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jj-ktae · 3 years

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Note I - Ionones -

Moodboard : Courtesy of the lovely Jacqueline @jaebeomsmullet ! Thank you for helping and hyping and just being here whenever I need it.

› Title : Fragrances › Genre : Angst, Fluff, Romance, Composer!Jungkook x Perfume Maker!Reader › Pairing : Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader › Warning : Mentions of Suicide, heavy subjects, depression (none of these are used with the idea of glamourising mental illness), strong language, smut in later chapters probably. Do not read if any of these trigger you.

› Author’s note : This is another version of the story I wrote a few years ago for GOT7. Some of the events will be different, others will not change just like some paragraphs will be the same and others won’t. Informations, definitions and words are taken from this website.

› Summary : In the world of Perfume making, it is believed that everyone has their own natural fragrance. It is also believed that everyone has that one scent capable of making them feel a thousand things. You find yours in the form of a composer on the verge of breaking, right when you have to face one of the biggest challenge in your life.

Masterlist | Note I - Ionones | Note II : Aldehydes

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Note I: Ionones

Violets and Iris depend on this group of highly valued synthetic chemicals. Used in small amounts in many floral, green, woody perfumes. Although this group of chemicals is dominated by just two chemicals "Ionone" and "Methyl Ionone" there are many, many isomers and qualities available that give different odour profiles from fruity - violet - green to iris. An important function is they act as blenders in a perfume helping the perfume to smell harmonious. It is also interesting to note that the nose quickly fatigues when smelling Ionones and the smell appears to fade. This same effect is found when smelling natural Violet flowers.

You are going back home the first time you meet him. It takes a nanosecond for the feeling to hit you straight in the bones. It forces your steps to slow down and stiffens your muscles right in the middle of the streets. You think for a minute, contemplative and in awe. Nothing about his physical appearance strikes you at first, it’s your nose doing all the job. It’s overwhelming, and so very rare it can’t be ignored. You come across this type of person once in your life as they say, causing an overwhelming feeling you never pegged as being so entrancing. It brings back memories from times you thought were forgotten, makes you want to scream and laugh. He is leaning on the bridge’s safety barrier and he doesn’t see the way you’re frozen behind him, blinking. You have never met him but it feels like you’ve known him forever.

You almost forget about your dear bed for a minute, but your phone tears you out of your adoration and you snap, your pace fastening before the man can turn around. It is hard to say if he was able to see you, and you don’t want to go away but you’re aware it might seem weird so you just keep on walking. Your body revives and your heart slows when the air turns evanescent.

You’re at home when your phone rings again, which pulls an annoyed groan out of your mouth. “What?” you mumble, plopping on the sofa in desperation.

“You need to come to the meeting tomorrow morning.” Your boss’ voice feels like a scratch on broken glass and you wince, unpleased “they want you to be here, and we have to make sure they’ll work with us.” He adds to soften you.

“I’m never invited to these and I like it better that way, why tomorrow?”

“It’s a big brand, I want them to see who is going to be in charge of their perfume. They don’t want to talk with managers. They don’t care. I promised you holidays and I swear once this is over you’ll have it. Please.”

The headache is pounding yet you sigh, defeated. You can’t reject this, you’re in no position to do that.

“I’ll be here.” You sigh, his relief now evident yet adding to your misery.

He is beaming on the phone, rushing thanks and stuttering, probably because of what seems to be a big, juicy contract. Exciting. His voice is way too loud when he wishes you a good night, leaving you with the deafening silence once he hangs up.

Being a composer is your job. You’re often called a perfume-composer, a perfume maker or even a perfumer and all of these are fine with you. It all explains the same thing; you use your nose to put scents together and create a perfume. You usually work with a tight schedule and precise requests, leaving you with generic projects. They involve what you call capitalist perfumes, targeted and produced for masses instead of harmony. Nowadays perfumes are for ‘suave’, ‘sexy’, ‘dynamic’ or even ‘active’ people. They’re best-sellers, perfumes you smell in the streets, shops, public transport, elevators. They’re repetitive and senseless. What used to be something exciting is now boring and dull.

You’re even starting to be disgusted by some of your creations.

And it’s for a good reason. People do not buy perfume according to their own smell. It’s something that is barely exploited by the companies, the probability of not selling in mass too counterproductive to bother explaining why some perfumes are not suited to everyone. You see it in the stores, how vendors spray anyone willing to be perfumed. These places became a hotchpotch of scents and it gets to your nose so easily it hurts.

You are able to distinguish a lot of different scents, and this is your job. Mixing stuff, looking for new elements, blend oils, this is what you love about making perfume. Your sensitive nose had made you choose a career surrounded by a farandole of fragrances, and while it may sound like a horrible life, it was what had helped you survive the probability of a boring job surrounded by horrible coworkers. It’s a solace so unusual and mysterious that you can selfishly appreciate its beauty and complexity on your own.

But now, you find yourself doubting as you peak at your neat organ*, brown and rustic. You didn’t sign for tasteless nights and headaches.

Going to sleep is hard that night, when your brain can’t forget about this man and his scent, his oh so perfect scent which you have yet to put a finger on. You finally forget about him and your brain turns off, while another person is going back home, head heavy and mind lost.

Jungkook throws his bag on his table and goes on the floor, silent.

He wasn’t able to end his life, again.

It’s hard to believe that you are currently meeting with a famous brand directly. Most of the time, they would meet your managers and you’d have a project sent over your way, leaving you a mere two weeks to work on a foolish project with foolish requests.

Today you are in shock though, because they are asking you what you want to do. It’s the first time you get asked about this and it frightens you, it scares the hell out of you when you suddenly have too much freedom. All ideas evaporate, like you have no taste and no dreams for a perfect perfume.

The woman’s stilettos make too much noise on the floor, and she speaks in a slow and irritating manner, like you’re too stupid to understand her request. She comes closer and you smile, weakly. It’s a mix between pain and fear, it looks like she is about to eat you up. Maybe it is because you look like a deer caught in headlights. “I’m asking you about your plans concerning our next fragrance. You get that we want an Eau de Parfum, and not an Eau de Toilette, which means we need lasting scents. We have no guidelines, no themes, no requests, just a thirst for your creativity. You have what it takes to make it from scratch without us poking into your business- I mean, I'll be here to check on how it is going, of course.” She speaks words at an incredibly fast pace, with a tone deprived of any doubt.

All you feel is your boss’ stare, boring holes into your back; he knows what you’re going to answer. “I’m afraid we don’t work that way. How am I supposed to know what kind of product you need? Don’t you already have an advertisement sample to show me? A muse, somebody representing the brand?” You try the best you can, because now you have too many possibilities and it can’t happen.

“We only have you and your talent, for now.”

Your boss walks up to you two and waves his hands “Not that we think you’re not worth our time, but we mostly work based on requests. We need a guideline.” He pleads, and his fake laugh nearly makes you scoff.

But the woman is thick headed, and she points a finger at you, accusingly. “This person doesn’t need us in order to create a perfume. We’ve been following you for so long after your last fragrance won 1st rank in Vogue’s top 10 Perfume recommendations. You were not easy to find, though.”

But you know, you know it wasn’t your own work, but simply something you were asked to do. “I’m sorry madam, but I simply did as I was told. Without this, I’m nothing.” You say and it sounds depreciatory concerning your own capacities but you don’t care. You are getting so scared right now that you’re ready to call yourself a scam in front of anyone.

The woman laughs and it looks like she can see through you “There is a thousand way to create a perfume with the same elements. You simply refuse to admit you’re a genius, but we both know you can’t waste your time beating yourself.” She adds and lets the contract fall on the glass table, stilettos beating the floor again and her expensive bag back on her shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” Your boss takes the contract and starts reading, but you just want to cry. You don’t want to do this, because you’re scared and afraid and you know you will fail. At the same time, you wanted this, you wanted to create on your own. You had thrown away so many samples until now, thinking it was useless. Now that somebody is asking for your true self, you back off. Your brain screams at you to stop being so contradictory and grasp that opportunity but you just feel numb and pressured and it’s enough to petrify you.

“I can’t. We can’t.” You mumble but your boss looks shocked, mouth agape and fingers gripping the contract.

“This is big, Y/N. Looks at this.” He says and you feel like fainting when you see the amount of money they are willing to pay. You know your boss will never refuse this and panic takes over.

Your shaky fingers almost tear the contract away “I’m going to fail; they will lose their time and the company will be ruined, you know it!”

But he knows better and smiles sweetly at you. “You’re always complaining about plain perfumes and cheap fragrances. You’re given a chance to compose on your own and I fully support you, so please tell me you’ll try, at least. We still have an observation period in case you can’t do it, okay?” you know he is not thinking about the money only, yet you hardly think he is thinking about your well-being either but you can’t refuse now, and you’re left with two pieces of paper and a lump in your throat as your boss goes out of the big office.

For the next couple of days it’s all you can think about, while your boss keeps on calling to make sure you’ll do it. You try to act rebellious a few times but to no avail; you end up agreeing because you don’t have the luxury nor the power to reject this offer.

You agree but deep inside you’re burning with fear. It’s not even exciting, it’s like a wide ocean, with no shores and huge waves. It’s suffocating.

The second time you meet the mysterious guy, he is at the same spot. He keeps on leaning against the bridge, and his whole existence looks like a misery but his smell makes you slow down again. It’s overwhelming, almost unbearable. There is no way a perfume can do that.

It’s a natural smell.

He doesn’t see you and you don’t see his face, but this is not even important right now. Your brain goes back and forth, and it’s a long journey to your past. This guy doesn’t even feel your presence and when you walk away, the feeling is gone, and you breathe again.

“I’m glad you decided to take this offer.” You’re just behind her. She is walking fast, passing halls after halls and you look around, unfamiliar with the smell. It’s like you’re entering the mafia because everyone bows like she owns the place. Only her smell lingers, suiting her perfectly.

Leather.

“As written in the contract, we will provide a lab and supplies. We can have everything you need, so feel free to ask.” She is bragging, and you know it’s her way of making you feel at ease but it’s even scarier. Obviously they are going to provide whatever you need. It's a big investment for little result.

“Oh, and I’ll introduce you to your assistant.” She turns around and winks at you.

“I- I have an assistant?” you stutter, it’s unreal. You don’t mind working alone- why would you even need someone to help?

“You’ll have an assistant, of course. You’re telling me you don’t have one at your company ?” You shake your head with power and she gasps “See? You don’t deserve to be treated this way.” She whispers and opens a door, white and shiny.

When you enter, the smell is strong with disinfectant. There’s no doubt they deep cleaned this place for the launching of a new product. The walls are grey, covered by old advertising pictures from the brand, the furniture seems brand new and there is a man. He looks around you age, with designer clothes and loafers. His hair is blond and he is wearing blue lenses.

“You’re here already?” The woman asks and he nods, his plumps lips revealing shiny teeth. He looks so happy.

“I couldn’t miss it, not when you’re bringing a genius here.” He talks funny and walks with no hidden enthusiasm. He looks like he is out of a fashion show and it’s making you step back with apprehension.

“Good, I guess we can start with the introductions. Meet your assistant.” He offers a hand and his smile widens when you reciprocate the gesture.

He smells like your latest creation “I’m Park Jimin. Nice to meet you, boss.”

Boss. What the hell.

“Nice...to meet you too?” It sounds like a question, but it’s actually a plea. You don’t want to do this.

“I’m so glad you agreed on working with us! It’s not easy to know who hides behind perfumes and it was hard to find you but we did !” He beams at the woman as she taps his shoulder, nodding.

“You found me ? How ?”

“I saw you at a launch product party. When I heard it was you I was so happy. I’m a big fan.” He laughs and you feel even more burdened. The woman is looking at you two like a proud - and rich - mother

“You’re wearing-”

“Yeah, it’s yours! Amazing, right? Oh, tell me if it suits me!” He lifts his head and offers you his neck, giggling.

“Jasmine. You bring out the jasmine in it.”

It’s true, Jasmine suits him.

He makes a weird noise before pointing a finger at the lady “I told you! She is a genius! It’s exactly why I bought it.”

“Since you’re getting along pretty well, I’ll leave you in the hands of this young boy.” Her strong smell of musk stays behind her when she turns around and leaves the room.

“I’m such a big fan of you. You might find it weird, but I bought every single perfume you made. For study purposes, of course!” He is embarrassed but a second later, he is back to serious. “You don’t wear perfume.” He looks intrigued.

“It blurs my sense of smell.”

“Oh my god, this is exactly what a genius would say.” He shakes his head, amazed at your apparently smart answer and proceeds to show you around the lab, the explanations never ending.

The rest of the day is spent next to this guy, who knows every single person in the building. You keep on shaking hands, and soon, you’re exhausted. Jimin is chatting non-stop, offering you drinks and being a perfect assistant.

You discover he is still an apprentice in the perfume industry and is aiming to become a composer for the brand. He tells you he loves fashion, and this you noticed, but he also says something that triggers you.

I want to be like you

You want to laugh at him for being such a fanboy, and you tell him numerous times that the perfumes you made are only things you were asked to create, that it wasn’t your own work, but he brushes you off, explaining you know nothing about your own skills. Jimin is the type of guy who loves to socialise, he has this way of communicating that makes everyone love him. The same day, you go back home with his phone number saved and a tone of messages from him about how excited he is to be working under your care.

On your way back home, you don’t see the guy.

Jungkook has plenty of time to think and he doesn’t like it. His apartment is silent and not even the cars passing by outside can ease the emptiness. He doesn’t dare look at the papers scattered on the floor. They are all creased, and the trash is full. He wants to crash the whole place; he wants to tear it to pieces. It’s infuriating, how everything is here for purpose and he has nothing to look forward to.

He can’t stand it anymore.

His phone rings but he ignores it. His best friend has been calling all day, and he knows he’ll receive a lot of nagging from him but he doesn’t care.

Soon, nobody will have to deal with his abnormal self.

Maybe it was supposed to end like this, even though he has no idea when it actually started. All Jungkook knows is that at some point, he became useless. He used to be efficient, powerful. But now everything is dull. His eyes burn, his ears ring, his mouth is dry.

This is garbage. You’re not what you used to be. Where did your talent go ?

He can stand critiques; he knows the music industry and its perks but he can’t stand being belittled. He doesn’t want anyone to question his way of functioning but it was starting to get a bit too frequent for his taste.

He gets up and goes to his huge and sophisticated window.

He wants everything to stop.

“How did you end up being a perfume maker?” Jimin is swallowing his food, filling the whole lab with spiciness and you want him to go away.

“Give me the bergamot sample.” You open another small bottle and ignore his question, trying to focus on your task.

“You’ve been on this all day, have a break, boss.” He tries although his voice is muffled by all the food he is trying to swallow. You know he is right. You have absolutely no idea about what you’re doing, so you mix stuff in hope of a miracle. Nothing works, everything smells terrible, it’s disgusting even.

“Here, drink something, at least. Take your time.” He coos with a worried expression.

You sigh and rub your face, tired. “I can’t do this.”

“I know, they gave you nothing. I’m here to help so don’t stay quiet and let’s think about this together. I know how they work, let’s take our time, no one is rushing you yet.”

You look at the scattered glass bottles and smelling strips. This is a mess.

Jimin asks you if you want to go to a party held by another luxury brand the same night but you refuse. He isn’t surprised when you tell him you hate going to these places. You’re not the type of person who likes to socialise, and your assistant understands but tells you that you have to go with him next time. You also refuse.

So you go back home. Your head hurts, your body is sore, and your brain is empty. The air is thick with humidity but you like how it resets your sense of smell, erasing all the stuff you’ve been smelling all day.

The guy is here. He is leaning against the bridge again but something about him irks you. He is shivering. His smell slowly fills your nostrils as you approach him and you can’t help but notice that he is leaning against the barrier a bit too much. He sighs, again and again and when he leans even more to look at the river under the bridge, you stop walking.

You’re right behind him.

It’s true that you’re not into socialising, but you definitely recognise someone in pain. His smell makes you move on your own and before he can sigh some more, you find yourself next to him.

It’s even stronger now.

He isn’t surprised when he feels somebody next to him. He stays quiet and acts like he is alone but straightens his back like he was caught doing something wrong.

“Did you...lose something?” You ask, peeking at the river far under your feet. You know he didn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that it’s not the first time you see him here.

“No.” His answer is short and it allows you to finally take a good look at his face. His brown locks cup his face, from his shiny eyes to his round nose and pouty lips. He’d look cool if it wasn’t for his pitiful aura.

“Are you trying to...?” You begin but his eyes go wide and you both understand. He can’t hide it anymore. You don’t notice how blunt your words are but your brain is processing too many things to focus on your conversational skills.

“Can you...leave me alone?” his voice is low and the words are slow. He is almost pleading.

“I can’t. You’re about to do some serious shit right now.”

“I’m not. Go away.” He asks again and you can feel how annoyed he is now.

“Look, I don’t know what happened, but I doubt you should be thinking about this.” He laughs at you and you regret trying to be such a smart-ass.

“How would you know? Just go, please.” He is irritated now, but you can’t let him do that. His smell works like a spell on you.

“I just do. Stop this. I’m not going anywhere until you go back to a safe place.”

“There is no such place. We don’t even know each other.” He is now looking at you with a bored expression.

“You must have a place to stay.”

He sighs loudly and turns to you, looking exhausted “I don’t, I’m homeless. What are you going to do about it?”

“Then come to my place.” You shrug and he makes a face. There is no way you just asked him to come to your place, right?

“You must be crazy.” He breathes but you shake your head. You can’t let this smell go to waste. Not when you don’t know what it is.

Your mind is screaming.

“I’m perfectly fine. If you’re going to do something stupid, I’ll call for help. If you don’t, then come to my place. I have enough room for two anyways.” You are really crazy.

“You’re a stranger. I might be some psycho running out there.”

“You’re none of that. Don’t try to make me back off.” He doesn’t smell like trouble. He smells like safety.

And he is crazier than you, because he agrees. His backpack is firmly hanging on his shoulder when he turns to face you once again.

“You’re not going to let me be.” Jungkook knows that at some point, he won’t get out of this. Now that you discovered what he is about to do, he won’t be in peace until you make sure he is safe, which is totally crazy. Serves him right for not even being good enough to leave peacefully.

“You...agreed?”

“What, you changed your mind? Good, then I can-”

“No! it’s fine! I thought I was being too crazy, that’s all.”

Jungkook nods. “This is crazy, but it can’t get any worse now.”

So you walk in front of him and toward your place. It is hard to think or talk with the smell right behind you, but you keep the game strong and walk proudly, like you just did something great. And you did, you’re bringing him home, when he was about to throw himself off the bridge. You don’t dare ask for more right now, because he might run away.

You open the door and Jungkook stops as soon as he enters the place.

It’s huge.

“There is a guest room but It’s full of my stuff. I’ll take it off tomorrow.” You say, taking off your coat.

“So I’m living here now?” Jungkook scoffs, hoping he is being sarcastic enough to make you give up on him.

“Why not? If you’re homeless, you can stay. I’ll note the door’s passcode on a piece of paper for you. Also, here is the-”

“Wait, I’m not going to live with you.”

“So where are you going to live? On this bridge?”

“I still have a flat until the end of the month, I lied. I thought you were crazy so I said whatever came to my mind.” He confesses, almost feeling guilty.

You’re not mad, not at all. Because now your flat is full of his smell, and it makes your brain work again. You want to know what it is.

“Oh then you’ll be homeless by the end of the month. If you’re uncomfortable, you can pay for your room. I don’t mind.” You shrug and his mouth is wide opened now.

You are really insane. Really.

“This situation is beyond weird. I don’t even know you.”

“And I don’t know you either, but you didn’t slaughter me yet so I guess we’re cool.” You’re being a bit too familiar but he doesn’t notice it, and simply walks deeper into your living-room.

Jungkook doesn’t know what is happening, but in a way, it’s not worse than his current situation. He wouldn’t be homeless; he would never be homeless but he prefers this rather than going back to the family house and admitting he failed. His best-friend is going to lecture him about how the music industry is full of drug addicts, and his parents, oh his parents.

His father would be too happy to prove his superiority.

His pride speaks for him “Okay, I agree. But I’m not staying for free.” He sits on the expensive couch and you know you’ve won this fight.

“Good. My name is Y/N. You are…?”

“Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” He lets his head fall on the fluffy material and closes his eyes. He is exhausted. He needs some sleep.

“Nice to meet you, Jeon Jungkook.” You speak like a robot, making him smile uncomfortably and mumble an answer. He doesn’t know why he is feeling so calm when he was about to do something horrible. Maybe he is going insane too. Maybe he has no idea what is going on in his life.

“You can wander the flat, I don’t mind. I’m seriously spent so I’ll head to bed. The guest-room is right there and the bedding is clean, I think...ah, the bathroom is at the end of this hall. Knock if you need something.” You escape now, the scent is filling the place and it makes your brain go wild. You don’t need this right now. Or maybe you do and you’re scared he will vanish if you push your luck any further.

“Good night. If you escape I’m going to fight you.” You try to warn him but he simply nods, smiling apologetically. He makes an okay sign and you don’t know why, but you believe him.

You forget about the probability of him being a scam, a thief, a killer or whoever could hurt you in your sleep. You just focus on the feeling, that one scent invading your olfactory bulb and exciting your axons.

You can’t sleep that night. Jungkook either.

He is thinking about a thousand things. He falls asleep at some point, body as exhausted as his brain. When he wakes up, he finds himself alone in the huge flat along with a sticky note, neat on the fridge.

Suit yourself, I’ll be back by 8 p.m.

Even in the middle of this movie-like situation, he can’t help but look around the rooms, staring at the paintings and furniture. The place is cuddly, calm and warm. He starts writing when he doesn’t find it in himself to question his life choices. The living-room is perfect for his plan and it doesn’t take long for him to fill numerous pages.

Inspiration is creeping and he can’t let it go.

___

*Organ : Refers to a unit of stepped shelving containing hundreds of bottles of raw materials. Arrangement is in a way to assist the perfumer in the creation and compounding of perfume compositions.

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onisiondrama · 3 years

Text

Onision on Kermit and Friends - March 21, 2021

(This video only has 59 views on Youtube. This is probably the smallest audience I've seen for an Onision interview.)

Summary Part 1

The host seems to be a fan of Onision and the co-host says she saw the documentary so she is well aware of Onision, but the show is a safe space and they don't judge.

Host says her and Andy talked about The Banana Song all night.

Host really like that Onision said not to focus at negativity. Says he only focuses on positivity and he's an amazing guy.

The co-host jokes that they will "do the Onision thing" and shave Andy's head, make him film videos, then maybe he'll change his sex.

Andy can't figure out how to join the show.

James joins. It appears he is in his new house.

The host says he said "goodbye" 2 months ago. James says during one of his more dramatic moods. The host asks what inspired him to say goodbye to all of his fans? He says when you work at something for 12 years and it gets torn away from you, you want to take a break. Host asks why it was taken. James says he likes the question. He says the reason why people are losing content these days is cancel culture. Says people have share holders in the stock market and a risk of being canceled themselves and people attack everything they're associated with. He says recently David Dobrik was canceled and he was losing sponsorships because the company doesn't want to go down with them. The companies don't want to lose business when they see someone they sponsor is being boycotted. He says it's business smart, but morally disagreeable.

James says the Discovery+ documentary called for him to be removed from the internet.

Andy appears. Andy says it's a horrible situation for James to be in and tells him he will do fine. James says he fears for the host and Andy because they aren't taking the position of "Anti-Onision" and anyone who goes against them becomes the target of that community. Andy says he doesn't care and he's sticking up for Onision. James laughs and says Andy has his own extensive celebrity experience so he understands how things work in "the biz. "

The host says everyone is at risk of getting canceled and saying anything can get you canceled these days. She says she was pissed off when she watched the documentary because everyone had groupies who want to sleep with them. They come after him and want him, he ignored them, they kept coming, and now he's at fault? Says now he is canceled and Andy is already canceled. She asks who is not in danger of being canceled at this point?

James says people told him not to go on the stream because of Andy Dick. James laughs and says he was told he couldn't work with Andy. He says people hold serial killers and people who make people upset at the same level. He says they have no gauge for morality, it's all the same to them. Says when you cancel someone for being a law abiding citizen who does things by the book and ignore someone who isn't famous and does horrible things, it shows your priorities. He says it's not about right and wrong, it's about who will bring more attention to me and make me look better.

The host asks James to show her one guy who would decline an offer from a hot fan to meet up. Andy points to himself as she's saying this. James says he thinks there is a significant misunderstanding to what she thinks he went through. He says there were no groupies or hot fans.

He says 10 years ago he dates a Canadian pop star, but he uses the term pop star loosely because she never got that huge. Says she had one music video that got over 1 million views. He says she dove into his life, contacted him early December 2010. He points out they showed this in the documentary. He says he responded to her something inspirational because she was talking about how she was on the edge of suicide and he wanted to help her. He wanted to be the person he represented in his videos, someone who does suicide awareness, etc. He says full disclosure, he straight up left his spouse for this person. The host asks if this was Skye, his high school sweetheart. James says not exactly. He says he broke up with Skye when they were 18 and 19 or 19 and 19 because he told her he couldn't make her happy. He joined the air force and she would write him letters.

Drunken Peasants comment "Cry is Kai-ing now." is features. James says "nice" and laughs.

He says he saw there were a lot of military benefits to getting married. Skye was his best friend and he thought it would be great to get benefits and bring her wherever he went. Says he married his best friend, then he fell madly in love with Shiloh. Six months prior he threated divorce because she said because they were married, half of his stuff was hers. He says that wasn't the agreement because he asked for a prenup. He told her if she was in this marriage for half of his things, let's get divorced now. He says she said never mind and if they get divorced she wouldn't try to take his stuff.

James says when Shiloh came along he realized what a real relationship was supposed to be like. He says he could talk for 10 hours about this because it's such a thorough and rich story. Andy says you could talk for years about what it's like going after a girl. James laughs and says, "a little sexist there?"

Andy and the host talks about their relationship. The host says other men she's dated didn't like commitment and never proposed to her. The host says James likes commitment. James says he proposed to 4 people in his life. Andy asks if anyone said yes? James says all 4 said yes. Andy asks then why isn't he married to them? James says he's been married 9 years. Andy asks to all 4 of them?

James says he only knew Adrienne from Texas 2 weeks and he proposed to her.

The host says she's been talking to Andy about James all week, but Andy forgets. Andy says he knows, but he won't bring it up. James says he's willing to talk about almost anything. Andy says he loves this kid and the host says she knew he would. She says he has so many amazing videos and she wants Andy to collab with him. James says before he went on, he was joking if Andy was like "you're a POS" and screamed at him, he'd still be a fan. He says Andy is top 5 comedians. James says Andy's still a comedian because he's made millions laugh. Says Andy took social norm and threw it into a woodchipper and does whatever he wants. He says he never saw a comedian with no limits, other than Sacha Baron Cohen. He says some comedians pretend they have no limits, but censor themselves later on. Says Andy seems to be on the same path, which is amazing. Andy thanks him.

Andy starts to get upset with them comments on the live. James asks if there's comments and takes a look. He says "this is great" and announced he will give them a crash course on the internet. He says there is an algorithm that promotes whatever you want to believe, like if you're a conspiracy theorist that believe in aliens. You keep seeing videos about it and it's an endless cycle of telling you you're right. James says Andy would probably laugh at this concept, but they took countless clips from comedy sketches and framed them as if they were from real life. He says there's one clip where he says mean things to someone, but they don't address he's dressed as the Joker and they're dressed as Harley Quinn.

He says he did countless pranks where people thought they were real. He says he did meltdown video series, which was one of his favorite video series ever. He says he rubbed poop on himself, lived in a box, etc. He says people ate it up and believed it was real even though he left hints in the videos that it was fake because they wanted to believe their pre-existing narrative that he was a nut case. He says it was entertaining until someone showed up to his house, then he stopped doing it. They drank the kool aid to the extent that they brought it to real life. (He's talking about Chris Hansen.) The host asks if it's scary to have people show up. He says it is when you have small children. He says when people show up to your house you think these people need mental help because they don't understand this is fiction. The host asks if this is the main reason he said goodbye? He says it was more an assortment of emotions. The host says he's an emotional guy. James says it depends, he could be. He says he's chill until you put someone he loves in danger. He says on camera he is "whatever I wish to be" because being a character is fun.

The host says she saw him go crazy in a few videos and wondered if he was bi-polar or had depression. He laughs and she says that's something she suffers from, so that's why she asking. He asks, you're bi-polar? She says yes. James says he is not. She asks if he has depression or anxiety. He says he has major depressive disorder and he was diagnosed last year so existential crisis happen often with him. Andy says "boo-mother-fucking-hoo." James laughs and says that's the father figure he needed growing up.

The hosts says she knows his parents divorced when he was 2. She asks if that affected him. He says "probably." She asks if it affected his relationships because he seems to have volatile relationships. She says she's in one currently. Andy asks what does she mean? She says sometimes Andy calls her a cunt. James laughs and says "yeah." James asks if it's a comedian thing to call people cunts? She says it didn't sound very comical. James says he wouldn't take it personally because what matters is if they stand by you, don't hurt you physically, that they give you love, and they don't say anything out of pure hate.

Andy shows a pill to the camera and takes it. The host asks what it was and Andy says muscle relaxer. James looks a little shocked, but mostly amused.

They have fans on to ask James questions. The first one asks if he really chained a girl in his basement. James says that's another thing the conspiracy mill musters up and no one was chained in his basement. The fans says he doesn't get why they would demonetize him because his channels were dead and he wasn't making any money. James says he was actually making money, he was solidly making a living and it was taken away.

The fans asks about the 14 year old James and Kai groomed, he says he's not saying it's true but he was wondering. James says it's not true and that person ( Sarah ) swore on their grandmother's life it wasn't true. He says if you to to Onision.com/IRL it has videos footage and texts of them saying they were not. The fans asks if James thinks he could sue YouTube for suspending him for offline behavior. James says it's hard to find a lawyer that would not mind being bombarded by negative reviews. He says cancel culture affects people with actual jobs too.

The host talks about how she and Andy are trying to find Andy a new place to live. She jokingly says with Onision. James says he's not in an entertainment-friendly place to live. The host asks what he means. He says LA is more relevant. The host asks why he doesn't live somewhere like LA. James says he's more of a rain and clouds person. The host says she always thought he would make a great actor. He says going to LA feels like his eye are being melted.

Another fan comes on. She says she grew up watching Onision and used to be a Patreon of his on and off for a couple of years, but she's more indifferent now. She says she already knows both sides of everything, but she thinks it''s a lot of it is bull crap. She says as someone with a similar mental disorder as said person- she understand why they would flip like that, but it's extremely shitty. James says he wasn't the person who went through all of the horrible things. Yes, he was demonetized and lost a means to make a living off other platforms, but the person they betrayed was the person he's married to. Kai didn't insult or engage, or do anything bad to anyone ever. The fact that their life got ripped apart makes him feel bad that he ever spoke to them. They have a family so it's hard to regret that. He says that's the only person anyone should feel bad for. He kicked someone out of his life, then he made passive aggressive videos about dating people and it leading to the same result. That person took it personally and lashed out. He triggered them and they attacked. Kai did nothing wrong.

They get into a bit(?) about Andy cheating on the host and her exposing him with a video. James just kind of sits there and watches.

The host asks if James is in a committed relationship with his wife. James says Kai is transgender and identifies as a guy. He says he heard the person earlier that implied he changes people's scientific genders. He says he was confused by that. The host just says "yeah" and there's a bit of a pause. James says they are in a committed relationship. She says he used to bring in other people. He says he is committed, but sometimes they were not exclusive. She asks if he has threesomes and orgies. He says not orgies.

They bring in another guest. She says she is new to him, but is familiar with cancel culture. She says it has to have been hard for him and his family. She asks what advice she has for people dealing with this. He says to not engage with anyone. He says people would do things that were illegal and a danger to his family so he kicked them out of his life. He completely isolate himself from them and they would try to hurt him. He says when you are in the public eye and you have a falling out with someone they can destroy you by spreading rumors. He says the Youtuber Anthony Padilla was terrified of getting into a relationship because he didn't want it to go south and his life to be destroyed. He says if you get in a relationship with someone, don't get out of it.

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schmergo · 4 years

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I've noticed a trend online where, when somebody talks about a loved one who's experiencing mental illness-- or when somebody makes a post that reflects symptoms of mental illness-- people will flippantly reply variations on, "Get help" or "They need therapy" or "Please take your meds" or even, "You need to cut this person off until they start taking care of their mental health."

Like, on one hand, I'm glad that the concept of mental health care is less stigmatized these days than it was several years ago, and on the surface, what they're saying is good. But there is an implication there that 'getting help' will mean a solution to the problem, that taking medication or seeing a therapist will mean no more troubling or annoying symptoms. It almost sounds like a way to... try to get people to shut up and stop talking about their feelings, or a way to make 'I don't want to see someone experiencing mental illness' sound progressive.

I don't want to get into how expensive and inaccessible mental health care can sometimes be-- that's a well-known fact-- but the truth is that someone who is receiving care for a mental illness... still has a mental illness. And they may still have bad days. 'Just get therapy' doesn't mean someone will no longer experience depression, anxiety, OCD, a personality disorder, Bipolar disorder, eating disorder, you name it. They may learn to understand themselves better, have an outlet for their feelings, and learn new coping mechanisms, but it can still be pretty darn hard for people to live with a mental illness. Medication doesn't always make someone with mental illness indistinguishable from someone without. It's not like an antibiotic where you take it for 10 days and you're back to 'normal.' It also comes with challenges and downsides of its own. And it can be difficult to take the initiative to begin treatment when you're feeling super depressed.

Someone whose behavior may seem unusual or upsetting... may already be in therapy. They may already be on medication. They may already be taking care of their mental health as best they can, but they may still need an extra listening ear or a little bit of patience and understanding. They may not react or respond to situations the same way that you do. The idea of 'get some help so you stop acting like that' can give off a whiff of the 'out of sight, out of mind' attitude toward mental health challenges, or push the 'you're not trying hard enough' myth, that all you need to beat mental illness is to try harder.

The reason I'm making this post is because someone in one of my meme groups was talking about how much he hates people whining about their depression and how they need 'professional help.' This is a really, really challenging time in the world, and some people are not doing their best even if they're trying their best. We could all do with a little compassion right now, because you never know what someone else is going through.

When reading the post, I thought about some of the sad stories we've seen in the news in the past few years about beloved celebrities who have died by suicide. These public figures could DEFINITELY afford treatment. They probably had received treatment. For example, Kate Spade's husband said that she had been actively seeking help, attending therapy and taking medication for 5 years before her death. Mental health diagnoses can often be a lifelong battle. And not everyone feels up to giving 110% every day.

Our current world still doesn't have advanced enough medical science to come up with foolproof treatments for all mental illness. It feels easy to recommend therapy and medication, and a lot of people could use more mental health help, but please try not to assume that someone isn't already doing that. Right now, even many people who had figured out a great system that works for them could use a little extra help from friends and family.

#mental health #mental illness #cw: suicide #cw: mental illness #suicide cw #mental illness cw

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duchessofostergotlands · 3 years

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Hi, jess! A couple of months ago I sent you an ask about a reality tv show (the farm) and a participant who has bpd (she didn’t win the 1 million price, btw - but she was so happy when she found out that a good portion of the public supported her, specially women ❤️ she’s famous because of only fans and most of her followers on social media, before her participation on the show, were men. So she said she was happy to see so many women supporting and following her now). Anyway while watching the show, I realized many of her behaviors were so similar to mine. Then my mom and sister, who live with me, told me they noticed that too. I decided to ask my psychiatrist and psychologist (I’ve been dealing with depression for the past 10 years), but both didn’t give it much credit. At the time I agreed with them - they said I probably don’t have bpd because the behaviors I was describing only happens when I’m home, with people I trust. I’m very “controlled” when I’m with other people, including my dad (who hasn’t lived with me since I was a kid). The point is, I’m ALWAYS making a huge effort trying to control myself in public - it’s exhausting and I believe it’s one of the reasons I tend to isolate myself. I think I’ve actually learned to camouflage my feelings and to avoid things that trigger me. I used to be more “uncontrolled” as a kid, before I created this deep rooted fear that people’d leave me because of these behaviors and reactions. Do you think it’s possible to camouflage some of bpd’s symptoms? And, if so, do you have any tips on how I could talk to my psychiatrist and psychologist about it? —— I didn’t want to make this ask any longer than it already is, but one of my childhood friends was recently diagnosed with autism. We don’t talk much nowadays, but she messaged me last month to tell me about her diagnosis and to ask if I felt I had some of the same treats - thinking retrospectively, we were very alike. It made a lot of sense and I remembered you said sth about bpd and autism sharing some similarities in some aspects of how the brain works. She also told me about recent studies showing the underreported diagnosis in women. My psychiatrist and psychologist also dismissed it, because I don’t avoid eye contact and have friends. I’m really confused right now, but it’s also kinda relieving to get to know myself a bit more and to think that the struggle I’ve felt my whole life is real. (Sorry for the long text!)

Hey :) Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. Just like to be able to dedicate a bit of time to longer messages like this and I rarely have the attention span for it! But of course I remember the conversation, it was really interesting to hear about what the contestant went through.

So yes, BPD and autism are often misdiagnosed as each other as there are similar traits that are often found. Usually around attractions to patterns and structure and also around empathy. Like I don’t generally feel empathy for people in the same way most people do. I’d say unless you’re a close friend or family member - or maybe if you’re a child - I probably wouldn’t feel empathy towards you. I generally make decisions about moral standpoints and such based on what logically makes sense to me rather than any kind of emotional connection because I just don’t really feel that. I think the reasons autistic people may sometimes struggle with empathy are different but to an external person would seem very similar so can often be confused.

To address your two points that made you unsure about the diagnoses, BPD is definitely highly interpersonal so it can change drastically depending on who you’re with. I can be friends with someone for quite a while and they have no idea but if I’m in a romantic or physical relationship with someone they’ll know within a few days. Romantic relationships are my personal trigger so they’re where I struggle the most. Then in terms of autism, lack of eye contact doesn’t really mean anything. I think that’s a common misconception people have but two of my cousins are autistic and they were both very outgoing and friendly, they were incredibly tactile, I didn’t notice them not looking me in the eye but I probably don’t look people in the eye much because that feels weird haha. Women in particular are not well studied when it comes to autism as you kind of mentioned. They are generally better at “masking” and so are often misdiagnosed or their condition isn’t picked up until well into adulthood. So even if you have friends and can look people in the eye it wouldn’t necessarily mean you wouldn’t fit the criteria.

I wouldn’t want to diagnose you with anything myself as I’m not a professional and I don’t know you personally. The DSM outlines the criteria for being diagnosed with BPD. You have to demonstrate at least five of the following and as with all mental illnesses they have to cause a significant impact on your ability to carry out your responsibilities and go through daily life:

Chronic feelings of emptiness

Emotional instability in reaction to day-to-day events (e.g., intense episodic sadness, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days)

Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment

Identity disturbance with markedly or persistently unstable self-image or sense of self

Impulsive behavior in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating)

Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights)

Pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by extremes between idealization and devaluation (also known as "splitting")

Recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-harming behavior

Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms.

Those are the criteria that would most likely be used to assess you. In the UK we can be diagnosed with depression and anxiety by a GP but have to go to a psychiatrist or psychologist to get a PD diagnosis. It sounds like you’ve already been in contact with them. I’m not too sure how it works where you are. Can you get a second opinion? Are there other doctors you could make an appointment with? Could you go private? I’m very aware of the fact that having the NHS in the UK means that my experiences are not applicable to everyone’s circumstances but for me when I first went to get help I was given meds and a depression and anxiety diagnosis and sent on my way. When that didn’t help I went back and got a higher dosage. And then it still didn’t help and finally I was kind of at rock bottom (or I thought so at the time) and needed help and so what I did on that occasion was have a friend accompany me into the room. They had created a list of things they’d seen me do or heard about me doing that were concerning to them and gave them to the doctor, and they kind of backed me up and gave me moral support. It shouldn’t have taken someone else being in the room for me to be taken seriously but having someone there who could express what I might have been too shy or self conscious to say was really helpful. In the end I got referred for treatment and it wasn’t right for me ultimately as my problems were more complex but it helped for a bit. I don’t know if there’s anyone in your life you trust to be able to be there to support you but I think it can be really intimidating to push back with doctors and professionals and having someone there who knows you and cares about you can be the thing that gives you that extra bit of courage you need.

I’m not sure how helpful that is but I’m available if you want to ask me any questions about BPD or any explanations of how I experience the symptoms or anything like that :)

#ask #anon #non royal #mental health #mental illness #actually bpd #actually borderline #bpd #borderline personality disorder

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marshmallowprotection · 3 years

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Inspired by the character Margarita Blankenheim from Evillious Chronicles (Link to Margarita’s Evillious Chronicles wiki page: https://theevilliouschronicles.fandom.com/wiki/Margarita_Blankenheim ) and the song “Gift From the Princess Who Brought Sleep” (Link to the fanmade PV & cover by Mariogagabriel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mo8IHawkHpI ), all by Mothy.

Trigger warnings for self-harm mentions, suicide mentions, and a bat shit crazy psychopathic girl who is the topic of this character description.

Well, I’ve made way more disgusting & hateable characters for my world...I mean, I made a character whose disgusting fetish list is long and as said, disgusting and disturbing. Ah, the smell of my world and its blurry border between NSFW and SFW…

(I think the only reason it's not NSFW is cus there are no explicit scenes of you know what ._.)

“If you truly love me, you wouldn’t have hurt me back then. I’m just returning the favor, you know! Every Black Rose has thorns...but mine are simply sharper, Mama, Papa. Now,

TO HELL WITH YOU SCUM!”

-Laila, 1691 T.C. At Age 15

Name: Laila Kerrin Rouziame (Pronounced Lie-la Care-in Ro-zee-ah-meh in case anyone has trouble pronouncing it)

Name Meaning: Laila is an Arabic name meaning “Night Beauty”. Kerrin is an Irish name meaning “Black”. I derived her last name from “Rouzia”, an English name which is a variation of the name “Rose”. All together her name literally means “Night Beauty Black Rose”.

Aliases (If Any): Black Rose (Code Name/Serial Killer Name)

Age: 19 (On Death)

Date of Birth/Birthday: Day 14 of Xomura’s Star, 1676 T.C. (Equivalent of February 14th)

Zodiac: Aquarius

Status: Deceased (Died 1695 T.C.)

Species: Elf

Magic: Unknown (Used A Variety of Different Spells, The Magic She Inherited/Specialized In Is Unknown)

Height: 5’4 Feet (162 Centimeters)

Ethnicity: Vesperian

Relatives: Duke Rouziame (Father)✝

Duchess Rouziame (Mother)✝

Rowen von Hallow (Husband)✝

Veila Miranda Rouziame (Daughter)✝

Various Descendants

Birth Place: Merdanburg, Rouziame Territory, Vesper Empire

Nationality/Current Residence: Merdanburg, Rouziame Territory, Vesper Empire

Religion (Which Goddess Do They Worship?): Kaya (Claims)

None

Occupation: Duchess of House Rouziame

The Infamous Serial Killer “Black Rose”

Founder of The Criminal Organization “Midnight Rosaria”

Affiliations: Midnight Rosaria

House Rouziame

Vesper Empire

Personality: Self-Destructive, Just Plain Old Crazy, Psychopathic, Masochistic, Sadistic, Comes Off As “Sweet” And “Kind”, But Eerily “Sweet” and “Kind”, Like You Can Just Feel Something Is Off, But She’s A Master Manipulator, So You Wouldn’t Realize Till She Stabs You Senseless

Marital Status: Married (Formerly)

Widow [By Choice]

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Likes: Roses, Pain (No Seriously, I Put Her As Masochist In Her Personality Thing For A Reason), Flowers

Dislikes: People Pitying Her, People Treating Her As if She Were A Sweet Innocent Thing To Be Protected From The Cruel World, The Abuse Her Parents Did To Her, The Scent of Smoke, Smoke In General

Role: Background Character

Potential Post-Ever Changing Fate 1 Side Story Main Character (Undecided Though)

Debut: Undecided

Random Facts:

Laila is a genuine actual psychopath. She’s not meant to be a character you can justify at all or chalk up her trauma to be the source of her evil or that she could have been good in an alternate timeline if she did not go through her trauma. She was, really, seriously, born with a lack of empathy for people and violent tendencies. However, her parents’ abuse towards her is what pushed her over the edge. But she would likely have still gone down the route she goes down in her canon, becoming a murderer, as she is likely a character who displays the worst symptoms and tendencies of someone who is a psychopath.

Also before anyone claims she’s a sociopath- she is not, because she was like this from birth. Sociopaths are made- psychopaths are born. Big difference.

She was not born a masochist, however, she slowly morphed into one as the years went on and she searched for relief from the pain her parents caused her, and in a sick way the pain she caused to herself seemed to feel euphoric, and she’s not sure why. It may be due to her suicidal tendencies and contemplation of suicide, or maybe something else.

Laila is not meant to be an accurate representation of most mentally ill people- she’s one of the most extreme cases. And she’s also an actual psychopath, who are unable to be helped at all because their lack of empathy is not like depression or something where they can recover- it’s something physically wrong with her brain; for lack of a better word, she’s broken. And there’s nothing anyone could do to help her. Unfortunately, before anyone realized she was a severe, genuine danger to everyone around her and herself, she had already killed many people and eventually herself.

Laila also has severe depression (which is the main cause of her suicidal tendencies later on and masochistic tendencies) and severe PTSD towards the scent of smoke due to her father’s smoking habits. That’s also why she didn’t just burn all of Merdanburg like many people in Midnight Rosaria wanted her to- her fear of the smoke scent and just smoke, in general, made her unable.

Her exact kill count is 400. 399 if you disinclude herself.

Her masochistic tendencies are not sexual in nature before anyone asks.

Backstory: Laila Kerrin Rouziame was born the only child of Duke and Duchess Rouziame in the capital of Rouziame Territory (A Territory In My World Is A Province, Sort Of), Merdanburg on Day 14 of Xomura’s Star, 1676 T.C. Since birth, Laila had been harshly disciplined by her parents and taught what she should and should not do, in order to morph her into the perfect heiress, it didn’t help that the Vesper Empire was collapsing at the seams and that House Vesper, the ruling house of the empire, had disintegrated due to its main branch ending up at a dead-end when the last empress, Elisabet, died without an heir back in 1566 (110 years ago), and the nobility were all scrambling to become the new ruling house, and as one of the most powerful noble houses, Laila’s parents wanted to be the ones to become the new emperor and empress. And so, Laila was trained in how to be the best leader she could be, and harsh punishment in the form of physical and verbal abuse was executed to her if she did not comply, which she did a lot. Laila had...many violent tendencies, she often for example stabbed her stuffed animals with pencils or pens, or tearing them apart by hand, and sometimes even harming herself. All of this caused her only to be punished more, and many people started to refer to her as a demon child due to her tendencies of violence, and she even once attempted to stab the third son of the current Marquis Mariah at the time. Her lack of conscience and sense of right and wrong made everyone fear that maybe Laila was “possessed” or “cursed”. As Laila grew her tendencies only heightened, but, she learned an important skill from her older cousin, Lettisa (she was also a fellow psychopath), when she was 10- deception.

Laila learned how to pretend to be normal.

And so the random bursts of violence stopped. She put on a mask of perfectness- making herself out to be kind and benevolent when in reality she felt nothing but sick happiness at the thought of the pain she could cause. In private she harmed herself yet again but did so in places where she could easily hide the scars and wounds.

When Laila was 13 the abuse from her parents continued to worsen, and her cousin Lettisa started talking to her about the idea of killing them, confessing that she herself killed her parents because they abused her too. Laila for the next 2 years would seriously consider it because she was tired of the abuse, in her words "They don't accept me for who I am, wanting me to pretend to be someone I am not. If they were gone...maybe...I could be free."

Laila would go through with her meticulously planned for two whole years murder plot against her parents when she was 15, murdering them in an excruciating, painful way which shall not be said because it's way too gory and disturbing.

After that Laila inherited everything from her parents, the estate, the title, the money, everything. Her cousin, Lettisa, chose to move out of her aunt's house to come live with Laila. And there began their creation of an organization, a criminal one, which they planned to name: "Midnight Rosaria".

Laila would be the face of the organization, and Lettisa handled many nitty-gritty details.

Laila's mental health continued to decline in terms of her sanity, and she began desiring to feel the euphoria which bringing pain to others had always brought her. And so, she became a serial killer, not targeting anyone in particular besides people who were friends of her parents, who were rewarded for their bystanding status of just watching Laila get abused by her parents with a painful death.

With the creation of Midnight Rosaria, killings across all of Merdanburg heightened along with the crime rate, Lettisa going around and recruiting people to the organization. Everyone was there for different reasons and different goals, but they all benefited from one thing: the fact that they would help each other. Everyone in the organization usually behind only one member's murder plot or crime. It was very meticulously planned, everything was perfected to the highest degree of perfection. And let me tell you, Laila was not dumb- in fact, she was a genius of her time, likely one of the most brilliant criminals ever. She was just... absolutely insane.

Before Laila even turned 18, she was approached by a suitor named Rowen von Hallow, who claimed to have fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her. She originally rejected him, but Lettisa said that marrying him would greatly increase her power due to him being descended from Alia Hallow, who was a famous hero. So, Laila agreed to marry him. She gave birth to a daughter a year later.

For the next 4 years of her life (counting from when she was 15), Laila murdered over 300 people, using various magic spells and masking her true nature to enact her plots. With all of Midnight Rosaria helping her, at that point, there was nothing anyone could do to stop her, not when she had so much power and influence as Duchess Rouziame and the leader of Midnight Rosaria.

Merdanburg became a ghost town.

Laila's mental health had become extremely unstable. She even murdered her husband during a violent fit and didn't even care afterward.

And so Laila believed the last thing to do was to kill herself.

Everyone urged her not to, including Lettisa, but Laila stated that it was for the best, considering that was what she had wanted her entire life- the ultimate pain- the sweet release of death.

And so she did.

Laila has gone down in history as one of the most brilliant minds to have ever lived, as she did excel in school, but used her brilliance for the wrong reasons. She became known as the "Black Rose" due to her leaving a black rose wherever she made the worst wound on her victims. She's become infamous in history and due to being the creator of Midnight Rosaria along with Lettisa, she influenced the future of crime for centuries.

Lettisa ended up being the new guardian of Laila's daughter Veila, and unfortunately, Veila inherited her mother's psychopathy, becoming an infamous murderer as well.

This is my first time writing a character who was born just purely crazy, did I mess up anything? Idk myself if I did a good job or what. ;-;

She's likely going to be improved in the future as I find out more about psychopathy, but this is her for now. :/

— Submision

Well, I do think it’s important not to call people “crazy”. Doing things of that nature can harm anyone with mental illness. Mental illness are not excuses for your actions. There’s definitely people in this world that are cruel but they are simply cruel for their own reasons, they weren’t being forced into doing anything, they choose to do what they do. Framing certain illness in a bad light makes for a bad stigma for people who experience pyschosis, hallucinations, and more. It isn’t “scary” to be “different.”

But, it is a shame that people hurt others for things out of their control, like what they struggle with mentally or physically. Genetics can put you at risk for certain things, like anxiety, but that doesn’t mean that would make you your parent, or what they struggled with. Now, you could be disillusioned with reality and she could possibly have been taught things as a child that helped shape her view of others, and that’s how the daughter lashes out at others, but I wouldn’t say that she “got it from her mother” as in, mental illness.

It’s just important to be careful about how you write characters like that because there is so much bad media out there that does more harm then good. Even if she’s one of the extreme cases that is an outlier, it’s important to be wary of what it can do to other people.

I do find the concept rather interesting, though. It has potential if you continue to work on it and remedy things that may hurt others.

#tw self harm #tw suicide ment #ask #oc #mod kait #littleghostlyrose #submission

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until-i-devour-you · 3 years

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MY TAKE ON MARILYNMANSON AND THE ACCUSATIONS AGAINST HIM

⚠️⚠️⚠️ TW: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, abuse. ⚠️⚠️⚠️

It's difficult for me to write this.

Whoever knows me, is well aware about my love for Brian Warner, aka Marilyn Manson.

I owe him my Life.

Before meeting my current friends, I cutted myself every single day, and when I did only that I considered it a "good day". On bad days, I used to starve myself, to sleep without blankets even if my room was freezing cold, I often thought about suicide. My cat Pulce saved me too, but I also remember all the times that I didn't kill myself because "if I do it, I'll never be able to listen to Brian's music again". I'm not good with expressing my emotions, and I used his songs to explain them to my therapist, years ago, because she was a fan too. His music and his interviews, some of the things he said, helped me handle my depression and he helped me to be proud of myself, to accept my transexuality and to be who I am now. A lot of my original characters and stories are inspired by him, or by some of his songs or even makeups. The way I want to dress or to do my makeup - but I'm still too insecure for those, rip - are influenced by him. With his songs and some of his speeches I often thought "hey, mood!" and finally I felt like I found someone who could understand me in an household where my parents often misunderstand or criticize me all the time. I always planned to get a tattoo quoting one of his songs after my top surgery - I'll get the surgery in years, at the moment I'm broke, rip - and the tatoo was going to say "the Wormboy gets his wings". When I can't sleep, only Brian's voice truly helps me to relax enough to rest.

There's a lot more, but heh, I think you get the point.

I love him so much and that's why I feel so bad about the accusations against him.

No, I'm not going to side with him. Surprisingly enough, I'm not going to defend him blindly.

At first, when I heard about what Evan Rachel Wood said about him, I was ready to defend him, I'm not going to lie about it. I even asked to myself why she didn't speak sooner but it took me like- 10 minutes to stop being a jerk and to remind myself that women find it difficult to speak against someone who's that famous without people attacking them, blaming them just because he's famous, it took me 10 minutes to stop being a coward because the idea of my "emotional support celebrity" being a piece of shit terrified me.

It still terrifies me and a part of me still wants to hope that this situation is not true.

Reading what his multiple victims say about him is heartbreaking and my heart goes out for them all.

I'm still waiting for a trial. At the moment, I packed all the things I have about him in a box, and only when I'll have proofs about who is in the right I'll decide what to do with those things. And okay, part of me still hopes he's innocent, okay, but I'm siding with Evan Rachel Wood and the other victims, because I hate who blames the victims just because they're women.

"What if they're lying?" my mom asked. Well, it that happens, I'll admit I was in the wrong and I'll return to listen to Brian's music. Until then, I'll keep an eye on the situation, I'll try to understand everything I can about it. I did the same thing with Johnny Depp: I sided with Amber Heard, I hoped a little he was innocent but still sided with the "victim" and when I had the proof that he was completely innocent, I supported him completely. Maybe it's not the best thing to do, but blaming someone who says they're the victim and say things like "they're doing it for attentions and money" feels and is extremely wrong, no matter how much I love the celebrity we're talking about.

"Oh, you could separate the art from the artist!" I know, I already do it with Harry Potter, for example, but in this case, I can't. Brian is so important in my Life that I can only take this situation like a personal one. My intrusive thoughts are already starting to say things like "if he really is an abusive monster, you are too because you're influenced by him too much to not be an abusive monster yourself" so...

That's my take on this situation. I can't cancel all the good things Brian did to me indirectly. I can't and I won't. But if it's necessary, I'll completely stop to support him, even if it'd be a difficult thing to do because of how much I love his art.

- Logan

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EDIT: after months of research, I now stand with Marilyn Manson. There are plenty of proofs that Evan Rachel Wood and her friends are lying.

#marilyn manson #evan rachel wood #brian hugh warner #abuse #suicidal thoughts #tw

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fallintosanity · 4 years

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One Ardyn to Rule Them All

I’ve been stuck for a while on writing the part of What Stays and What Fades that comes shortly after the last bit posted to Tumblr, and I realized a couple of days ago that this particular flavor of stuck-ness is familiar: it’s the stuck of trying to write a story in which Ardyn Izunia is involved.

This is something I struggled with quite a lot in The Basis of Reality, and for much the same reason: Ardyn is billed as the villain of FFXV, but he’s not. He’s tied up in the resolution of the canon story in a way that makes him impossible to ignore in any fic that deals remotely with the canon plot and the Cosmogony’s prophecy about Noct’s destiny, but he’s not the antagonist. Instead, he alternates between being a Trickster Mentor and a more-violent-than-usual MacGuffin.

To put it another way: Ardyn isn’t Sauron. He’s the One Ring.

(what the fuck that means under the cut)

To expand on the LOTR analogy, the Starscourge itself is Sauron (personified to a certain extent by Bahamut and the Crystal), while the Niflheim Empire is Saruman and his army. This isn’t to get drawn into any Dawn of the Future “true ending” arguments over whether Bahamut is actively evil, just doing the only thing he can, or simply indifferent either way. That’s not really the point. A character doesn’t have to be objectively “evil” or “bad” to be an antagonist - they only have to be the one providing the primary conflict, the one asking the question the narrative answers.

Let’s talk for a second about antagonists. The antagonist of a story is the thing that drives the plot, whether it’s a bad guy with a goal, a force of nature or society, or an internal opponent. A story is created by asking a question spurred by the antagonist, which is answered in the climax by the hero’s actions. For example: Will Darth Vader successfully wipe out the Rebellion by destroying its last hideout? Will the volcano’s eruption kill the intrepid scientist? Will the scrappy underdog team’s lack of training and confidence defeat their shot to win the championship? Will depression drive a teenager to suicide?

Basically, you can’t have a story without conflict, and the antagonist is what provides the conflict.

So now we’re back to FFXV and Ardyn. For the first twelve chapters of the game, the narrative question is, “Can Noctis reclaim the Crystal and defeat Niflheim to save his kingdom?” It has nothing to do with Ardyn, and indeed, Ardyn does not provide any meaningful conflict to Noctis, our hero. In fact, while he’s smarmy about it, he’s pretty helpful! The closest he gets to providing direct conflict is killing Lunafreya: a cruel thing to do, but at that point all it appears to do is raise the stakes for Noctis - stakes already placed by Niflheim. At least on the surface, Ardyn is simply continuing the Empire’s campaign to wipe out the Lucis Caelums and the Fleurets in its quest for world domination. After that, he’s offscreen for all of Chapter 10 except a brief cameo. Even his mischief on the train in Chapter 11, switching places with Prompto and tricking Noctis into throwing Prompto off the train, simply continues to raise the Empire’s stakes of world domination by killing Noctis and co.

It’s not until Chapter 13 that the narrative question is called into doubt. In fact, I would argue that one of the reasons Chapter 13 is so unsettling on first playthrough is for exactly that reason: the player understands that the original narrative question no longer applies, because the Emperor is dead and the Empire has been destroyed by its own daemons. But it’s not until the very last few minutes of the chapter, when Bahamut reveals Noctis’s true purpose, that the new narrative question arises. Therefore, it’s distressing at a meta level to the player because the player no longer understands what the goal is, mirroring Noctis’s own distress.

In those last few minutes of Chapter 13, Bahamut tells both Noctis and the player that, in effect, none of the conflict up until this point matters. The only real question is, can Noctis save the world by destroying Ardyn before the Starscourge wipes out humanity?

Sound familiar? The primary narrative question in The Lord of the Rings is, can Frodo save the world by destroying the One Ring before Sauron wipes out all the Free Races?

(As I’m writing this I’m realizing that there are a whole lot more parallels between FFXV and LOTR than I noticed before. I might have to do a separate meta on that.)

So we’re finally all the way back to my original point, which is that Ardyn isn’t Sauron, he’s the One Ring. Which means figuring out how to write him into a fic isn’t simply a matter of setting him directly opposed to Noctis & co, because that’s not what Ardyn does. It’s not what he wants, any more than the One Ring wants to stop Frodo from taking it to Mordor. Just as the One Ring frequently helps Frodo (albeit often at a cost) along his journey, so does Ardyn help Noctis. The One Ring also occasionally hinders Frodo in ways intended to support Sauron, just like Ardyn helps the Starscourge along by killing Lunafreya, but for the most part, neither the One Ring nor Ardyn have any reason not to help their respective heroes get them closer to their destructive goals.

The one wildcard in all of this is that while the One Ring is only sort of sentient and cannot significantly act on its own (outside of doing things like managing to slip onto fingers or fall out of pockets), Ardyn is both fully sentient and (mostly) autonomous. In other words, he has a will of his own and can act on it if he so chooses. The problem is that it’s never made clear in canon precisely what Ardyn does want.

We can infer some things based on his actions, but depending on whether you consider the various DLCs, and in particular Episode: Ardyn, to be 100% canon, many of those inferences run directly counter to one another. Ardyn wants the prophecy to succeed so he can finally die after two thousand years of torment. Ardyn wants the prophecy to fail so he can rule a world of daemons. Ardyn wants to be the Chosen King and wipe out his brother’s descendents. Ardyn only ever wanted to help people by healing them. Ardyn is a gleeful participant in setting up the ending of the Cosmogony to achieve any of the above goals. Ardyn doesn’t want to be a part of the Cosmogony at all but is forced to act out his role by the gods. Ardyn is a cunning mastermind puppeteering a grand plan. Ardyn is completely insane and doesn’t care about anything except sowing chaos and ruin.

On top of all that, if you count Ep:Ardyn as canon, we have Bahamut explicitly telling Ardyn he doesn’t get a choice. He’s only allowed to be a good little prophecy puppet, playing his part until he dies, and any attempt to deviate will be quashed with extreme prejudice. This adds yet another layer of potential motivation for Ardyn: regardless of his own personal feelings about the Lucis Caelum line in general and Noctis in particular, Ardyn may have sufficient motivation to flout the Cosmogony simply to defy the god who told him to play along.

This leaves us with a MacGuffin with a will of its own but no clear motivation or end goal, and a villain who, like Sauron, is too remote and uninvolved for the vast majority of the plot to be useful in driving direct conflict in a fic. (This is, incidentally, why Saruman, the Uruk-Hai, and the Ringwraiths exist in LOTR: they provide smaller narrative arcs of conflict along the journey to face Sauron himself. Niflheim and its various commanders - Aranea, Loqi, and Caligo - plus the miscellaneous daemons you face on the road, serve the same function in FFXV.)

None of this really helps get me unstuck, unfortunately, but it does help me understand the core of my problem: I’ve been trying to fit Ardyn into the role of Sauron when that’s not, narratively speaking, what he’s set up for. Which isn’t to say I can’t have him escalate from One Ring to Sauron, but if I’m going to do that, I need to find a motivation for him that pits him directly against Noctis and co. Because while he might be a MacGuffin in canon, that doesn’t mean he has to stay one in fics.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #meta #ardyn izunia #writing #sanity talks a lot

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waitimcomingtoo · 5 years

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In Case You Don’t Live Forever- Peter Parker x venom!Reader

Pairing: Peter Parker x Venom!Reader

Warnings: brief mentions of suicide, cancer, and drepression

AN: Hello! this is the first chapter and I hope you enjoy. Reader is essentially the female Eddie Brock. This takes place after the events of the Venom movie, but before Infinity War and Endgame.

Masterlist

Chapter One

Chapter two Chapter three

“Married?” I squeaked. My eyes grazed over the words on the card a hundred times without retaining any of the information. I momentarily forgot how to even read. I solely relied on the words coming out of Andy’s mouth.

“Yes, uh, married.” He awkwardly cleared his throat. “Dani and I are getting married over the summer.” Andy said. I was still staring at that damn card. The awkward silence filled the air, suffocating the three of us, but I didn’t care. I was holding my ex-fiancé’s wedding invitation in my hand for Christ’s sake.

“Married.” I repeated, like an idiot.

“You said that already, dumbass.” Venom chimed in, telepathically. I kicked the bench we were sitting on to quiet her down.

“Yes. Mare-weed.” He mimicked my New York accent just a little. I had trouble pronouncing my r’s. They often sounded like w’s. Andy never failed to point out how I sounded like a baby. I playfully elbowed him.

“Give me a break, it’s a lot to take in.” I said softly.

“I know. That’s why I wanted to tell you in person. I figured it would be better than you randomly getting the card in the mail and finding out that way.” Andy explained.

“Our hero.” Venom snarled. I pinched my leg to send her the message to be quiet.

“Yea. Yea no I’m glad you told me.” I said. My eyes finally processed something on the card.

“You’re getting married on August 10?” I asked, finally tearing my eyes away from that damn invitation and looking at him. He looked good. His curly brown hair was cut shorter than usual and he had on one of his signature suits.

“Bright and early. I chose that day because-“

“Because it’s your parents anniversary. I know.” I cut him off. I looked down and my hands. “We were gonna get married that day too.” I said timidly. I wasn’t gonna say it, but how could I not? He and I were engaged too once. I could feel Andy’s face heat up.

“Y/N, I totally forgot. I never would’ve, I mean, I didn’t erm I didn’t want-“ he stumbled over his words. I held up a hand to silence him.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We were engaged and now we’re not. Besides, I’m really happy for you and Dani. She really helped me get back in my feet when Venom and I first bonded. I like her. And if you want to marry her on that day, then go ahead.” I said, and I meant it. I did like Dani. I’d like her more if she wasnt dating the love of my life, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

“You’re lying. We want him back. He looks so juicy and delicious.” Venom said. I choked on my saliva for a moment. Andy was quick to pat my back.

“You alright?” He asked. I nodded and made a mental note to have a domestic conversation about boundaries with Venom when we got home.

“I’m fine. And anyways, I’ve uh, I’ve moved on.” I blurted, like a total freaking dumbass.

“What? No we haven’t?” Venom said

“You have?” Andy asked. He seemed taken aback.

“No! We love you!” Venom cried. I was just greatful she was only speaking in my head.

“Yep. I’m in a deeply committed and loving relationship.” I said. It wasn’t a total lie. I was technically in a relationship with Venom, though be it a host parasite kinda deal. And I did deeply love her. I avoided eye contact and began to tug on a curl.

“What’s he like?” Andy asked. He seemed pissed off all the sudden. I pretended not to notice his change in mood.

“She, actually. She’s great. She’s uh…tall. Super super tall.” I said. It was true. Venom was 7’6. Andy nodded so I continued.

“She’s black, like yourself, and she’s got this big, beautiful smile.” I could feel myself cringing internally.

“You think my smile is beautiful?” Venom said sheepishly. I rolled my eyes.

“And she just always has my back. She’s my ride or die, you know? If I didn’t have her, I’d be dead. Literally.” I finished. And I would. If Venom and I ever got separated, we would both die. Andy was looking off into the distance. He sucked his teeth before nodding again. All he ever did was nod.

“That’s nice.” He said. His tone didn’t sound like he thought it was nice.

“I’d literally die.” I repeated.

“I get it.” He deadpanned.

“Like, I’d freaking perish.” I said.

“Alright.” He held up his hands and I stopped. Venom giggled in my head. I giggled back quietly.

“So, do you think you can come?” He asked.

Of course I could come. What the hell else would I be doing? But I was just getting back on my feet. I was at rock bottom before I found Venom. Well, before we found each other. That was nearly a year ago. That night came back in flashes every now and then.

I stared at a string of pictures of Andy and I at a fair. We went in the photoboth and immortalized our love in a series of goofy pictures. At least, I thought we did. Each picture showed us how we once were. Happy, youthful, and in love. Kisses on cheeks and arms around necks that had been long forgotten. I stared at the pictures until tears filled my eyes. He left me six months ago and it hurt like a bitch everyday. I tore my eyes away from the photos and they landed on a framed picture of me and my sister, Mary. My beautiful sister. I picked up the picture and smiled at it fondly. We were wearing matching shirts that said “Mary the Monster”. I had suggested “Mighty Mary” but she liked monster better.

“Why would you call yourself a monster? Monsters are scary and evil.” I teased.

“Exactly. I’m gonna scare the cancer out of my body. And who says all monsters are evil? They’re not. In fact, all monsters are human. At least they used to me. And I’m human too.” She answered. I smiled at her admiringly.

“Are you sure? You look a bit more like an alien to me.” I said, rubbing her bald head.

“Who else can look this good bald? A monster, that’s who?” Mary beamed. “Now, are you sure you want to go through with this?” She asked, turning on the razor.

“Yes. If my sisters bald, I’m bald.” I looked at my self in the mirror and nodded fiercely. Her face lit up with pride and she began to shave my head.

That was three years ago. Two years ago, she lost her fight to cancer. She died when I was 16. She was only 21. Twenty freaking one. Just three months shy of her 22nd birthday.

I remember calling her after looking at our picture. I’d call her every now and then, when I needed to hear her voicemail.

“Hey Mary. It’s Y/N. I’m sure you’re busy kicking ass in heaven and that’s why you didn’t pick up. You know, you could always come back down here and kick ass. Heaven is way overrated. I hear you don’t even have cable. I’m uh, I’m in a tough place right now. I really miss you. Every damn day. It…it should’ve been me. Dad always said it and, and I think he was right” a steady flow of tears fell down my cheek. “Anyway. I might be seeing you real soon. I love you. Goodnight” I hung up and dialed my dad.

“Hm hello?” He grunted on the third ring. I might’ve woken him up.

“Hey dad. It’s me.” I said sheepishly. We didn’t really talk since I moved to San Francisco.

“Mary? Is that you?” He asked. He was drunk, no doubt. His words were slurred and he slow.

“No, dad. It’s your other daughter. It’s Y/N.” I said. “I just…I was wondering if I could come home. I know I moved out here to work and be with Andy, but Andy and I actually broke and I uh, I lost my job dad. I’m kinda at a low point and I just want to go home.” I confessed. I waited for his answer. All I heard was silence, then a low, gravely laugh.

“Home? You think this is home? Your sister dies and you leave me here all alone and think it’s home? You think I want you here after what you’ve done? After you killed your mother and let your sister die?” He asked. He wasn’t yelling. He was genuinely asking. It didn’t stop it from hurting though.

“I didn’t kill mom. Thousands of women die in childbirth every year. We’ve talked about this a hundred times. Please just…just let me come home dad. I really need to get out of here.” I said. Hot tears fell down my face. I didn’t want to go to him, but I had nowhere else to go.

“I don’t want you around here. I never wanted you, period. Your sister was my golden girl. Your mother and I were so happy to have her.” He sounded sober for a moment, thinking of those happy memories. “And then you came along. And you killed your mother. My wife. My beautiful wife, gone, just like that. Leaving me with a screaming, crying baby. No. You can’t come home. This isn’t your home. Don’t call again.” And he hung up. I knew I was at my lowest point. I knew that was it. I saw my bottle of anti-depressants out of the content of my eye. I went over to the bottle and toyed with it in my hands. I lost my job, relationship, and family. I lost everything. What was the point of living to see tomorrow when tomorrow had nothing for me? I poured the pills into my hand and swallowed them. I drank some water and went to bed.

And then I woke up.

I woke up the next day. It hadn’t worked. It only left me feeling emptier and more miserable than before. I picked up my phone and went to call Mary again when I saw Dr. Dora Skirth’s number. On a whim, I dialed it. That night, Venom and I met, and I had found a reason to live to tomorrow.

“Y/N?” Andy asked. I snapped out of it.

“Oh right sorry. Um…” I mulled it over. Losing Andy nearly killed me. I was happy for him, I really was. But I wasn’t ready to attend his wedding. That was gonna be us. We were gonna be married on August 10th. It should’ve been me picking out a dress and bouquet and cake with him. He and I should be handing out wedding invitations. He shouldn’t be giving one to me. Of course I wanted to be at his wedding. But I wanted to be the bride.

“Actually, I cant. The Daily Bugle called me and offered me a job in New York. They want me to cover a story on some serial killer. I was gonna move there part time until the story is done. I’m leaving in a few weeks.” I blurted. Actual word vomit. It was partly true. The Daily Bugle did want to to write the story. But I had no moving plans nor was I the type of organized person who could make moving plans in a few mere weeks.

“Oh really? Wow.” Andy said. I couldn’t read his emotion. Disappointment and excitement seemed to be the forerunners but I couldn’t tell.

“Yea. I just finalized everything this morning.” More lies. I better call them the hell back. Andy nodded. My heart felt a twinge of guilt.

“But hey, maybe I’ll finish early and make it back in time for your big day. I mean, it’s only April. I have lots of time. How many people could this guy possible kill until August?” I joked. Andy didn’t laugh. He never really got my sense of humor. He did smile however.

“That’s great Y/N. I really hope you can make it. And congratulations. On everything. The girlfriend, the job. Things are really turning around for you.” He said. We smiled sincerely at each other before saying our goodbyes and going our separate ways.

I entered my apartment and slid down the door.

“Holy shit. I’m such a liar.” I said. I covered my face with my hands. Venom manifested herself and looked at me.

“You’re not a liar if we move to New York and start dating.” She said. I laughed.

“You have a point. In that case, will you be my girlfriend, Miss Venom?” I asked sarcastically. Venom smiled.

“You’re not really my type, but I’m willing to settle.” Venom answered. I laughed again.

“Then let’s make moving plans, baby. We’re going to New York.”

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edenamador · 3 years

Text

100 Things about My Father

I forgot I was a poet. Skip down for the poem that came to me as clear as a crystal last night. Trigger warning - Suicide.

I mean I have an inclination toward having dreams at night,

thinking they have deeper meaning, and waking up with music in my head at 1:15am in the morning.

There is something about 1:15 in the morning which has a razor sharp precision to it. Even though I’m more of a disconnected abstraction. Some constellation of stars nobody has given meaning to. Dreaming about that straight crush in college twice in one night. All this after in real life, oh and he was a poet too, now in grad school, who knows if he is the happy academic he craved to be. Who knows if he is still writing poetry or writing technical sentences with so much jargon nobody can understand. . .

Its all rambly. I know it is annoying but that is how it comes to me. He asked me if I had followed the spirit and I told him I wrote the poem I was suppose to write. He was proud of me, like a dead ghost now, I loved him then but he is a stranger in a distant land now.

Yes, I was at Target, a place I worked so long ago and a previous co-worker said to me, “You look poetic, like you could be a poet.”

I didn’t know what to say but now I am dreaming of my poetic college muse and he is telling me to follow the spirit just as Beauvoir so now I’m on tumblr again because of that Target co-worker who said I should have a blog and get a following. An idea I laugh at because my poetry is well, I am poetic, I am not exactly a poet if I’m not writing poetry. So I guess I will share what came to me last night. At least a draft.

My mother always says, “You have choices to make.”

So when my boyfriend says, “You never talk about your father,” and then asks, “Why is that?”

I pause and my mother’s voice repeats, “You have choices to make.”

I could say a hundred things about the same thing. Like a simple fact about the color of a chair, “My father is dead.”

It sounds like, “The chair is red.”

1. My father died.

My boyfriend might ask how he passed away which means I have to say more. This leaves me with more choices but I haven’t even jumped the first hurdle. I don’t even run track but the baton has been given to me, “How did he die?” I could have anticipated the next question and already answered it more bluntly.

2. My father blew his brains out.

If I want to keep my boyfriend I should frame things particular to his way of life. That would be too precise and come off as indifferent like my father never mattered to me. He didn’t.

3. He died when I was four.

Again, if I put it this way he might ask, “How?” and I would get to say

4. He loaded a pistol. I think it was a .45 pistol or a glock, and took the weapon to rat lake where he blew his brains out.

If I present it with “when I was four” the cold way in which I say, “He blew his responsibilities away,” pops like a childhood bubble.

5. He’s pushing up daisies.

6. He’s seven feet under.

7. He croaked.

Before the gun fire went off out in the country where only the frogs and flora of the boreal northern forests would hear it the American toads reed. When the gunfire went off silence consumed the forest for a few minutes before returning to normal a few minutes later. A few hours later, with the loons calling, a friend of my father’s came across his body and reported it to the authorities.

8. My father was a mail carrier.

I could have said this as it would have delayed revealing the information about the death of my father, and how he died, the conversation about the long term effect it had on my psychology and the psychological impact on the rest of my family. Though, according to my mother everything turned out fine. Which is why as I approach 30 years old I am waking up in the middle of the night because I’m having dreams about people in graduate school programs saying, “He doesn’t even talk about his father! He talks about Black Lives Matter, Marxism, Gender Theory and all this crap, but he hasn’t even mentioned his father.”

9. My father is out of the picture.

10. I would rather not talk about my father.

11. I didn’t know much about my father.

12. I don’t remember much about my father.

13. My father left me with dry skin and a proclivity toward depression.

14. My mother was a single mother.

15. I guess I don’t talk about my father. Hugh, I wonder why that is.

I like this because I can act like I’m just as dumbfounded by it as my boyfriend is. Creative writer circles often told me I am not concrete enough. So I guess we were sitting at a park in Hutchinson Minnesota when my boyfriend at the time asked this question. A few years later when the relationship had faded and I asked to be dating again he told me, “Some gay men have issues.” While I cried about it and refused to speak to him ever again he was right. I was a gay man with issues, daddy issues to be exact.

16. My father had a beard.

17. My father was an alcoholic and when my mother said she had enough he couldn’t handle it and blew his brains out.

This one is the worst of them. It sounds like my mother caused my father to commit suicide. Nobody but my father took a gun to his head and blew his brains out.

18. My mother never remarried after my father was out of the picture.

Again, I could say this but it remains vague enough to lead to other questions any intimate partner would have the right to know. Or perhaps nobody has the right to know about my father and that I have the right not to talk about him to anyone. “Did they get a divorce?”

19. Do we have to talk about this. I’d rather not talk about this because I am not ready to reveal that story and its long term effects on me. Look, it’s a nice day and I’m happy talking about a million other things.

This might indicate I lack the trust necessary to share that story. He may take it personally and think that our relationship should be more open. Or he might respect that answer and remain curious. Most people would talk about both their parents openly and in positive ways.

20. All the options in my life have been formed by my father’s decision to kill himself.

21. He killed himself.

22. He offed himself.

23. He decided he no longer wished to live.

24. When given the option between suicide and coffee he chose suicide.

25. I need counseling to answer that question.

My mother was right. The choices were really endless. I could even use the same word presented in a different way. There were a lot of strategies for answering this question. Even after the question was asked I kept gathering new academic methodologies to answer the question, “Why don’t you talk about your father?”

26. If I open up about him I’m afraid I will scare you away because if I talk about my father I am admitting that I am a flawed human being with an abnormal childhood upbringing.

Again, more options appear even if I avoid the subject of my father all together. It seems that certain events have greater effect on the long term psychology of the individual than others. But was my childhood “abnormal” or was my mother “doing the best she could” in situations which were out of her control? But it couldn’t of been out of her control. . . “Everybody has choices to make. . .”

27. “My father died when I was four.”

28. “I was four when my father died.”

I cannot remember which of these I used but it was one of the two. So I said what I thought in the moment. I paused. I know I paused and my boyfriend said, “Only if you are comfortable talking about it.”

29. I might cry if I talk about my father. But I don’t think I will. I usually don’t but its sad. Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything. Why do people say sorry when I say this? What personal responsibility did they have for it? Why do I have to answer this question? Why will this question always come up when in relationships?

30. His death effect me because I was too young.

That’s a lie because I know it impacted the whole trajectory of my life. There were material consequences. For example his life was attached to the union. This left my mother with a small financial cushion to fall back on when she was left to raise three children. While it may have been small it was enough for her to go to college for ten years and get a bachelor’s degree in education.

31. I never talk about my father because then I have to talk about my mother. My mother looks like an American hero for the choices she didn’t make but talking about my mother also reveals the hidden demons I am not suppose to talk about as it might make her look bad.

32. I never talk about my father because it usually becomes a really long essay about masculinity, the effects of neo-liberal feminism, and requires a master’s degree in sociology and a Ph.D. in philosophy to get to the bottom of it. It requires skill, tact, intelligence, emotional strength, and persistence to answer with any certainty. It’s a philosophical question at heart and I am not a philosopher, I am merely a subject exposed to systems of power which shape my experience in a world I did not create.

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

33. Why did he commit suicide? Why did my brother point a gun to my head? Why did my mother trust a teenager to get me to and from school going ninety miles an hour down icy unplowed country roads at seven in the morning? Why did the chicken cross the road? Why is the sky blue?

34. He’s sinking in the swamps.

35. The worms are feeding on his body.

36. He’s dead.

37. He’s gone.

38. He’s no longer with us.

If at this point the possibilities seem pointless, redundant, or obnoxious, imagine being at work when a co-worker flippantly says, “I’m ready to blow my brains out.”

39. My father hurt his back and wouldn’t go to see the doctor. It was severe pain and he couldn’t really talk about it. He drank his physical and mental pains away. Sometimes he would come home drunk and punch walls in. I do remember waking up to the sound of shattering glass. The stove glass broke because my father kicked it in during one of his masculine temper tantrums.

40. I didn’t know it when it was first asked but I now think my father died because of hyper-masculinity. I don’t think he was allowed to express any of the emotional or physical hardships he had. He likely had depression and was obviously having thoughts of suicide. Other’s in the family had committed suicide and had mental issues. When I go to the psychologist they show me genetic connections but as a sociology major I am thinking more about the limits on men expressing emotions. My father couldn’t express his emotions, that’s for sure, so he likely imploded, quite literally.

41. I don’t mean to come off as cold hearted or disconnected, it’s just that the death of my father strikes me more as an abstraction than a concrete reality. When it does come up I am reminded of my differences, my class upbringing, the social values that played out in my childhood.

42. For my brother my father was a something which became a nothing. For me my father is a nothing who, when asked about his existence, becomes a something that should have been, but wasn’t.

43. By opening up about my father I cannot really say who he is without explaining who he was not and for me he was more of a not than a was.

44. “Your father loved you,” my aunt says.

45. My father bought two stuffed monkeys. The monkey was Abu from the Disney show Aladdin. He did this a few months before he killed myself. In addition to that he also bought me a small baseball glove. My uncle on my mother’s side went with my dad to the store to pick these up. My uncle says he was likely planning his suicide during this time and asked my mother that we hide these items when my uncle was around so he wouldn’t be reminded of my father’s suicide.

How could my father have loved me if he blew his brains out? It hardly seems like an act of love to abandon your child at the age of four.

46. “God has a plan for everyone and even though it may not make sense to us down here there is a plan and there is nothing we can do about it.” Likely something my pastor said or something my grandmother said or something someone said along the way. When on a date with an attractive suitable man one doesn’t want to delve into religious theology and questions about the existence of God, determinism versus free will, the meaning of life, and deeper levels of spiritual enlightenment, or lack there of. One wants to eat ice cream, giggle about some superfluous thing, and see if one can see some concrete shape in the clouds: its a duck, a bird, a dinosaur, a giraffe. What do you see when you look at the sky? Is there something more out there?

When asked about my father I am asked about a whole series of causal effects. When asked about my father I am asked to see myself as an object in the world formed by what the existentialists refer to as facticity. At this moment I free myself from the container which shaped me and am allowed to reconstruct the object that I am as I choose.

I also begin to ask myself, “what if things had played out differently,” as I am prone to ask the questions I was told weren’t worth asking. I was told there were no answers to them but the questions which don’t have answers are the questions I like the most. So being asked about my father is really asking me who I am and how I became who I am. I am inclined to answer if one has the time for it. Most people don’t have the time, the intellect, the patience, the attention span, or the emotional capacity for such things. So I prefer to say,

47. “Shh, daddy is sleeping. We must not wake him. He’s a terrible ghost. Let’s play hide and seek with death! Can you count to one hundred?”

48. “In any case, that little boy didn’t want to grow up for fear of becoming serious.” pg. 327 Jean Paul Sartre War Diaries

49. “But as soon as man grasps himself as free, and wishes to use his freedom, all his activity is a game: he’s its first principle; he escapes the world by his nature; he himself ordains the value and rules of his acts, and agrees to pay up only according the the rules he has himself ordained and defined.” 326 Jean Paul Sartre

50. “And man is serious when he forgets himself; when he makes the subject into an object; when he takes himself for a radiation derived from the world: engineers, doctors, physicists, biologists are serious.” 326 Jean Paul Sartre The War Diaries

51. When my father died my mother was left to raise three boys. He was a step father to one of my brothers so one of my brothers still had a father. So my father is really three people: a dad who was then wasn’t, a dad who wasn’t then was, and a step dad.

I could have never explained all this that day I was asked. There in a rural town in the middle of a corn-field playing out the waves of one of my first gay relationships I simply said, “My dad is dead.” Reality is bleak like that. It restricts possibilities. Reality is only here in the field of “you have choices to make”. Reality are the options available. I am free to make choices in relation to concrete possibilities. For example I used covid stimulus money to pay for my rent so I could I have time to write this. I could have used it to buy copious amounts of liquor to subdue my existential angst. I could have used it to put it to my loans. I quit my job to give myself the time necessary to heal the wounds of the past. I refuse to conform to the pressure to buy a vehicle and get a license because I would have to buy car insurance which would mean I need a job to pay for the cars insurance. I would need gas to go back and forth to work where I would only continue to suppress my authenticity. Authenticity can never be achieved. It can only be something which is consistently reproduced. I reproduce myself as a writer only in the act of writing. Even the short pause between characters I realize other possibilities. Writing must be a consistent act I partake in everyday as a way of pursuing my own projects with the material conditions given to me.

52. My father is four people or five people because he was a co-worker to my middle school friend’s father, also a wife, a brother, an uncle. Six or seven people. He was never a grandfather though and could never be a grandfather. He could never have the possibility of being a grandfather so when my nephew says he doesn’t have a grandfather, his great uncle says he would be happy to fill the role. So my uncle, married to my mother’s blood sister, is my nephew’s grandfather.

The more I think about choices the more I start to confirm that choices are in relation to particular material conditions given to a situation which show the constricting impact of choices.

53. My mother, because of my father’s death, often found jimmy-rigged options for babysitters when family members were not available. When she realized my brother and I weren’t mature enough to handle being at home alone by ourselves, she looked into other options such as having me stay at the library until it closed. Later I learned that urban libraries have a phrase for this condition called, “Library latchkey kids,” which are children who’s parents are busy because of social economic conditions they end up going to the library after school for free baby-sitting.

https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16451347

I would stay in the library until it closed. My mother would slip the librarian a twenty dollar bill. I asked about it once and I learned in one way or another not to ask about such things.

When I took the Myers Briggs test in high school I scored nearly a hundred percent INFP which to me meant I was destined to be a genius like Shakespeare, taught in English classes all around the world for centuries to come. It meant I was introverted, intuitive, feeling, and perceptive. It meant that my room was messy but that my bookshelves were ordered perfectly with the Dewey decimal system. In high school I read Waiting for Godot with no idea it belonged to existential literature. On the question of why I don’t talk about my father, I am still Waiting for Godot.

54. My father’s suicide, in the long-term, meant I got to be alone with books. I often tired of reading and would chat with the librarian. She would ask me if I had a girlfriend and show me the things she wanted on craigslist. Sometimes she had to rapidly click her computer screen to hide some areas of the internet that should not be looked at while a minor sat reading Dr. Seuss, books about nature, or how volcanoes worked. I loved reading. I could never get enough. One of the librarians never believed I read as many books as I did and often discredited some of the books she believed were above my level. I was smart and there’s nothing worse to rural people than a smart, effeminate, boy with a love of reading.

I was always told that my mother was good and was always asked if she was still in college. For ten years I said yes she is in college. For twenty years I never told anyone my brother pointed a gun to my head because she left us unattended with the gun case unlocked. When I brought it up to her in my late twenties she said it wasn’t possible because my twenty year old cousin was there in the camper. When I asked I thought I was testing whether or not she could have subdued her ego enough to admit to the possibility that it may have not been the best choice to leave minors unattended with an unlocked gun case at home. That’s the way things were with her growing up so why would it be any different with us? All of a sudden she gets away with making the right choices because, “She pulled herself up by the bootstraps and got a degree in education.”

Anytime I try to explain my experiences of these circumstances I am caught in a social trap by which the liberal value of women choosing careers over a life of drunkenness and whoreish behavior to capture the love of a man my mother’s story overrides. My experience of having a gun pointed at my head by my own brother is over-ridden by another set of values.

55. I had a shot gun pointed to my head by my own brother because I was singing too loudly and he was hungover because he was drinking alcohol.

56. I didn’t know if the shot gun was loaded.

57. I stopped singing, fell backwards, and made a snow angel.

“Well, you’re mother could have brought over a bunch of rotten men. You could have been sexually abused.”

58. My brother used to chase me around the house naked and dry hump me. These are the effects of leaving minors unattended after school out in the country. And you know it which is why you started getting babysitters for us. It was after too many nights coming house to a destroyed house that my mother decided to have some family members watch over us and make sure we did our homework.

59. “Stop being a victim you liberal snowflake.”

60. But I’m actually criticizing the effects of applied feminism in the 21st century.

61. “You’re mother is a good person.”

63. “It could have been worse.”

64. “Everything turned out fine.”

65. “Everyone has trauma to deal with. Everyone has baggage.”

My boyfriend told me of growing up. His father was a chemist at Kellogg’s and his mother was an instructor at a community college. He was a potter, a knitter, and a banjo player. He became an English teacher. He told me that one time his dad brought home bags of Lucky Charm marshmallows for him and his sister to eat. His father recorded their responses to the marshmallows and adjusted the ratios of sugar based on those tests. That doesn’t sound like trauma to me. That sounds like a healthy childhood which leads one to have self confidence, self esteem, and the emotional stability necessary to face the mixed messages of life. In the meantime I seek out people who tell me I’m dumb, ugly, stupid, and will never amount to anything because I think that’s a normal relationship. If I am not doing that I am hiding in my room wondering what the point of being alive is wondering if there is any hope for me to heal and get better.

66. My father’s suicide is a traumatic past which shapes my entire experience. It’s a past that I have the right to represent by writing it. It’s a past which is not, “Everything turned out fine,” and no my mother did not, “Pull herself up by her bootstraps,” she had choices to make and one of those choices was to leave minors home alone with a gun case full of weapons and to trust that nothing bad could have happened in that circumstance. I will not limit myself to the blindness feminist discourse encouraged when I told my story to an existential philosophy professor at a liberal university. Yes, she could have chosen worse, but it could have turned out much better. I will not sit here silently submitting to my brother’s words, “Don’t tell anyone or I will kill you!”

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

67. Well kill me. I’d be better off anyway. I am willing to die for the truth in the same way an American soldier is willing to die for his country. I am willing to stand for something even if I am alone. Pull the trigger. If it makes you feel like a man to point a gun at your brother you might as well pull the trigger.

“It wasn’t loaded. Do you think I would actually put a shot gun shell in it. I love you, I’m your brother. Do you think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t actually do that. . .”

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

68. It’s exhausting. It’s a threat to my existence. It reminds me that blowing my brains out is a real possibility whereas for most people its a thing you say when life sucks. The following is an example of that.

When I was working as an English as a Second Language instructor I thought I had made it. I thought that teaching immigrants and refugees English meant I had established myself as a concrete being in the world permanently enmeshed as a career oriented man. My degree in Sociology was justified and my graduate certificate was no longer a waste of time, energy, and effort. I quickly learned that my masculinity was always under question and that the few men in that field were perfectly miserable beings. The whole notion that people became teachers because they were heart filled beings with a passion for helping others vanished when my co-worker, a professional teacher who taught abroad in Japan, made the shape of a gun with his finger, lifted it to his head, and pulled the trigger. I had simply asked him how he was doing and it was apparently not well. I was feeling rather dismal and would like to think I responded like this.

69. It’s a great position to be in. A cock loaded full of cum in my mouth and my cock loaded full of cum in his mouth. The tension was rising. Would we ever get to the desired result of all of our efforts? Would we ever achieve orgasm? Would we ever blow? Rest assured we exploded and were perfectly satisfied. There’s just something about holes and filling them which none of us can resist. Yet, even when the hole is filled to the brim with hot cum we feel so empty that we can no longer go on and so we pause. It’s okay to have long periods of stagnation so long as we can pull out at the right time and forgive ourselves for our responses to the past. The future may not appear to hold much but there is so much time and so many holes to fill.

70. They covered my father’s hole with makeup. They closeted the cause of his death. At the funeral they closed the bottom half of the casket which made me think that someone cut my father’s legs off with giant scissors. I screamed. I was convinced that his legs were cut off with giant scissors and that someone had caused his death.

71. How is a four year old suppose to understand this when adults are unable to tell the truth when the child asks questions about his dead father. He isn’t going to understand these things if adults themselves still don’t understand them. Adults go to great lengths to omit the grievances and effects of such events. “Everything turned out fine,” and “You’ve got choices to make.”

A four year old’s brain is not ready to understand such things because adults don’t understand them. His memories are barely forming and he is still fascinated by blowing bubbles. Adults have lost their imaginations. He smiles at the sound of popcorn popping while adults drench popcorn in so much salt and butter that they die of heart attacks and call it death by natural causes. A child laughs when he sees a frozen lake swarmed by a hundred seagulls as teenage boys stuff frogs down the barrels of shot guns and laugh when American toad guts go spiraling into the sky like fireworks.

The events surrounding my father’s death are my first memories. There are many of them like the pastor holding me trying to give me comfort. I press my stomach for comfort. My first memories are the feeling of anxiety, that weird pang in the stomach which goes unexplained by doctors and still causes ulcers. There’s my cousin saying my father is away for a very long time and that he is in heaven. These memories attach themselves to future interactions when all compiled leave one wishing there were no choices to make at all. It leaves one wishing that there was one defined path meant for everyone which would eliminate all angst and all decisions. In fact it often feels better if there was no free will at all and that God really did have a plan for each individual.

There is another pastor, who many years later, told me my father was in hell. This leaves me with one of those ridiculous choices and questions, “Is my father in heaven or in hell?” There is my aunt who tells me that my pastor is wrong and the Bible never mentions. There is my uncle who says people who don’t believe in God are not allowed in his home. There is the ice cream I ate after I was taken out of the funeral home to ease the emotional burden a screaming four year old must have placed on my father’s friends and family members. The ice cream was a temporary cure which taught me that negative emotions could be easily drowned with chocolate sauce and colorful sprinkles.

72. My father is in heaven.

73. My father is in hell.

74. My father is in purgatory.

75. I don’t know where the fuck my father is.

76. Do souls exist?

78. What is the difference between agnostic theism and agnostic atheism?

79. It’s ok to think about dying now and again. I think everyone has thought about it now and again but I’m not sure. I’m only one person with so many heartbeats.

80. I don’t think I will commit suicide because it doesn’t solve anything. Living doesn’t solve much either but at least I can say I tried to count to one hundred.

81. I might cry if I talk about my father.

82. It’s ok to cry.

83. It’s ok to cry.

84. It’s ok to cry.

85. It’s ok to cry.

86. It’s ok to cry.

87. If you cannot sleep count the sheep or cry.

88. It’s ok to cry.

89. Real men cry.

90. Real men cry.

91. Real men cry.

92. Real men cry like big men.

93. Real men cry like grown men.

94. Real men cry like real men.

95. It’s ok to cry.

96. It’s ok to cry.

97. Facts may not care about feelings but feelings are always seeking out facts to justify themselves. One must be careful about the facts used to represent their feelings.

98. Over intellectualization isn’t crying. It’s a defense mechanism.

99. It’s okay to cry.

100. Everything turned out fine.

#spilled ink #spilled words #masculinity #manhood #lgbtq #free will #existentialism #Sartre #jean paul sartre #lyrical #lyrical poem #lyrical prose

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ottelis · 4 years

Photo

"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, "And I gave you mine."

"No," Lucas says, low and dark. "No, you didn't."

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i. ii. iii.

tw: discussions of suicide attempts, death, manic and depressive episodes, and uses of the q slur

july 4th, 1968

10:28

caen, france

Eliott wishes his mother was here to hold his hand. He isn't sure why he needs her here so much right now. He spent almost two years at the institution without her, where everything around him was blinding white and the air was cold and stale. Here, in a room at the psychiatric clinic, the floors are carpeted, the walls are painted a warm, beige color, and there are flowers on the tables, paintings on the walls; the small couch he's sitting on is comfortable, new. Maybe it's because he knows his mother could be here—she's just down the street, browsing through books at the library—but he told her he would be okay by himself. Maybe he could tell someone he just needs to go get her really quickly then he'll be back for his appointment. It would just be a minute or two. He would be back before they knew it—

There's a knock at the door, then it opens. Eliott jumps, but tries to calm himself down as the doctor enters the room. He's a tall, slim man around his mother's age. His hair is graying in flecks throughout, and his short, well-kept beard is almost completely gray. He's wearing a white button-up shirt and gray slacks, and a plain red tie. He smiles kindly at Eliott, walking over to him and holding out his hand.

"Eliott Demaury, yes?" he asks, maintaining his smile.

Eliott smiles back weakly, shaking the doctor's outstretched hand. "Yes, sir."

"My name is Dr. Garnier," he replies, taking a seat in the chair across from Eliott. "How about we start with any questions or concerns you want to tell me about. Okay?"

Eliott nods. "Okay," he considers, a long list already rolling around in his brain. Maybe he should start with the question he's most worried about the answer to. He takes a deep breath, wringing his hands. "Do you give people shocks here?"

Dr. Garnier seemed a little puzzled by the question, but recovered with his kind smile. "The latest guidance is that we should start straying away from that sort of therapy. But, if it's necessary, we usually sedate patients before we give them any sort of electric stimulation. If you don't mind me asking, did they give you electroconvulsive therapy often at the institution in Paris?"

Eliott bites his lip, then nods. "Whenever I got really bad they gave me shocks."

"And you have manic depressive disorder, correct?" Dr. Garnier asks. When Eliott nods, he continues. "Well, Eliott, usually we give someone shocks when medication or other therapies don't work. It's, in most cases, a last resort. Did they try to help you in any other way besides the shocks?"

Eliott feels anxiety creeping into his system, making his stomach turn and his head spin. "I was on a few medications, but they never worked. They started giving me lithium not too long before I left, and I think it works enough."

"How long have you been home, Eliott?" Dr. Garnier asks, looking up from his notes.

"A week and a half, maybe?" Eliott answers. "The days have all been blurring together. I always have to ask my maman what day it is, what time it is."

"So you're having trouble readjusting?"

Eliott nods. "It's been really difficult. Caen has changed so much, and my maman changed some things around our old house, and everything was just so different. And the day I got home, I went to go visit my... uh, my best friend and surprise him, but..."

Eliott's mouth goes dry, and a lump forms in his throat.

"But...?" Dr. Garnier urges kindly, listening carefully to Eliott's every word.

"He was angry with me," Eliott admits, his voice breaking. "Really angry."

"Your best friend was?" Dr. Garnier says, even more puzzled. "Do you know why he was angry?"

Eliott nods. He doesn't want to say it. He could never say the words out loud to anyone, let alone himself. He feels a tear roll down his cheek. He wipes it away quickly, sniffling. He nods again, and hopes Dr. Garnier wouldn't ask anymore questions about it.

"Why was he angry?" Dr. Garnier asks again.

Eliott runs his fingers along his bottom lip, trying to think of an answer. An answer that skirted around the real reason. "Some... Something that happened. Right before I was sent to the institution."

Eliott hears papers rustling. He looks up and sees Dr. Garnier searching for something in a small folder. He finds the page he's looking for, his eyes scanning it quickly. He sighs.

"It says here that the reason you were admitted to the institution due to a suicide attempt," he says quietly. "Is that why your friend was angry?"

Eliott nods. More tears are falling from his eyes, and it's getting harder for him to hold them back. The words suicide attempt rattle loudly in his mind, drowning out all his other thoughts.

"You seem to care about your friend a lot, Eliott," Dr. Garnier observes. "Did he give you a chance to explain yourself, or explain what happened the night of your attempt?"

Eliott shakes his head. "I don't think I could have if he did give me a chance, either. I can't talk about what happened that night, or really anything that happened before. It's too hard. It hurts too much."

"These are very traumatic events, Eliott. It's okay if they're difficult to talk about," Dr. Garnier says.

"It's been two years," Eliott breathes, shutting his eyes. "Two years is a long time. Time enough to get over it, right?"

"Not necessarily," Dr. Garnier replies. "There are things we simply can't forget. It's okay if you're still grieving, Eliott. Do you understand?"

Eliott nods, sniffling. "I understand."

"When you got to the institution," Dr. Garnier begins. "Were the doctors and nurses aware of the circumstances that caused you to be institutionalized?"

Eliott nods. "My maman told them everything."

"Were any of your treatments meant to help you process those traumas? Were they ever addressed?"

Eliott shakes his head. "I don't think so."

Dr. Garnier sighs. "They should have been a long time ago. I deeply apologize that that wasn't done when it should have been. I want to start working on that with you, Eliott. Okay?"

Eliott takes a deep, shaky breath. "Okay."

"I know it's hard," Dr. Garnier begins. "But can you tell me what happened leading up to your institutionalization? You don't have to give me any details you're not comfortable sharing. Okay?"

Eliott nods, trying to collect himself. "One time, around Christmas, I realized I was feeling more energetic than usual. The day after Christmas, I was in my room all day sketching in the new sketchpad my parents got me. I think I wrote some sort of comic book. But I didn't think anything of it when it was happening. My whole life I've had these strange, random bursts of energy. Then, around mid-January I started to get depressed, but I just figured it was because it was winter. My maman gets sad during winter sometimes, so I just thought I was like her. Things went back to normal beginning of February, but I was still kinda fluctuating. But then..." Eliott's words were stuck in his throat, but he breathed slowly, and let the words stumble out of his mouth. "As long as I can remember, my papa would get sick really easily. Maman said he was badly injured in the war and his health was never the same after that. But that May, he got really sick. It was different this time. We could tell. We took him to the hospital, and we always stayed in his room with him. We would sleep there every night just in case something happened, and one morning I woke up and... He was dead."

"My condolences," Dr. Garnier replies quietly.

"I became so depressed I barely had the strength to breathe. But I had my maman, and Lucas, and all our other friends."

"Is Lucas your best friend?" Dr. Garnier replies.

Eliott nods. "A little over a month after Papa died, I started getting excited again. In the back of my mind, I knew I shouldn't be reacting this way, but I was so happy. I ran all over the place with Lucas, and around sunset we went down to the beach. The water was calm, and then there was this wave and it crashed over Lucas and pulled him under. I was able to pull him out, but when I got him to shore, he wasn't breathing. He was dead for about ten minutes, but I was able to revive him. I can't imagine what would've happened if I wasn't able to save him. And after that... It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. All these... emotions were clashing within me. It was like I was walking in a minefield. I went through this for a day or two. Then, that night, I reorganized my bookshelf four or five times by color and title and author's name and height, then the next moment I started crying and I couldn't stop. I realized I couldn't take it anymore. So, I..." Eliott didn't want to finish his sentence, and he didn't have to.

"That's quite the weight to carry, Eliott," Dr. Garnier says, setting his notes aside. "And Lucas is angry with you, too? Have you tried to reach out to him? Will he talk to you?"

Eliott shrugs. "I haven't tried to, but I don't think he'd be willing to talk to me. He made himself pretty clear the last time we talked."

"How long have you known Lucas, Eliott?"

"We've known each other since we were babies. I'm only a couple of weeks older than him. We've spent our whole lives together. Literally. I can't imagine living a life without him, and suddenly I am. He's moving on. He's engaged. He'll be going off to medical school in Paris. He's gonna leave me behind."

"Eliott," Dr. Garnier says, looking Eliott straight in the eye. "You owe it to yourself and to Lucas to try and fix whatever's happening between you two. I can see how much you care about him. He must feel the same way, right?"

Eliott shakes his head. "He won't listen. He's stubborn as a mule. I told my maman, he's had two years to make up his mind about me and what happened that night. He hates me, and his mind is made about that. It's not going to change, and it shouldn't. I abandoned him. All I would've left behind if he hadn't stopped me that night is a letter."

"Lucas is the one who stopped you?" Dr. Garnier asks.

"He was," Eliott replies. "I was... I was about to walk out into the water but he called my name and ran to me and he just held me. He was there. And then I had to leave, and when I came back, he wasn't there anymore. Not for me, anyway."

"Does he know about your diagnosis? What your diagnosis means as far as how it affects you and your relationship with him?"

Eliott sighs, shrugging. "I'm sure my maman told him when they told her my diagnosis. I don't know if he knows anything specific, really."

Dr. Garnier thinks for a moment, then asks, "Do you think your mother could get through to him?"

Eliott thinks, too, imagining the scenario play out in his head. "Maybe. She always calls him her second son."

"She knows about the situation between you two?"

"She was the first person I went to after I tried to talk to him," Eliott nods. "She knows almost everything about me."

Dr. Garnier smiles. "I'm glad you're so close to her, Eliott. Were you close with your father as well?"

Eliott smiles sadly, nodding. "We were a happy, tight-knit family. Maman and I miss him a lot."

"He seems like he was a good man," Dr. Garnier replies.

"He was," Eliott agrees. "He was the best man in the world, I think."

"You've been through so much, Eliott," Dr. Garnier says, his smile even kinder. "But I can tell you have so much strength in you yet. You have your whole life ahead of you, boy. Make it the best it can be. Okay?"

Eliott smiles back, nodding. "Okay."

"Good," Dr. Garnier replies, patting Eliott softly on the shoulder. "Unless you have any more questions or concerns, Eliott, you're free to leave. Though, I would like to ask your mother a few questions. Is she in the lobby?"

"She went down to the library, but I can go and tell her you want to talk to her."

Dr. Garnier nods. "If you would, please. It'll just be for a few minutes."

Eliott nods, rising from his seat. Dr. Garnier stands up, too, holding out his hand. Eliott shakes his hand, giving him a shy smile.

"If something happens, or if you need us for any reason at all, don't hesitate to call us and let us you know you need to come in," Dr. Garnier tells him. "We'll be here for you, Eliott."

"Thank you, Doctor," Eliott replies, smiling wider. "Maybe next time I'll have some good news about Lucas."

"I hope so," Dr. Garnier returns genuinely. "I can really tell how much you care about him. Don't let him go. Okay?"

"I won't," Eliott promises.

"Good," Dr. Garnier grins. "Let me lead you out then I'll talk to your mother."

Eliott nods. "Thank you again, Doctor."

"You're very welcome." he smiles back, opening the door and letting Eliott step out. He walks down the hallway and enters the lobby, where the receptionist thanks him for coming and tells him to have a good day. He smiles at her, thanking her, and goes out through the front, glass doors.

It's cooler than usual outside, but still pleasantly warm. The sun is shining, with a few pure white, fluffy clouds sailing across the sky. He can still smell all the salt in the air, just barely hear the waves crashing on the shore. He exhales, feeling lighter.

He starts walking down the street, heading to the library. He can see it, just in the distance. It's an older building that somehow managed to survive all the bombings during the war. But, like the church, it has its scars, burns on the outside. It's still a beautiful building, rich and warm with history and every imaginable string of words language can offer. Eliott pauses for a moment when he reaches the entrance, tilting his head back to look up at the top of the building. He remembers how tall it looked when he was younger, and seeing how much shorter it seems now makes Eliott pause a moment longer than he intended to. He shakes his head, opening the door and entering the library.

Eliott's mother was checking out a small pile of books at the front desk. She grins when she notices him walking up to her, giving him one of her tight, comforting hugs.

"How was it, honey?" she asks, warmth and pride in her voice.

"Good," he replies. "But Dr. Garnier wanted to ask you a couple of questions for a couple minutes if that's okay."

"Of course," she replies. The librarian hands her books and she thanks her kindly. "Do you want to look at some books while I do that?"

Eliott shakes a head. "I still have to read all the ones you gave me for my birthday. I'll just wait in the lobby."

"Okay," she nods, putting her books in her bag. "Let's go, then."

They're quiet for a moment as they leave, but she starts asking Eliott questions once they start walking back up to the office.

"Is the doctor nice?"

"He is," Eliott answers. "He's very understanding. Very kind."

"I'm glad," she smiles. "What did you two talk about?"

"He asked me when I first started showing symptoms," he begins. "So I told him about the Christmas before Papa died. And when Papa died and when Lucas drowned and... everything else after that."

His mother looks over at him, an emotion he can't quite distinguish on her face. "Was it hard to talk about?"

Eliott bites his lip, nodding. "It was. But he helped me through it. He gave me advice and everything."

"I'm proud of you, honey," she tells him, tearful. "I know you don't like to talk about all that."

"Thank you, Maman," Eliott smiles, getting tearful, too. "It gets a little easier every time."

They reach the office, and Eliott opens the door for his mother. Dr. Garnier is standing by the front desk, writing something down on his clipboard. He looks up and smiles when he sees them. He sets his clipboard down and approaches them, his hand outstretched towards Eliott's mother.

"I'm Dr. Pierre Garnier," he introduces, shaking her hand. "And you're Eliott's mother, yes?"

"Yes, sir," she replies, smiling back. "Noémie."

"Noémie," Dr. Garnier repeats. "Well, thank you so much for giving me a couple of minutes of your time. I just need to ask a couple of questions about Eliott. Would you like to come back with us, Eliott?"

Eliott shakes his head. "No, it's okay. I can wait here."

"Are you sure, honey?" his mother asks. "I don't mind if you're in there with us."

Eliott smiles, nodding. "I'm sure, Maman."

"Okay," she replies, smiling back. "We won't be long."

Dr. Garnier smiles at Eliott, too, then leads his mother down the hallway.

july 4th, 1968

11:21

caen, france

Eliott sighs, sitting down in one of the chairs. There's a table next to him, one with a vase full of flowers sitting on top of it. They're fresh, the petals soft and almost dewy. They're irises, Eliott thinks, with their droopy petals with a dot of yellow in the middle. He smiles again, leaning in to breathe in their sweet, fragrant scent. He wonders what his time at the institution could've been like if it was anything like this. No shocks, no itchy, stiff clothes, no echoes of desperate screams ricocheting off the walls. Instead, there could have been flowers, space to breathe, kind smiles, time to think and cope. Would he have been away for so long? Would he have been away from home, from his maman, from Lucas for two years? Would Lucas have been less mad when he came back home? Would any of Lucas's love been left, enough to make Eliott smile and his heart sing and and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end?

He sighs again, looking up from the flowers. Through the glass, he can see a couple walking by holding hands. He sees the woman first, and she looks vaguely familiar. She has a round face and high cheekbones, and she's wearing a wide smile. Eliott thinks she's laughing. But the man reveals his face as he looks over at her, and Eliott's heart nearly stops. The eyes, the smile...

Lucas.

Their eyes meet, and suddenly Eliott's heart has started beating again, stuttering and stumbling over itself. Lucas seems just as overwhelmed, his mouth dropping open and blinking as if he needed to clear his vision. The girl, Chloé, turns, too, but she smiles and waves when she sees Eliott. He manages a smile for her, waving back.

Go to him, Eliott's heart tells him, its voice clear through his stuttering heartbeat.

He pauses for a moment, but his mind takes over and he stands up, jogging out the door to reach Lucas and Chloé. He stops in front of them, widening his smile.

"Salut," he greets politely.

"Salut!" Chloé returns cheerfully.

"Salut," Lucas returns quietly.

"What's this place?" Chloé asks, looking up at the sign.

"It's a psychiatric office," Eliott answers. "I'm just here for a... check-up, I guess."

"Oh," Chloé smiles, almost fake. "I never knew what this was. But how are you feeling, Eliott? Lucas told me you haven't been feeling very well and that's why he hasn't been able to go visit you."

Eliott feels a shallow, echoing pang in his chest. He immediately, desperately looks at Lucas, but his eyes are trained on the ground. Eliott tries to recover, smiling again and looking back at Chloé. "Oh, yes. I'm doing a lot better now. Just needed some time to readjust, I think."

Chloé's eyes widen as she grins. "Oh, that's great to hear! Maybe you'll be well enough to come to Lucas's birthday party next week! We would've invited you right away, but Lucas was worried you may not be feeling well still by the time we have the party. What do you think, Lucas?"

Lucas perks up, his eyes darting between Eliott and Chloé. He must've spaced out a bit. Eliott can see the traces of daydream, fantasy fogging up Lucas's eyes. He smiles a little, nodding. "If Eliott thinks he's well, of course he can come." He looks at Eliott again, his eyes cleared up, but there's a sadness in them, a darkness lurking in the depths.

"Eliott, you have to come!" Chloé cuts in, so enthusiastic she's almost bouncing. "It'll be so fun for you and Lucas to celebrate together! Especially since he missed your party. I'm still mad at him for not telling me about that, you know. We could've rescheduled our little lunch date."

"It's okay," Eliott lies. "You're his fiancée. You should come first, right?"

Eliott risks another glance at Lucas, but he's zoned out again. He's staring at his hand, the one that's holding Chloé's. He's frowning, his eyebrows knit. Eliott is sure Lucas can't hear a word him and Chloé are saying. He bites his lip, turning his attention back to Chloé.

"I suppose," Chloé replies. "But you've known him since you two were so little. I can't compare to that."

Eliott sighs, shrugging.

"No, really, Eliott," Chloé says, more serious. "Let us make it up to you. Come to Lucas's party."

He takes another deep breath, finally nodding. "Okay. I'll come."

"Perfect!" Chloé beams. "It's a week from today at Lucas's at 7. And if you can't get him a gift, don't worry about it. Just having you there will be gift enough, I'm sure." She looks over at Lucas, realizing he's spacey. She shakes his shoulder gently, looking at him with a hint of concern. He raises his eyebrows, but quickly recovers. He smiles again and nods.

"Of course," he says, pulling her close and kissing her quickly on the lips. "We'd better be on our way, right, mon amour?"

Eliott feels another pang in his chest, but it's deeper, sharper. A lifetime ago, Lucas had such a way of piercing Eliott with deep, bleeding cuts that never seemed to hurt. In this new life, this new body, everything suddenly hurts so terribly Eliott feels like he could die. Where did the blissful hurt go? Where's the tug of Lucas's gaze, the sting of his smile? Where did Lucas go? Where did Eliott go?

"We should," Chloé says. "We'll see you at the party, Eliott!" She kisses either side of his face, waving goodbye as she takes Lucas's hand again.

Lucas waves goodbye, too, but it's small, timid. That sadness is still in his eyes, but it's wider, deeper.

Eliott watches them as they walk away, the pangs in his chest throbbing.

"Turn around, mon amour," Eliott whispers, just barely louder than his breathing.

Lucas and Chloé are halfway down the hill when Lucas finally looks over his shoulder. Eliott feels that familiar tug, and it hurts blissfully, like it used to.

The throbbing eases.

january 3rd, 1956

11:56

caen, france

Eliott watches his father sitting in their car, worry making his little stomach turn. All last week, his father has had a horrible cough and a horrible fever. His mother had to convince him to let her take him to the hospital so they could know what was wrong. Yesterday, his father finally agreed, and they finally sat Eliott down and told him he'll need to stay at Lucas's for a little awhile, just until his father gets better. Normally, he would be bouncing off the walls knowing he'd get to spend the night with Lucas, but now he was just scared and sad for his papa.

"Thank you so much for watching Eliott for us, Madeleine," he hears his mother say. He looks over and sees her handing Lucas's mother a suitcase with all his stuff in it. In a worried rush, she continues,"There's a few days' worth of clothes in there, and his toothbrush and all his favorite books and toys. I'll call every night and let you know if anything happens. And I'll talk to Eliott, too. Hopefully that'll make him feel better. If he ever gets really upset, Eduard and I just hug him and rub his back until he calms down. That usually works."

"Breathe, Noémie," Madame Lallemant says, setting the suitcase aside and putting her hands on Eliott's mother's shoulders. "We'll take good care of your boy. We promise. Just take Eduard to the hospital and help him get better. Is it pneumonia again?"

Eliott's mother nods, tears welling in her eyes. "I think so."

"He's beaten it before," Madame Lallemant reasons, trying to soothe her. "He'll beat it this time, too."

She sighs, looking up at the sky for a moment. She shakes her head. "What if he doesn't?"

Eliott feels his eyes becoming wet, too. He sniffles, running up to her and throwing his arms around her legs, hugging her as best he can. Her clothes are soft, and she smells warm, and it makes Eliott cry.

"Oh, honey," he hears her choke out. She moves his arms gently away from her so she can kneel in front of him. She holds his face in her hands, wiping away his tears. "Listen to me, okay? I need you to be a good boy for Madame and Monsieur Lallemant. I need you to listen to them if they tell you to do something. And I need you to pray for Papa."

"Will Papa get better, Maman?" he just barely asks through his tears.

She takes a deep breath, nodding. "He'll get better, baby."

"Promise?" Eliott asks.

She bites her lip, but manages a smile. "I promise, Ellie. Now, come here."

She opens her arms, and he throws his around her neck. She hugs him so tightly, he almost can't breathe. She kisses his cheek, his ear, his temple. She rubs his back with small, soothing circles, and his breathing slows and his eyes dry.

"I have to go now, honey," she whispers in his ear.

"Okay," Eliott nods, trying to hold back new tears brimming on his lashline.

"Papa and I will be back as soon as we can," she promises, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I'll call and talk to you every night until we get back."

"Okay," he says again. "I love you, Maman."

She smiles, a single, small tear rolling down her cheek. "I love you, too, Ellie."

She hugs him again, this time lifting him up so his feet aren't touching the ground. She swings him a bit as he kicks his legs.

"Put me down, Maman!" Eliott giggles.

She puts him down then, her smile wider and more genuine. "I'll see you soon, honey."

"See you soon, Maman," Eliott smiles back.

She kisses his forehead and walks over to the car, where his father sat waiting. He waves at Eliott through the window, trying to smile, but gets into another coughing fit. Eliott's heart sinks, and the car starts driving away.

"Are you okay, Eliott?" Madame Lallemant asks him softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Do you wanna have some lunch?"

Eliott shrugs. "My stomach feels funny."

"Do you just want some water, then? Maybe a few slices of apple? Do you think you could eat that?"

Eliott thinks for a moment, then nods. "Thank you, Madame Lallemant."

"You're welcome," she replies, smiling kindly. "Let's go inside, then."

Eliott nods again, following her inside.

"Lucas, buddy, are you almost done cleaning your room?" Madame Lallemant calls. "Eliott's here and I'm about to get lunch ready."

"Coming, Maman!" Lucas responds, his footsteps pattering on the floor as he runs down the stairs. He beams when he sees Eliott, running over to him and giving him a hug.

"Hi, Lucas," Eliott giggles, hugging him back.

"I'm so happy you get to stay here with me," Lucas says, pulling away. "We're gonna have so much fun! Wait, Eliott are you okay? Are you crying?"

Eliott wipes at his cheeks and rubs at his eyes. "I'm just scared for my papa. He's really sick again."

"My maman said he'll be okay," Lucas replies confidently. "So he'll be okay."

Eliott smiles. "My maman said that, too, so yeah. He'll be okay."

"Come sit down at the table, boys," Madame Lallemant tells them. "And Eliott, I have your apple ready for you."

Eliott finds his chair and Madame Lallemant sets a small plate with apple slices on them in front of him. He thanks her, and nibbles on one. He smiles, though. She must've gotten it from the market today. It's sweet and fresh. He takes a slightly bigger bite, and his stomach settles a little.

"How come Eliott gets to eat first?" Lucas asks, pouting a little.

"He said he isn't very hungry, so he just has an apple," Madame Lallemant replies. "But you, my baby boy, are gonna eat as much food as your little stomach can hold, right?"

"I'm not a baby, Maman," Lucas groans, rolling his eyes. "But I do like food."

"No, you're not a baby," she agrees. "But you're my baby boy. Just like Eliott is Madame Demaury's baby boy," Eliott nods at this, finishing off his second apple slice. "And just like when you grow up and marry a nice girl your baby boys will be her baby boys."

"But what if our babies are girls?" Lucas asks.

"Then they'll be your baby girls," Madame Lallemant answers. "Maybe she'll have some baby boys and maybe you'll have some baby girls, too."

Lucas grimaces, shrugging. "Girls are gross."

"But I'm a girl, Lucas," she gasps. "Am I gross?"

"No," Lucas shakes his head. "Because you're my maman. Girls who aren't my maman are gross."

"I don't think girls are gross," Eliott chips in, starting to bite into his third apple slice.

"Good boy, Eliott," Madame Lallemant smiles. "And good job eating your apple slices."

Eliott smiles. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she returns. "And Lucas, our lunch is ready."

She sets a plate in front of him with roast beef and potatoes, and Lucas grins. He accepts the fork she hands to him, and starts shoveling potatoes in his mouth.

"Slow down, buddy," she reminds him. "Enjoy your food."

He nods, chewing slower.

"Now, boys," she begins. "After lunch, do you want to draw and color for a bit? I bought some new crayons yesterday just for you two."

It's Eliott's turn to grin. He nods enthusiastically, almost hurting his neck a little. "I love drawing!"

She grins back at him. "I know. Your maman told me. But we'll wait until Lucas and I are done with our lunch to start drawing, okay?"

"Okay," Eliott agrees. He finishes off his apples, and decides he's still a little hungry. "Madame Lallemant, could I have some potatoes, please?"

"Of course," she replies. "Just hand me your plate."

He nods, holding it out to her. She spoons out a few, looking to Eliott, who nods. "That's good. Thank you, Madame." He gladly takes his plate back and eats a bit more.

"I think you could teach Lucas some manners, Eliott," Madame Lallemant teases, looking over at her son.

Lucas rolls his eyes, eating a bite of roast beef.

"Or," she continues. "Some drawing techniques."

Lucas shrugs, still chewing.

"I can teach you how to draw animals," Eliott adds. "But I can only draw raccoons, bears, and rabbits."

Lucas giggles at Eliott's response. "Okay, Eliott."

"I want to learn how to draw more, though," Eliott replies. "We can learn together, Lucas!"

Lucas smiles, nodding. "Okay."

They all finish their lunches, and Eliott is practically bouncing in his seat as Madame Lallemant goes to get the paper and the brand new crayons. She had gotten the big box with an even wider rainbow of colors to choose from. Eliott's mouth drops open, staring in awe at the pointed ends, all the colors he never knew they used for crayons. He pulls out a blue one, studying the color.

"Lucas, look," he beams. "This crayon is the same color as your eyes!"

"It does!" Madame Lallemant smiles. "We'll have to draw Lucas and use that for his eyes. We can set it aside until we need to use it."

Eliott nods, placing it over by Madame Lallemant. He takes a sheet of paper, and grabs a few shades of brown and a black crayon. He starts drawing a bear, small and round and fluffy, smiling wide with two bandages crossed over its heart. He spends a little extra time on the fur, using multiple shades of brown to create a rudimentary yet rich, colorful coat of fur.

"What are you drawing, Eliott?" Lucas asks.

Eliott holds up his paper for him to see. "It's my papa, after the doctors make him better."

"Your papa's not a bear, Eliott!" Lucas giggles.

"Lucas!" Madame Lallemant scolds. "Madame Demaury said Eliott draws his papa like a bear."

Eliott nods, trying not to seem hurt by Lucas's laughing. "My maman is a rabbit, and I'm a raccoon."

"What am I, Eliott?" Lucas asks.

"Huh?" Eliott hums, confused.

"What animal am I?" he clarifies.

"Oh," Eliott stutters. "I don't know. Maybe a hedgehog? Because you're tiny and pointy."

Lucas tilts his head, eyebrows knit. "A hedgehog?"

"Yeah," Eliott replies, getting a picture in his head. "Here, let me show you."

Eliott grabs another sheet of paper and keeps his brown crayons. He draws a hedgehog, with its spikes and whiskers. He writes Lucas's name beneath it and shows it to him, a little nervous.

"It does look kind of like you, buddy," Madame Lallemant says, smiling. "That's really good, Eliott!"

"What do you think of mine, Maman?" Lucas cuts in, showing her his drawing.

"That's really good, too, Lucas," she replies, her smile widening. "Actually, yours gives me an idea." She takes a sheet of paper and draws a line down the middle of it. "Okay, Lucas, you draw on this side of the paper," she instructs, pointing at the right side of the paper. "And Eliott, you draw on the other side. Then, I was thinking we can write 'best friends forever on the line. Split it in half, you know? What do you boys think?"

"I like it," Eliott smiles.

"I do, too," Lucas agrees.

"I can draw a raccoon and you can draw a hedgehog!" Eliott says.

"I don't know how to draw a hedgehog," Lucas replies. "Can you teach me?"

Eliott nods, then teases, "Yes, Lucas. I'm Mr. Demaury and I'm your art teacher today."

Lucas laughs, and it makes Eliott laugh, too. Eliott tears a small piece off one of his papers and draws on it, breaking down into small shapes and outlines. He tries to keep it simple for Lucas, but he isn't sure how to. He just draws, lets his mind guide his little hand across the page. How does he teach that to Lucas?

"This is too hard, Eliott," Lucas pouts. "Can't we just draw ourselves?"

Eliott feels a little sad that him and Lucas can't do animals, but he nods. "Okay."

He can't draw people as well as he can draw animals, but he tries his hardest on his side of the drawing. He draws his hair, his blue shirt and gray pants, his house, the beach and the water. He doesn't think it looks very good, but when he sees it next to Lucas's, he can't help but smile. They look almost exactly the same as far the drawings go. It's like they became one artist, one hand. Eliott loves it.

"Do you two wanna write 'best friends forever' on there?" Madame Lallemant asks, pointing at the line in the middle. "Eliott, you write B-E, then F-R-I, then F-O-R, okay?"

Eliott nods, writing his letters next to the line. Lucas snatches the crayon from his hand and finishes off the message. Eliott feels his heart sink again.

"Good job, boys!" Madame Lallemant grins, holding up the picture and looking at it more closely. "We need to show this to your parents when they get back, Eliott! They'll love it!"

Eliott smiles, imagining his mother's beaming smile and his father's delighted laugh. He misses his parents already.

"Which side is better, Maman?" Lucas asks.

"They're both good, buddy," she laughs. "Neither of them are better than the other one."

"I like yours, Lucas," Eliott says. "I like your house."

"I like yours, Eliott," Lucas replies. "I like your water."

"See, you both like the other one better, so they're both good, right?" Madame Lallemant asks.

Lucas and Eliott nod. Eliott smiles. "Lucas still needs to learn how to draw a hedgehog, though."

"I will!" Lucas laughs back. "You need to learn how to draw people, Eliott."

Somehow, Lucas's words make Eliott's stomach turn. He feels his throat close up a little, feels his eyes get wet.

"That's mean," Eliott chokes out.

Madame Lallemant doesn't hear him, and neither does Lucas.

july 11th, 1968

18:57

caen, france

Eliott studies the drawing he's just finished, examining the lines and the colors. The pale belly and face of the hedgehog accentuating the warm, dusty colors of its spines. The yin-yang structure of the raccoon's face, its spindly fingers and its pointed ears. The color and the grain of the Lallemants' dining room table, the lightest fading and yellowing on the papers they drew on, the tiny little drawings lying on the table. Their little feet dangling in the air as they sit, the raccoon's face falling ever so slightly, the hedgehog's face scrunched up with laughter. The day Eliott still remembers so clearly, over 14 years later. The day Eliott almost realized he would love Lucas for the rest of his life. The day he realized how mean Lucas can be sometimes. The day he realized he was afraid Lucas could be even meaner if he wanted to. But 5-year-old Eliott could never foresee Lucas calling him selfish, telling him he never loved him, not truly. He could never imagine Lucas turning his back to him and walking away, no matter how much it hurt him to do it. And, if Eliott is honest, he still can't quite imagine it either, even though the pain of it still lingers just beneath his skin. Even though the pain of it bleeds into every line, every color of his drawing.

Eliott shifts his focus to the letter he plans to attach with the drawing. It's brief, and Eliott barely recognizes his own handwriting, but it says everything Eliott couldn't say through his drawing.

Lucas,

I know this isn't the best time to do this, but we need to talk. We need to explain ourselves to each other. We've loved each other far too much and for far too long for us to part the way we did the day I came home. We deserve better. You deserve better, Lucas. I need you to know that. I'm willing to follow you wherever you go if you'll have me along. Just say the word. Just give me a day, a time, a place. I'll be there. And I'll fight. I'll fight until my last breath, or until you tell me to surrender, whichever comes first. My loyalty belongs to you, Lucas. Yes, it's fallen short. Yes, at times it's cracked and timid. But it's yours. And it will be yours as long as you'll have it. Just let me know if you don't want it anymore, or if you plan on nurturing it for only a little while longer. Just speak to me, Lucas. When you're ready. You know where I'll be when you are ready. I'll wait for you. I promise.

Sincerely yours, Eliott

It's an explanation, an apology, a love letter, tied up with a fraying, old bow. All Eliott can do is hope that it'll be enough to convince Lucas to give him another chance, give them another chance. Lucas doesn't need to break off his engagement. He doesn't need to kiss Eliott or hold him until he falls asleep like he used to. He just needs to be there whenever he can. He just needs to be Eliott's friend again. Is that too much to ask for?

He sighs deeply, folding up the letter and the drawing and placing each of them in separate envelopes. He seals the one with the letter first, then writes Lucas's name on the front of it. His hand shakes as he writes it, the letters coming out jagged and stilted. He shakes his head, moving on to the envelope with the drawing. He wills himself to slow down, spend as much time on each letter as he can. He writes Lucas's name gently, patiently. He doesn't want Lucas to open the letter in front of everyone anyway. It's okay if that one isn't as pretty.

"Eliott, honey," his mother says, knocking quietly on his door. "You're gonna be late for Lucas's party."

"I'm coming, Maman," Eliott replies, gathering himself, his emotions.

"You're looking smart," she smiles, studying his outfit. "I don't remember that shirt."

Eliott smiles back, smoothing out his shirt. It's white accented with purple, pink, and blue flowers, and the sleeves are a little longer, resting just above his elbows. He's paired it with his favorite navy blue slacks. He hates to admit how long it took him to pick his outfit out. But he plays it off, shrugging nonchalantly. "Just something I found in my closet."

"Are you excited for Lucas's party?" she asks, smiling widely, but still visibly bracing herself for his answer.

He shrugs, then nods. "Yeah, I think so."

"Are you sure you don't want me to reach out to Madeleine, like Dr. Garnier said?" she asks softly, relaxing but her posture is still concerned. "You don't have to go to Lucas's party if it's going to make you upset."

"I have to talk to him, Maman," Eliott sighs. "And now's my chance to do that. I'll get him alone at some point, and I'm going to at least tell him my side of the story from that night. He needs to know why I did that to him, even though there's no excuse for it. I need him to know why I did it."

She gives him one of her wobbly smiles. "Okay. But if you need to come home, come home, okay?"

Eliott nods. "I will." He gives her a brief hug and kisses her on the cheek. "Thank you, Maman."

She mutters a "you're welcome" as he walks down the stairs, tucks Lucas's letter into his pocket. He turns and waves at her as he goes out the door. He shuts it behind him, pausing for a moment to even out his breathing. He shuts his eyes, repeating the same words to himself.

He needs to know, he needs to know, he needs to know

He opens his eyes, exhaling slowly, deeply. He walks over to Lucas's house, the grass soft and silent beneath his feet. The sound of the wave, its whisperings soothe him a little, slowing his breathing and his heartbeat a little more. He hears crickets, the wind, car engines—and somewhere, distantly, the gentle, insistent buzzing of hope. It guides him across the way to Lucas's house, with warm lights spilling out of its windows and old, worn cars surrounding it.

He walks up to the front door, memories from a few weeks ago making his feet feel glued to the front porch and a lump lodge itself in his throat. He listens a little closer to the noises of the night, working up the courage, the strength to knock on the door.

Chloé answers, with her too wide smile and too bright eyes. They get even brighter when she sees him. She's suddenly wrapping him in a tight, uncomfortable hug.

"We didn't think you were going to make it, Eliott!" she beams.

"Fashionably late?" he tries, laughing nervously.

"You do look amazing," she compliments. "I love your shirt, where'd you get it? I bet I could convince Lucas to wear something like this."

"I honestly can't remember," he answers truthfully. "I think I got it at that second-hand store downtown a while ago."

"Oh, I love that store!" Chloé smiles. "Lucas and I will have to go down there. But, come in! You can put any gifts you have on that table over there."

Eliott smiles back at her, walking past her nervously as she holds the door open for him.

"Eliott!" He hears several people cheer once he enters the Lallemants' living room.

He grins back at everyone, quickly scanning the room. He sees Yann, Emma, Manon, Imane, Alexia, Arthur with a girl with short, curly hair and glasses (he thinks they're speaking sign language with each other), Basile and Daphné, Daphné's little sister (Lola?) and a shorter girl with purple hair he doesn't recognize, Idriss and Sofiane, and several other people he doesn't recognize. They must all be Chloé's friends, Eliott assumes. He tries to ignore the strangers' stares, instead focusing on trying to find Lucas.

He spots him, then, standing by the gift table talking to his mother.

Lucas is wearing that old denim shirt he always wears for special occasions, and he still looks so good wearing it for the thousandth time. He's laughing at something his mother says, and Eliott can hear his laugh over any other noise in the world in that one, single moment. His laughter drowns out the song of the crickets, the roar of the waves, the drumming of Eliott's heart in his chest, the thunder rumbling from some distant stormcloud. The world is quiet, and the only noise that's left, the only sound that's triumphed over the deafening silence is Lucas's laugh. Eliott feels himself smile, feels a weight roll off his shoulders, feels his chest fill with something he can't quite describe. The letter in his back pocket and the drawing in his hand are almost burning him, but it reminds him of the burns Lucas would give him. Not quite a burn, he amends himself, but a flicker.

Suddenly, Lucas is turning his head and his eyes meet Eliott's. His laughter peters out, his face falling. Eliott feels all the weight come back as noise, sound returned to the world, and it's exchanged for Lucas's silence. Lucas smiles, a little too wide to be genuine, and he offers a quick apology to his mother before walking up to Eliott.

"You made it!" he says, opening his arms for a hug.

"I did," Eliott mutters, smiling weakly. He accepts Lucas's hug, and his heart almost breaks at how loosely Lucas clings onto him. "I guess you could say I was fashionably late."

"Of course you were," Lucas chuckles. He gestures vaguely at the envelope with the drawing. "Is that for me?"

"It is," Eliott answers, trying to strengthen his smile.

"Just put it right here, then," Lucas invites, nodding his head toward the gift table. "I'll be opening everything in a few minutes."

Eliott checks the envelope, making sure Lucas's name is printed clearly, without tremor. Once he's sure it's the correct one, he places it on top of a small, wrapped box. He looks back over at Lucas, whose gaze has found itself somewhere in the cosmos. And once again, Eliott can't keep himself from staring. He swears the stars themselves appear in Lucas's eyes. He swears a universe lies within them and that's why Lucas gets so lost so often. There's a world inside his mind, bleeding into the irises of his eyes, and he's trapped in there, and Eliott wants something between freeing Lucas from his prison and exploring the place Lucas so often retreats to. But ever since that day at the beach, Eliott's afraid he would've seen that same, blank, star-filled gaze if Lucas's eyes were open as he pulled him to shore that day by the water.

Lucas finds his way back to earth, finds his way back into Eliott's eyes, and Eliott looks down as quickly as he can. He feels like he's 15 again, barely able to look his best friend in the eyes because it fills him with this feeling. A feeling that leaves a tingle in his fingers and toes, a warm blush to his cheeks, and a seed of doubt in the back of his mind. A feeling he's familiar with, a feeling he's known almost as long as he's known Lucas, a feeling he could never quite name.

Love.

"Eliott," Madame Lallemant's soft voice greets. She places her hand on his shoulder, giving him her kind smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lucas walk away. "We're so happy you could make it."

"Thank you, Madame," Eliott smiles back.

"How's your mother?" she asks. "She missed you terribly while you were gone, you know."

"She's very well," he replies. "And I know. I missed her terribly, too. And I missed you and Lucas."

"I've been trying to convince that boy to stop spending so much time with Chloé," she sighs, shaking her head. "You two have barely spent any time together since you got back."

"Do they spend a lot of time together?" Eliott asks nervously. "Him and Chloé?"

"Oh, yes," she answers, almost weary. "They're practically attached at the hip. I want my baby boy to fall in love and be happy, but I worry about them. They're very much in the honeymoon phase, and they're only engaged!"

Eliott's eyes find Lucas again, and he has his arm around Chloé, looking at her like she's the sun, moon, and stars themselves. He kisses her, and they melt into each other. Eliott almost feels sick.

"He needs to be with his friends again," Madame Lallemant continues. "I think it could do him some good. His only company simply can't be only me and his fiancée."

"Is he not going out with Yann or Arthur or anyone?" Eliott asks, puzzled.

"They offer to take him out for lunch or just a day downtown, and he always declines," she sighs. "When they came by to invite him to your birthday party, he turned it down so quickly it almost made me dizzy."

"He did?" Eliott asks weakly, his heart crumbling and sinking down to his feet.

Madame Lallemant looks at him sadly, giving him a sad smile. "He did."

Eliott sighs, looking down at the floor. He bites his lips, wills his tears to stay back.

"Maybe you could talk to him?" Madame Lallemant suggests. "Snap him out of this?"

"I was planning on talking to him, anyway," Eliott replies. "We need to talk."

"Oh, is everything okay with you and Lucas?" she asks worriedly, putting her hand on his shoulder.

Eliott resists the urge to flinch at all the memories. "It's... rough."

"Did something happen?" she asks, carefully this time.

Eliott takes a deep breath, deciding whether to tell Madame Lallemant what happened or not. He opens his mouth, but the sound of someone tapping gently on a glass interrupts him.

"Well, I'd like to thank all of you for coming," Lucas says, projecting his voice across the living room. "Thank you for your company and for taking time out of your night to come celebrate with all of us. I'm going to open all these lovely presents, then we can all converse and mingle some more. Thank you all again."

Light applause ripples throughout the living room. Lucas picks up the first gift he sees from off the table, but Eliott doesn't pay much attention to him.

"We never had parties like this growing up," Eliott whispers to Madame Lallemant. "Was this Chloé's idea?"

Madame Lallemant nods. "Lucas is happy, though. The happiest I've seen him in a while."

He used to be this happy around me, Eliott thinks, resigned.

"Eliott, this one is from you, right?" he hears Lucas ask. He manages a nod and a smile in response. He turns towards Lucas, his heart pounding as he opens up the envelope. He swears he sees a genuine smile tug at the corner of Lucas's lip, but it falls once he unfolds the paper and he sees the drawing. The room is eerily quiet as a thousand emotions haunt Lucas's face. Eliott feels every eye turn to him, but his are focused on Lucas.

"What is it, darling?" Chloé asks, reaching to take it from him.

"Nothing, mon amour," Lucas dismisses, unknowingly sending another dagger digging deeply into Eliott's chest. He quickly folds up the drawing and places it back into the envelope. He turns his gaze to Eliott, his voice falsely sweet as he says, "Thank you, Eliott."

Eliott just nods, letting those same thousand emotions on Lucas's face swirl and mix in his chest into a dangerous poison; green with jealousy, bitter with regret, and thick with hope. Eliott feels like he could choke on it.

But Lucas keeps opening the rest of his gifts, smiling and laughing and showing his gratitude in a way Eliott knows he wouldn't if he was being genuine.

Falsely sweet...

Eliott feels like he could explode. He starts walking away, muttering some sort of excuse to Madame Lallemant. He finds his way to the bathroom, which is thankfully open. He shuts the door behind him, making sure to lock it.

He leans against the door, shutting his eyes and willing his breaths to come in and out of his lungs slowly, calmly.

Breathe, a thousand voices tell him, whispering above the thousand emotions in his chest. Breathe.

But the tears begin to spill, and his mind sees a new, clear sky; gray and dark and soulsucking.

He shouldn't have given Lucas that drawing. The way Lucas's face fell starts playing over and over again in his mind against the storming sky, the way his lips parted in shock, realization, and how the gentle tug at the corner of his lip suddenly went slack, and gravity, the weight of Eliott's mistake pulls it down, almost to his chin. Eliott hurt him in that moment. He's hurt him again, even though he vowed to himself and to Lucas that he would never do that again. Not after he hurt him so badly during his attempt.

When Lucas hurts him, truly hurts him, it's often no more than a scratch or a bruise to him. Their reunion was the first time Eliott felt like Lucas was hurting him so badly he could easily succumb to the wounds. He felt like Lucas had stolen all the breath from his lungs, like he'd ripped out all his guts until he was just an empty shell lying on the beach, like he had his heart in his hand and he was slowly squeezing the life out of it.

But Lucas has felt this way far too many times. And almost all those times were Eliott's fault.

The day that they kissed for the first time, Lucas said that Eliott was the reason he knew his heart was beating for the wrong reasons, that its eyes were blind and it fell in love with the wrong people. And Lucas said he'd spent night after night agonizing over the little, traitorous heart in his chest, the boy sleeping soundly next door. Crying himself to sleep, or not sleeping at all and staring at the ceiling that showed him images of everything he should want, and having to listen to his heart say no, no, no, no, that's not what I want. He would remember all the times his father or the boys at school called him a queer, and he would remember all the times he would deny it. Lucas Lallemant could never be a queer. He couldn't. He would fall to his knees, praying to the god his mother loved so much to give him anything that would make those sinful feelings stop. Lucas told Eliott that one night he prayed and asked God to just kill him. Stop his heart and his breath before he let the temptations wash over him and drown him. Those nights, those prayers were Eliott's fault.

The day Lucas drowned was one of the days Eliott felt unstoppable and so in love with this boy he's loved his entire life. The only thing he could think about that whole episode was a life with Lucas. Smiling and laughing over breakfast, smiling and laughing over lunch, smiling and laughing over dinner. Dancing in the kitchen to the old records their parents used to play in their houses. Swimming in the ocean until their skin gets all pruny and their muscles begin to ache and the salty air starts fogging up their lungs. Kissing each other until they can't breathe. Falling asleep in each other's arms every night. Growing old together, loving every wrinkle and gray hair nevertheless. So, Eliott wanted to spend the whole day with Lucas, running around and letting their laughter echo off the roads, the trees, the old buildings still decimated from the war. They went to the beach lastly, and Lucas was tired, but Eliott insisted they swim for a bit. The water was calm. They would have fun. But as the afternoon wore on, the waters became choppy. A wave swallowed Lucas whole and his soul almost drifted out to sea, towards the horizon. He was dead. It didn't matter if Eliott was able to bring him back. Lucas was dead. And it was Eliott's fault.

The night that was so dark Eliott thought he could ever see light again was the night that Eliott hurt Lucas more than he could ever see, ever understand. He tried to take himself away from him, from his mother, from the world. The water was almost at his waist, the waves cresting at his chest. He was only steps away from drowning. He hopes drowning is like Lucas said it was. The worst panic he'll ever feel in his life, then, the most tranquil calm. Then he'll fall asleep, give himself to the waves. Disappear. He left notes for Lucas and his mother. Everything will be okay. This was the right decision. But, just as water started to lap into his mouth, he hears someone call his name. He turns around, and Lucas is running toward him, slowing down as he approached the water. In a moment of clarity, Eliott could see the pain in Lucas's face. It coaxes him out of the water, away from eternity. Lucas ventures into the water, throwing his arms around Eliott and sobbing. He should've known in that moment that what he tried to would've been the gravest mistake he could've made. But it took two years for him to realize. It took two years of Lucas imagining what would've happened if he had been too late for him to realize. Lucas told him. He told him his worst nightmare. Pulling his body out of the water and not being able to save him. Lucas's drowning was an accident, and Eliott got to him in time. But Eliott's would've been on purpose, and Lucas would've been too late. How could Lucas ever live with that? How could Eliott make him go through something like that?

Eliott realizes that Lucas was right.

There's a knock at the door, and Eliott almost screams as he jumps back. Then his heart nearly stops when he hears a voice say his name.

"I need a minute, Lucas," he chokes out. "Please."

"I can wait," Lucas replies, his voice thin, full of an emotion Eliott can't discern.

Eliott takes a deep breath, wiping away his tears.

"Meet me where the grass ends," Lucas says, almost emotionless. "Okay?"

"Okay."

He hears Lucas's footsteps walk away, and he exhales as slowly as he can.

Breathe.

He unlocks the door, stepping out of the bathroom slowly. He takes another deep breath and walks out the back door. He can see Lucas standing where he said he would be. He must've heard Eliott coming, because he turns towards him. The light from the back porch is just enough to illuminate his face. He's hiding something somewhere in there, and it shows in the way he's biting his lip, as if he were biting back a secret.

Eliott walks forward, his stomach turning and his mouth going dry as he approaches him. There's silence for a moment, and Eliott searches for what Lucas is hiding. But he can't find it. His eyes start to drift to the ground, and he sees a sheet of paper in Lucas's hand. But it's not his drawing. He feels the color drain from his face as he checks his pocket and finds nothing.

"How... How did you get that?" he stammers, his hands beginning to shake.

"My maman said it fell out of your pocket when you ran off," Lucas replies, his voice still void of emotion. "And I've read it."

"And?" Eliott chokes out, looking up at Lucas. The facade has finally cracked. Lucas looks exhausted.

"I don't know what to do, Eliott," he says, sighing wearily.

"I don't know, either," Eliott admits. "I was hoping you would know."

Lucas doesn't reply. He stares back at him, hopeless.

"I'm sorry, Lucas," Eliott tries, his tears coming back.

"For what?" Lucas asks, shaking his head.

Everything, Eliott wants to reply. He wants to cradle Lucas's face in his hands and tell him, Everything! But Lucas speaks before he can do anything.

"The drawing? The letter? Everything that happened before? For what?"

Eliott stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying to keep them from doing what they so desperately want to do. "Everything," he still says.

"Everything?" Lucas repeats, raising his eyebrows. "You have a lot to catch up on, then."

"I know," Eliott sighs.

"Your letter was touching, Eliott," Lucas says. "It really was. But I'm sure you understand that your loyalty isn't as precious to me now as it was when we were younger."

"I do," Eliott agrees. "That's why I want us to talk, Lucas. I told you, I'll talk whenever you're ready to talk."

"I'm not ready to talk yet," Lucas replies, shaking his head. "But I need you to know a few things. Right now."

"Okay," Eliott shrugs. "Tell me, then."

"We can't be... together anymore," Lucas stammers out. "Not like we were before everything happened. I'm in love with Chloé, and I'm going to give her the Christmas wedding she's dreamed of and I'm going to give her everything I have. I was... I was wrong back then. I hadn't met Chloé yet. I'm not a queer. I know now."

Eliott ignores the lump in his throat. "Can I ask you a question then, Lucas?"

Lucas nods, and the hesitance of it stings. "Okay."

"Did you ever love me the way you love Chloé?" Eliott asks, his voice strangled. "Did... Did you ever love me at all?"

Lucas doesn't respond at first, and Eliott can tell he doesn't like the answer he's about to give him. Finally, Lucas says, "I don't think so, Eliott."

Eliott feels a single, hot tear roll down his cheek. His voice is thick as he replies, "Okay."

"And," Lucas begins, but then pauses. He takes a deep breath, then continues, "I'm sorry for what I said when you came home. It was unfair of me. More than unfair. I was angry and in shock and..." He trails off again.

"What?" Eliott asks softly. "Lucas, please tell me."

Eliott sees tears on Lucas's face, too. "In that moment, I wanted to hurt you," he admits, his voice like shattering glass. "And I knew that what I said would hurt you. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Then why haven't you talked to me since then?" Eliott asks, his voice a little clearer now. "Why did you turn down the boys' invitation to my party so quickly your maman told her it made her dizzy? Why was you happening to run into me outside the psychiatric office the only reason I was invited to your birthday party? Why did you lie to your fiancée about me not feeling well? My house if right across the street, Lucas. You could've walked over and told me anytime. If you were sorry why didn't you say it before?"

"I don't know," Lucas replies, broken.

Eliott sighs, feeling more defeated than he has in a while. "What else do you want me to know, then?"

Lucas nods, wiping away his tears and gathering himself again. "This is gonna sound stupid now," he mutters, shaking his head. "In your letter, you said that you just wanted to know if I would nurture your loyalty a little longer."

Eliott takes a deep breath, nodding. "And will you?"

Lucas nods again. "I will," he answers. "If you'll let me."

Eliott nods and speaks before he lets himself think. "I'll let you."

Lucas smiles, one of his small, shy ones, and Eliott's tears seem to vanish. "Thank you, Eliott."

Eliott smiles back, small and shy, too. "You're welcome."

Lucas's smile widens, and he looks down at the ground. Eliott used to hate when he did that. He couldn't see Lucas's beautiful smile when he was hiding it like that. Eliott still doesn't like him hiding.

"I guess we'd better get back inside," Lucas says, so nonchalantly it takes Eliott aback.

Eliott pauses, biting his lip. "I'm... I'm gonna go home, Lucas."

"Oh, you are?" Lucas asks, disappointed.

Eliott nods. "I am."

"Can... Can we hug, then?" Lucas asks, cautiously this time.

Eliott nods. "Of course."

Lucas grins and wraps his arm around Eliott, tighter this time. Their sudden height difference is suddenly much more apparent, but it makes Eliott smile a little. He kisses Lucas's forehead, the skin cool and familiar against his lips. "Happy birthday, Lucas," he says into his hair.

He still feels all those emotions swirling in his chest.

"Thank you," Lucas returns. "Goodnight, Eliott."

"Goodnight, Lucas."

Lucas pulls away first, and waves a small goodbye before he walks towards the house.

Once Lucas goes inside, Eliott starts walking, his heart sinking to his feet as slowly as if it were sinking into the depths of the ocean. His steps are heavy with a weight, a grief he can't quite name. And tears are rolling down his cheeks, but not from sadness or devastation, but from a kind of acceptance.

Acceptance. That's the name of the thing slowing him down as he trudges home.

#skam france #skamfr #elu #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #skamfr fic #elu fic #ttmc #hush bailey #my writing

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