantee this tomorrow, we still have no idea how they would get there or what it might look like *in the writers’ minds* anyway.

So I’m really hesitant to make guesses aside from the obvious, which in this case is the immediate (not in time-scale, because it could take time) addressing of Dean’s guilt and trauma that led to him losing faith in Jack (via heavy manipulation by Chuck), to addressing Cas’s insecurity regarding his place in the Winchester family. One of the big themes that came to a head at the end of s14 was not just “lying vs truth,” because we were given proof that telling the truth all the time creates more problems than it solves, but that concealing important truths out of fear or to misguidedly spare the people we care about from worrying while carrying that burden alone is just as misguided and has the potential to cause just as much pain and heartbreak down the road when the truth inevitably comes out.

It’s the interpersonal version of “nothing stays locked up forever” that the show’s narrative foundations have been built on since the Apocalypse era. And if you wanna look at it more metaphorically, since the pilot episode, with Sam’s attempt at going off and leading a normal life and boxing up his entire life to that point and pretending it didn’t exist in order to fit in at Stanford. Life, unboxed.

So it’s something that must be addressed before the end. They’ve got 20 episodes left. What we can’t possibly guess at is HOW this will be addressed, you know?

What we DO know is that everything has been set up for TFW to finally be honest, to use their words– because much as Cas claimed that he never got words wrong, we’ve seen there’s often a disconnect between him and Dean, between Dean’s penchant for minimizing his own needs and feelings and his fear of rejection combined with his misunderstanding of Cas’s actual feelings, and Cas’s hesitance to be completely open and honest with Dean about what he actually wants and the fact he truly does consider the Winchesters his family now (and NOT Heaven and the angels… his duty to them ended years ago, but Dean can’t really see that because of all the times Cas has run off trying to PROTECT them from having do do horrible things, or tried to solve problems on his own by cutting off communication to shield them… Dean mistakenly believes it’s because Cas still feels duty bound because of his essential nature as an angel and that he will always come second to that…) there’s a LOT going on here to address and work through and only 20 episodes left to do it in, in addition to, you know, the actual plot they’ve set up of TFW vs God for control of their own lives.

Plus there’s the other side of the Big Narrative– what I’ve been calling Team Free Empty. Jack, Billie, and the Shadow. What have Billie and the Shadow been up to, and why are they please to have Jack in the Empty now, in a place where Chuck has no power and they can plot in secret?

Where is Amara in all of this? As Chuck’s already-established other half, where is she now (because I can’t believe she’s in Reno playing Keno), and will she have a role to play in wresting narrative control of this universe from Chuck’s hands?

Heaven and Hell are both… crumbling, off the rails… effectively leaderless and seemingly falling into chaos and decay. How will the revelations of 14.20 affect these realms, and what are the consequences we’re facing now because of it? What is the long-term fate of the afterlife in general, and the billions of souls housed there?

What are the long-term consequences of Chuck’s apparent purge of Hell, bringing all those souls back to earth in the form of spirits, zombies, et al? Because THAT is what he did… I’ve seen the assumption going around that some sort of zombie apocalypse is in the offing for s15, and I just don’t buy that. Like, not at all. I see it more as the punchline to all the zombie-baiting surrounding Jack’s story since he was born, much the same as Dean firing off the grenade launcher in 12.22 was the culmination of all the grenadebaiting in s12. I don’t see it as a logistically plausible season-long narrative, you know?

I also don’t see them having to literally go back to the start to redo every hunt they’ve ever successfully completed, as implied by the three spirits from their past we saw make comebacks in the end montage. The entire narrative point of this is that TFW is fighting to take back their own fate. Not to mention all of those souls might’ve been brought out of Hell, but the things TFW has done to send them there in the first place haven’t been undone. I don’t think Gacy’s cigar box has been un-burned, you know? The innocent souls of the children of the original Woman In White haven’t been dragged out of Heaven to drag their guilty mother back to Hell again. Bloody Mary’s mirror hasn’t been restored and holding her spirit bound to it. And who do we know who has power over the dead, ensuring they are dispatched to their destined afterlife? Who once pulled every single soul who died over the course of multiple years from where they’d been trapped in the veil after Metatron slammed the gates of Heaven? Even as a regular reaper before she ascended to the mantle of Death? Yeah, Billie. My best guess is that by the end of 15.01, all those souls will be returned to where they belong, because it literally cannot stand… TFW in the graveyard swarmed by zombies with no hope of being able to fight them all off is an untenable scenario.

Not that I don’t think Chuck will spend the season tormenting them, but I think he’s gonna get more creative than this… especially when forced to deal with the very powerful friends TFW has amassed… namely Team Free Empty, who together likely have the power to counter pretty much everything Chuck can throw at them.

Free Will is a force that Chuck may have “invented,” but I don’t think it’s something he truly understands, and like the Empty, I think it’s something he literally has no power to counter. Team Free Will is finally poised to break the invisible chains Chuck had saddled them with since the beginning of time. To quote Dean in 5.18, screw destiny, right in the face.

It’s a lot to work with in a limited and defined time period, so speculating beyond this until we start seeing the direction s15 will take and where narrative emphasis will fall as a result is practically impossible, you know?

#spn s15 speculation #destiel #team free will does fun stuff for fun #team free empty #if you say 'mysterious ways' so help me i will kick your ass #this is as speculate-y as i'm willing to get in public #ask off anon or come chat at me and we can squee about headcanons all day long #but as for concrete predictions this is what i'm willing to put forth in public #anonymous

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tinkdw · 7 years

Text

I need you

So I’ve been talking about Cas and Dean/Cas a lot, obviously. Then @amwritingmeta cemented yesterday through a post about Cas in 12x23 (addressed below) some concepts that were floating around my head throughout season 11/12 in relation to Cas’ view of self and how Dean speaks to him so thank you dear! - here it is.

For me Cas’ mental state and how broken he is is of utmost importance to my reading of the events of season 12, so here it is.

( Before I start, I must state that I AM A DEAN GIRL, I LOVE DEAN, this is NOT an anti Dean post, because I know some might jump on this like how dare you, I LOVE DEAN but I am not blind to his actions and his own issues and how they affect others and how these need to be resolved and are being resolved. This is my perception of what is going on on screen in front of my eyes for 2 years and how it impacts others. It’s a part of the story and it is totally relevant and hugely important to both Dean and Cas’ own arcs, so this may seem negative NOW but it is NOT in the long run. )

Right, that over, here it is.

Dean’s repression and his miscommunication with Cas in seasons 11 & 12, on top of Cas’ already fragile mental state results in misunderstanding and actually cementing Cas’ sense of lack of self worth and value as his own person.

Which obviously is completely the opposite of what Dean wants to do.

Dean’s own issues are making Cas’ worse, or at least, not helping resolve them. Together they can grow. Their arcs are heavily interlinked and not just romantically.

By repressing his feelings and not being honest about what he feels and wants Dean, through his words throughout these two seasons in particular is actually reinforcing Cas’ sense of usefulness only as a tool and even then not a very good one. Even though he tries at individual times to be honest and open, particularly in season 12, the general gist is not this (that is what is under the cut as it’s long).

Eg. 12x10: Dean tries to be honest, he is clear that he cares about Cas.

But due to all the rest outside of this (see below) and Cas’ own personal issues Cas still thinks his own life is not important

This attempt by Dean to be kind and honest and gentle is just like the beer:

“Well, this will do very little for me, but I-I appreciate the gesture.”

Cas can see the attempt, he is grateful for it, but it doesn't CHANGE anything, it still does LITTLE FOR HIM, it’s not enough and his own issues stop it from being seen for what it is.

So Dean (just like in 12x07 and so many other times) can't cope with this discussion, with Cas saying he’s prepared to sacrifice himself, so he represses his feelings and moves on, back to the case, as per his usual form

Which for Cas therefore just means that he understands that Dean doesn't care as much as he does, as much as WE know he does, because Cas is so literal and has such low self worth and depression, this all comes together to mean he just doesn't see below this facade and this repression to the caring below, he still keeps thinking of himself as expendable and less important than the Winchesters and particularly of course, Dean.

Cas is so literal, yes he’s learning, but he is still extremely literal and doesn't really get subtext, in season 8 for example he went and bought things that Dean has talked about out loud or shown to Cas visually that he likes: pie, the porn mags, toilet roll. When Mary says she was nervous and had to pee, he says “urination, I understand” because he does understand urination, but does he understand what she’s saying about being nervous? That there’s an issue for her? He doesn't offer her any kind of words of support like “it’ll be fine, Mary”, which you know he would if she flat out said “I’m nervous”, because we saw that attempt at support with Kelly on numerous occasions.

- Dean represses and doesn't use his words and hopes people understand what he means. - Cas needs things to be said pretty literally for him to understand them. It’s a standard misunderstanding romance trope.

Moving forwards Dean needs to learn to use his words and face his own feelings and Cas needs to escape his depression and find self worth. Lucky (ikr?! :p) this is exactly what has been set up, particularly through showing this negative side to come out shining at the other end :)

All this background in season 11 and 12 under the cut:

Season 11:

WE see that Cas is clearly and expressly depressed. He has a FULL ON panic attack, he is depressed, watching day time TV, Metatron TELLS US he is broken

Dean notices but doesn't see how bad it is, he tries to pull him out of it by using the case, using his usefulness

He then continues this theme all the way through until Cas gives himself over to Lucifer

We also have a clear exposition in both Cas’ meeting with Amara and Ambriel that he, due to his personal reasons aside from Dean, feels useless and only useful as a tool, which allows Lucifer to possess him to help.

This is NOT RESOLVED.

Dean doesn't see what WE see, he knows Cas is not fine but not up to what point, he also doesn't really know how to cope with it so copes how he would with himself, focusing on getting by day by day, repressing and trying to be of use, because that is just about what works for him, getting from one apocalypse to another, but it doesn't work, it’s not addressing the issue, it’s masking the symptoms by just keeping going, which we know for ALL of them just keeps making it worse until it finally all blows up...

Then we have season 12 where this continues. Dean doesn't tell Mary (on screen) who Cas really is, what he means to them and how much he’s helped etc etc etc (I’m reminded of him talking to Claire about Cas saving the world and Jimmy being a hero in s10 and how Cas ofc doesn't see this, it’s just MORE of the them not telling each other how they feel), so Dean tells Mary just that he’s an Angel, not that he's like a brother to them even (which, is another point, because Cas doesn't want to be an Angel, he wants to be a part of their family, but here is Dean introducing him as precisely not what he wants to be)

then Cas is used to find Sam, beating up the informants and doing the leg work, when we know that Cas hates doing this, he doesn’t like conflict, hurting people, fighting, but he does it because it’s necessary.

6x06:

(SO many season 6/12 parallels I have a tag for it and it’s just... yeah, so relevant).

Then in 12x03 we see Cas still feeling the guilt and need to find Lucifer, it’s brilliant that the boys want to go with him, but Cas rejects this and they don't push. It’s just MORE miscommunication. If Cas had said I feel awful and depressed and I need to fix this, I want your support but I don't feel like I deserve it, I feel like I should do this alone and not burden you... If Dean and Sam said no, we want to come with you, we are FAMILY, we will support you and do this together, because IMO this is what they are all thinking but no, they don't, so Dean is upset that Cas has left (and is pissy with him about it, because hell, why not add ANOTHER layer of angst to all this right guys? and this is just how Dean deals - when things are shit and his emotions are too much and he can't cope he gets ANGRY) so Cas continues to feel depressed and worthless until the point they meet up again in 12x07

Cas still wants to sacrifice himself and Dean does say “engaged in what? Killing you?” but he doesn't STOP him. MORE of this half attempt but not fully talking it out.

Dean then over the episodes since Cas is missing, he’s trying to convince Cas to call him / come home by appealing to his sense of DUTY, by saying they need him for his hands, not that they love and miss him, he’s using this as an excuse and not to face his own feelings but this just reinforces Cas’ perception that he’s not wanted, just needed. Hence his comment about not meaning to add to their distress, because Dean never said he was distressed in his messages, of course there was an underlying tone of this but it wasn't EXPLICIT until he said so when Cas returned.

The mixtape scene in the bunker, as beautiful as the gift, again, is a reverse shit sandwich. FIRST he tells Cas they lost Kelly because he was missing

Then they have the beautiful mixtape exchange but he ends again telling Cas that they’re better together with Sam and for the job, “let’s get it done” and LEAVES.

Then since 12x19 to 12x23 Dean and Sam try to control Cas, Cas does accept their request to go to the bunker to talk it out and he does wait to hear Sam out at the end but when Sam then flat out tells him “no, that ain’t happening” that is when he decides he has no choice and boops them to sleep.

When they turn up in 12x23 Dean immediately starts giving him orders, as @amwritingmeta pointed out:

Then Dean is dismissive of his “making friends” in the rift world and his faith in his “unborn baby god”.

I mean.... from Cas’ POV I can totally see the issue, because CAS is not seeing everything WE are seeing from Dean about Cas.

Cas has not seen Dean’s worry, his constant thinking about Cas and not as a tool, for who he is, all Cas sees are moments of familial care but A HELL OF A LOT of Dean giving him orders and, from his POV, him and others all needing him only for his ‘hands’.

x Given that Cas already has deeply rooted emotional issues and depression focusing on his usefulness for YEARS, his perception of his being needed on Earth by Dean and Sam is IMO warped (because I’m not saying they mean for this to come across like this OF COURSE! but this is how I think Cas sees it, even though he does see the care too, he’s blinded by his depression and his own personal lack of self worth) so it’s no surprise that he asks this of Kelvin or then states:

x His perception is that he is not even good at even just being useful because even then, he’s unleashed worse eg. Lucifer, this is massively important in considering his mental state during these two seasons and particularly at the end of season 12.

This is a HUGE issue for Cas so I can totally see his perception is warped (I am not saying that Dean is doing this on purpose at ALL(and Sam up to a point, but let’s be real a lot of this is with Dean and due to Dean being his primary contact with the two and the person he is in love with), this is all from Cas’ POV in his emotionally vulnerable condition).

(I’m going to just inject here the fact that this theme of Cas feeling needed only as a tool and bossed around by Dean is also entirely paralleled with season 6 as part of the season 12 / season 6 callback theme that goes over the whole of season 12:

Which is why it’s even more awful when Cas tries to call into play the family card in 6x21 and Dean rejects it, AGAIN, not that it’s entirely Dean’s FAULT of course, but from Cas’ POV this is heartbreaking because HE believes he is doing the right thing, that Dean only called him all season for his help as a tool and that he always comes when Dean calls, even during a Heavenly civil war, even when he first tried to put Rachel there first, because he didn't think Dean wanted HIM, he thought he wanted just A TOOL, THAT ANY ANGEL WOULD DO, and it all fell apart due to Dean’s attitude and Rachel’s defensive stance of Cas, but not because Dean said “no I want Cas because I care about Cas”, which we don't expect at this point really in season 6, their relationship isnt quite at this point yet, but still, it’s an important factor when looking at season 12 in the way it mirrors season 6 and Cas’ lack of self worth and self love for YEARS).

Now, of course interspersed with this we do have Dean telling Cas in 11x23 that he is their brother, we have Sam telling him they’re fighting for him, Dean telling Cas that they’re family and won't leave him behind and that he's worried, not mad, he tells Cas that he’s upset that they were ignored, but again these are all FAMILIAL words and mostly all WE’s not I’s. DEAN IS TRYING. He is not the bad guy here. REPRESSION, DEPRESSION, a LACK OF SELF WORTH and MISCOMMUNICATION are.

It’s not enough, Dean is of course showing Cas familial love, which is great, but not the whole truth and plus he still also frames this a lot of the time within a general excuse of needing Cas for his help rather than WANTING him to stay for HIM.

WE have seen Dean’s worry for 2 seasons, WE have seen him not sleeping, worrying so badly that Sam has to console him, WE have seen him framed as the worried husband.

CAS HAS NOT.

The words: I need you. The meaning: I love you and care for you. The understanding: I need you as a tool.

Moving forwards I’m sure this is going to be addressed and I can't wait :)

#when will they get their fucking act together #miscommunication #destiel #tinks meta #destiel meta #season exposition 11 #season fanfic 12 #season 6 v season 12 #Cas was not the big bad in season 6 #miscommunication and trying to protect others #was as it was in season 12 #season destiheaven 13 #i hope #:p

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