#i posted one of their other cottages before this is by country patch collections ! they currently don't have a site for me to link to tho | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

survivingthejungle · 5 years

Text

Little Lies; tommy shelby

or; tommy shelby gets new neighbors from America. they have a pretty daughter.

“And on Christmas Day it’ll be just you and Charlie.”

“And the horse. And the neighbors, I’m sure.”

“The neighbors?”

“New family. Americans. moved into the little cottage down the road; I’m sure they’ll like to spend their first Christmas away from home with others.”

“Alright, fine. So you invite the Americans. You invite a bunch of Yankee strangers and not your own family.”

“Yes, Lizzie, it seems so.”

—

Dear Mr. and Mrs. (Y/L/N),

I’d like to formally invite you and your family to spend Christmas with us just down the road. I’m sure spending the holidays in a brand new country for the first time isn’t a simple transition, so you’re all more than welcome to spend it with us Shelbys.

-Thomas Shelby

The handwriting was strikingly elegant in spite of the fact that it was written by a man—men so often have messy or illegible handwriting. “Mama,” you called to the kitchen while you were standing in the doorway. ”You know the Shelbys?”

“The who, hun?”

“Shelbys. Down the road. They invited us to Christmas with them.”

“Oh, how sweet!” your mother exclaimed, coming to the doorway to meet you. “I ought to bring something.”

“I doubt you’ll have to, mom, have you seen that house? Something tells me they’ll have plenty of food.”

Your mother scoffed at your blatant assumption of their wealth. “It’s called being courteous, (Y/N), something I clearly failed to instill in you.”

You shrugged it off. “Should I write back? Say we’ll go?”

“Yeah; why don’t you go ahead and do that.”

Dear Mr. Shelby,

Thank you so much for inviting my family and I to spend Christmas with you! We are flattered by your warm invitation and are much looking forward to meeting you and your family.

-(Y/N) (Y/L/N)

With a quick swipe of your tongue and an address promptly scribbled on, the RSVP was sent back.

—

The fated day finally rolled around and you couldn’t help but feel a pit of dread in your stomach. What if the Shelbys actually end up hating us? What if it’s just a bunch of old people and no one my age? Will they judge us for not having as much money as them? As the thoughts all ran through your brain like the stream in your backyard, you continued your routine of getting dressed and brushing your hair. It was significantly longer that the current fashion demanded, but you were never one to follow societal norms. It rested at about back-length, whereas any other woman of the day would be more likely to be sporting something close to her chin. Not caring much about the style of your hair, you turned to your closet to discern what you were going to wear. After a few bits of input from your mother and father, you decided on a simple blue dress you had bought a few months prior. It was casual, but not too casual; elegant, but not too lavish.

It was nearly 2 o’clock in the afternoon when someone came knocking on your door. Your mother was busy making a trayful of baked goods in the kitchen and your father was out back feeding the hens and collecting eggs. “(Y/N), dear, would you get that?” you mother called.

“Yes, mom,” you yelled back, barreling down the steps and down the short entryway until you reached the front door.

And nearly the moment you had opened it up you saw the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on in your entire life. Please, God, don’t tell me that’s our neighbor, you prayed.

The man smiled politely down at you. “Ah, so you’re our new neighbors,” the man spoke, his thick Birmingham accent (the one you’d been most exposed to since your move) hovering over every word. “Pleasure to meet you, love, I’m Tommy Shelby.” He stuck out his hand to you and shook it. In the short amount time it took you to become absolutely starstruck, your mother had left the kitchen—hands clean— and your father had just come back inside and the four of you gathered in the hallway, Tommy still standing outside.

“Please, Mr. Shelby, come inside! It’s freezing out there.” He obliged and stepped through the threshold, and you shut the door behind him.

“Mr. Shelby, we’re so honored that you thought to invite us to dinner tonight,” your mother gushed, shaking his hand emphatically. “Really, when we got your letter I told my family how lucky we were to have moved in down the street from such welcoming people.” Mr. Shelby gave your mother a small smile and you felt your heart stop. Oh, no. This is bad.

“We’re glad to have you all the way from across the pond,” he responded. “Hope you’ve found Warwickshire to your liking.”

“Oh, it’s great,” your father piped up, putting a hand on your mother’s shoulder. “Nice to meet ya, sir,” he said, shaking Mr. Shelby’s hand as well.

“Please, call me Tommy,” he responded warmly.

It was obvious that this man was a significant number of years older than you, being only 19. While the thought of having a relationship with a 40-something year-old man had certainly never been a goal of yours before, you couldn’t help but wonder about it now. “Well,” he began, addressing the three of you, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid we’ve had to cancel Christmas dinner. A problem’s come up in the family; I hope you can forgive me.”

Your mother and father were less concerned about not having dinner and more about the state of your mysterious neighbor’s family. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry to hear that! Really, Mr. Shelby, no need to apologize. Family always comes first; of course we understand.” Your father nodded his head in agreement. “I only hope we can manage to have you over for dinner some other night, to repay you for your hospitality.”

Mr. Shelby politely declined your mother’s offer. “Really, Mrs. (Y/L/N), it won’t be necessary. You don’t want me burdening you with another mouth to feed.”

“Mr. Shelby, we insist,” your father pushed. “Bring your family, too; the more the merrier. It’ll be good for us to meet some new faces, anyways. You name a date and we’ll get it all set up.”

Before you knew it, the issue of dinner rescheduling was resolved and Mr. Shelby was on his way. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Shelby-”

“Please, I insist, you can call me Tommy. We are neighbors, after all,” he assured your mother.

“Tommy,” she smiled, correcting herself, “We really can't thank you enough for your hospitality. We’re looking forward to meeting the rest of the clan.”

With your mother satiated, he moved on to bid farewell to your father. “You’ve got a lovely family, Mr. (Y/L/N).”

“Thank you much, sir,” he responded, firmly shaking Tommy’s hand. Your mother and father left the hallway to return to their previous activities, leaving the two of you all alone.

And then it was down to you. “Merry Christmas, Ms. (Y/L/N),” he stated.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Shelby. It was wonderful meeting you.”

“Please, really, no need for formality. Call me Tommy, I’m your neighbor.”

“Alright,” you agreed, “But only if you call me (Y/N). Deal?” you stuck your hand out.

He shook it. “Deal.”

“You get home safe,” you reminded him. Taking your hand in his, he brought it to his lips and softly kissed it. Holy shit, you panicked, but managed to keep your true reaction hidden. Bidding him goodbye once more you turned on your heel after shutting the door behind him, sprinting back upstairs to your room.

—

Charlotte,

I never thought that moving across the ocean to another country could be so terrible.

Don’t misunderstand- it’s beautiful here, and so quiet and peaceful, and the people are all so obliging.

But I think I’m in love with our neighbor, and I also think he’s at least a 40 year old man. He has a son and everything, although I’m pretty sure his wife died.

On Christmas day, he stopped by the house to talk to my parents and I and welcome us to the country. When he left, he kissed my hand.

Is that weird? Or did I just misunderstand some British custom?

Send help! I miss you dearly and look forward to seeing you again soon.

-(Y/N)

Three days had passed since the ‘incident’. You sealed the letter to your best friend back in the States and threw on your coat, making your way down to the nearest post office. About halfway down the dirt road that led into the more populated village, you heard a car coming behind you. You stepped off onto the patch of grass on the side of the road, careful to not be in the way of the oncoming vehicle; but it never passed you. Instead, it caught up to you and stopped, so you stopped as well to look at who was driving it.

And, of course, it was the one and only Tommy Shelby. “(Y/N),” he called to you, “Where are you headed? You’ll freeze out there, do you need me to drive you somewhere?”

“Oh, I’m fine Mr. Shelby—”

“Tommy, (Y/N), please.”

“Tommy. Sorry. I don’t need a ride, but thank you for the offer! I’m just headed down to the post office.”

“Nonsense, that’s too far away for you to be walking. Get in, I’ll take you there. I’m headed into town meself.” Suddenly acutely aware of the sharp cold pricking at your face and hands, you obliged and stepped up into his car. He held a hand out to help balance you as you got yourself settled and shut the door. He was smoking, as you’d assumed was his habit. Once he began driving again, he was the first to break the silence. “How ‘ave you and your family been?”

“We’re just alright,” you smiled, “My mom’s so happy here. She loves all the people; says they’re the nicest she’s ever met.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mean me,” he chuckled. “I’m just the mean old man down the road.”

“No, not at all!” you exclaimed. “She thinks you’re wonderful.”

“Ah, is that so? And what about you?” he asked.

“What about me?” you responded, not sure you understood his question.

“How are you liking it here? Any new friends, any boyfriends?”

“No, not at all,” you giggled, blushing slightly. “I haven’t really met anyone new yet.”

“Well, you’re a pretty girl,” he said offhandedly. If you were paying closer attention you would’ve caught the slight sigh that passed his lips. “You’ll have all the boys chasing after you in no time.”

“I hope not,” you scoffed. “Boys are silly and immature. I’m perfectly content all by myself.”

He took his eyes off of the road for just a moment to glance at you, an unreadable expression on his soft features. “You’re a smart girl,” he praised, “Got a good head on your shoulders. Don’t let anyone change that.” Thankfully, before you had to muster up a half-hearted reply, the car came to a stop. You had reached the post office. “Go on,” he prompted, “I’ll wait up for you.”

“Really, Mr. Sh—Tommy,” you caught yourself, “You don’t have to wait for me, I know you’re a busy man.”

“(Y/N), if it had been a problem, I wouldn’t have given you a ride, would I?” He gave you a knowing look.

“I..I guess not. I’ll be quick,” you promised, rushing inside. You dropped off your letter to Charlotte without having to wait in too unbearable a line, and scurried back outside to where Tommy was waiting for you to return. “Thank you again for doing this; I don’t know how to pay you back.”

“No need, sweetheart,” he nearly crooned, and you felt your heart swell and your throat close up. “Although I will have to take up your mum’s dinner offer soon.”

“Sounds perfect; we’re looking forward to it,” you smiled.

The car fell into a comfortable silence for a moment before Tommy spoke up again. “(Y/N), your family—you wouldn’t happen to be Italian, would you?”

An odd question, you thought, but nonetheless one you could easily answer. “Not to my knowledge, no,” you told him. “How come?”

“What business is your family in?”

“Business?” you questioned. “Uh, nothing, really. We had a farm back home; sold eggs, and milk, and livestock every once in awhile to make money. My parents have been saving up to move over here for years.”

“I see,” he mumbled, nodding and pondering your answers. “‘Ave you got any plans for the next hour or so?”

“Uh, no, I don’t,” you responded shyly. You weren’t going back in the direction of your house, but deeper into a town that you were unfamiliar with. Regardless of how attractive a man was, that didn’t mean you wouldn’t be uncomfortable with him kidnapping you.

“I’ve got someone to check on at the hospital. Would you like to meet ‘em? It’ll only take a moment,” he assured you.

“Oh, sure!” you responded. “I’d love to go.”

—

It turned out that the person being checked on at the hospital was Tommy’s cousin, Michael; and he was in bad shape. “He got shot. Christmas day. Been waiting on ‘im to wake up ever since.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Tommy; that’s terrible. He got shot? How?”

Tommy took a deep breath and turned to face you. You were both back in the car now; not much use to sit at a comatic person’s bedside and wait God knows how long for them to wake up. The car was parked and the two of you were just having a heartfelt conversation with one another. “Listen, my family and I… we’ve gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble here and there. We managed to piss off an American and now he’s after us.”

You nodded. “That’s why you wanted to know if my family was Italian. If we were with them.” He agreed.

“Your- your mum and dad, they’re good country folks. I take it they’ve been farming their whole lives?” You nodded again. “I don’t think you’re the same as them,” he mused.

“I’m not,” you confirmed. “My parents are content living in that cottage for the rest of their lives… But that seems so boring to me. I want to go do something, I want to travel somewhere. Or at least do something different. I don’t want to be just another farm girl.”

“The world has plenty of those,” he agreed, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“What about you?” you wondered aloud. He glanced at you, urging you to continue. “I mean, do you want to keep ‘getting into trouble’?”

He scoffed. “Fuck, if only I could keep meself out of trouble. It seems to come looking for me nowadays.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So am I, (Y/N); so am I.” He’d started the car and was about to put it into gear when all of a sudden a couple of sharply dressed men came out from behind a corner, guns pointed directly at the car—directly at you and Tommy. He noticed them in the rearview mirror and immediately shoved you from your seat to the floor. “Fuck!” he yelled, at the same time the men began to shoot. You let out a scream, covering your head with your arms and curling yourself closer to the ground. You could hear Tommy grab something from the glove compartment, a gun, and begin shooting back at the men. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire for a moment, then suddenly—silence. Tommy let out a sigh of relief. His hand found its way to your head and brushed your hair back out of your face. “(Y/N), look at me— are you hurt?”

His face was stone cold and serious. You shook your head, and the rest of your body followed suit. You couldn’t stop shaking and your breathing was short and rapid. “Oh my God… Oh my God,” you whispered to yourself. He helped you back up on to your seat before pulling you close to him, head on his chest as he stroked your hair and spoke softly in your ear.

“Listen to me, you’re alright. Yeah? I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.” You couldn’t restrain it anymore; you let out a broken sob as the weight of what had just happened crashed into you like a freight train.

“What the fuck, Tommy!” you cried.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll never let that happen again, alright? I won’t let ‘em come after you because of me. Look at me.” You obeyed, tears in your eyes, and his heart broke once again. “That will never happen again. Do you understand me?” You nodded. He pulled you back to him and let you cry it out, smoothing down your hair while you held onto his jacket with white knuckles. If you had cared, you would have noticed him press a few kisses to the top of your head; having just been nearly killed, however, you didn’t care all that much.

You were out of tears in the next few moments, pulling yourself away and trying to regain every shred of dignity you had left. His hand stayed resting on your shoulder comfortingly while you wiped your tears away with your fingertips. “Oh my God,” you nearly chuckled, “This is not how I expected living in a new country would be.” He smiled at that, comforting you. He lifted a hand to wipe away a few remaining tears on your lashes, and lifted your chin with his knuckle.

“You gonna be alright?” he asked with piercing eyes.

“Yes. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I never want to get shot at again,” you said, more to yourself than to him, but he still chuckled lightly.

“You won’t, little bird, I promise.” He drove you back to your house in relative silence, suddenly hyper-aware of the surroundings. You made it back in one piece with only a shattered back windshield as proof of what had happened. Before you got out of the car, he stopped you. “I’ll come and check on you soon, yeah?” You accepted the offer. “Good girl. Be careful.”

With that you slid out through the passenger side door and opened the door to your house, Tommy only driving away after the door was shut and you were safe inside. “Hello, my darling,” you mother greeted you. She and your father were sitting in the living room, fireplace roaring. “Where have you been?”

“I sent a letter to Charlotte at the post office,” you explained hanging up your coat. “Mr. Shelby was headed somewhere in his car; he gave me a ride there and back.”

“Oh, what a nice man!” your mother gushed. “He really is a great guy. I hope he comes for dinner soon.”

“I think he will,” you assured her, “I mentioned it to him. He says he’s looking forward to it and we’ll get something worked out soon.” Your father hadn’t spoken a word yet, too busy reading the paper to listen to your conversation. “I’m gonna go upstairs and take a nap, mom; this weather has exhausted me.” With a swift farewell you tucked your shoes by the staircase and headed up to bed. Rather than sleeping in your day clothes, you threw on your pajamas and snuggled up under the covers, burying your head in the pillow and taking a deep breath.

As much as you tried to forget what had happened just half an hour before, you couldn’t; the more you tried, the more you remembered, and the more upset you became. A few uncontrollable tears slipped past your eyes as you cried quietly into the pillow; soon becoming too tired to keep your eyes open, you drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

#tommy shelby #dommy tommy ; )#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinders imagine #cillian murphy #little lies

217 notes · View notes

lindoig4 · 5 years

Text

Across Canada

I will try to post a little more text today, but the internet service here is pretty poor so I will leave posting of any more photos until we get home. We leave the US this evening and arrive back in Melbourne before dawn on Wednesday, having missed an entire day along the way.

We took a cab to Union Station to catch the VIA Rail across the country. We have usually paid cab fares by card, but Heather used cash this time. The cabbie gave her a few coins as change and when Heather said that there should have been some notes, he said he was keeping that as his tip - about 50% of the fare. Heather argued, but he bullied her and insisted that he was keeping it. Had I been closer instead of getting our bags out of the boot, he may not have been so demanding, but it left a sour taste in our mouths as it was.

The train is by no means luxurious, obviously oldish, but it is quite functional and we are comfy enough in our little cabin. One good thing is that the bunks are bigger and much more comfortable than on the ship or the other trains we have used. We have both slept well.

On the other hand, there is no WiFi at all, only an occasional phone signal and although there are 110-volt power outlets, they won’t charge my PC - so once again, the technology has failed us. Maybe I am naive, but we are now in the 21st century and I reckon basic power and signal issues should have been sorted out years ago. As it is, the battery in my PC is flat and there is no way I can use it until we reach Vancouver at best. That means I can’t look at my photos or do much with my blog other than draft bits on my iPad.

Canada is exquisitely beautiful. It is an absolute picture postcard, full to bursting with trees and lakes. The overwhelming colour is green, with literally billions of tall skinny pointy trees. Actually, they are not that tall. We have seen very few trees more than 8-10 metres tall, but there are zillions of them, mostly densely packed with both understory and overstory. In some places, it is a bit more open, but still usually gloomy and mysterious, inviting us to explore - if only we were out there in the bush. Aspen, larch, spruce, alder, birch, pines and firs, conifers of every description, millions of stark white trunks, black trunks, all sorts, drowning in a thousand shades of green, leaves shimmering in the breeze, gleaming in the sun, with just a smattering of autumn tones starting to appear here and there.

Then there are the thousands of lakes. We must have traversed 1000 kilometres of marshy land with water shimmering through the low vegetation as far as we could see. But there are thousands of open lakes as well, from just a hectare or two to those speeding past the train for kilometre after kilometre. Did I say picture postcard? We have seen them all. The little ones that look like they came out of a cutesy 50s or 60s movie, with the summer camp atmosphere - a few canoes tied up to a little landing, a pontoon and shallow diving board, a short rowing course, maybe a pathetic little waterski-jump and a collection of quaint little huts that are probably family holiday shacks. Then there are the more remote ones, some with a tiny island or two with just 2 or 3 perfectly conical fir trees on them and a kayak tied up to a partly-submerged drowning landing that defies imagination about how one might access it - not even a hiking track, much less a road, in sight. Then we have the larger ones with a couple of small tinnies out there, each with a fisherman or two, sound asleep with their rods dangling limp over the side, or perhaps the ten deserted sheds, some literally falling down, and only a tiny Cessna anchored to the shore to suggest that anyone might occasionally visit them. We are not talking upscale Hillbilly country. This is magically picturesque country that should warrant criminal charges if anyone but us invades it. Add your own superlatives, but for me, I have run out. Simply stupendously glorious!

Later. We have just crossed the border from massive Ontario into Manitoba - after more than 20 hours heading west. Slowly, the trees and lakes seem to be getting slightly larger, the terrain is a little more open, the trees a little lighter green and the wildflowers more profuse and colourful - mainly white, yellow and mauve/purple.

For the entire trip, there has been a line of telegraph posts and cables beside the train: around 20 cables, but obviously long defunct. Thousands of the posts have simply sunk into the boggy earth or fallen over or submerged into the lakes, and many of the cables are broken or hanging limp and tangled. I am amazed that nobody has attempted to salvage the hundreds of thousands of dollars of copper out there.

As we went west, it became a little hillier and we even went through a couple of short tunnels. We also went through many cuttings where the rock had been blasted away for the track. There was a lot of red in the rocks and it is likely that some sort of algae was growing on it to make it that colour.

It was getting dark when we rolled into Winnipeg, but we had an hour and a bit stopover, so we went into the station and used the WiFi to download our email - alas, mostly more bills to pay! I had prepared a few emails to send, but they were all on my PC and inaccessible due to the flat battery!

It was a very rocky night, but we were up early for showers. I raised the blind just a centimetre or two in our cabin and could see everything there was to see. The landscape was entirely in landscape. Flat, flat, flat - all the way to the horizon. Everything looked manicured as if the farmers had risen early and swept or ironed their paddocks to welcome us. A bit later, we saw patches of forest and lots of neat (or sometimes sprawling) farmhouses, often with 2 or 3 little cottages and a barn or two, and mostly at least a field-bin or ten (or 30) and a tractor parked nearby. Many farms also have a machinery graveyard, usually at a distance from the house, with rows of rusty tractors, trucks, cars, pick-ups, ploughs, harvesters, caravans, campers and who knows what, all lined up in their final resting places, slowly sinking into the landscape. The houses all have pitched rooves, presumably to avoid too much snow collecting on them in the winter.

The paddocks are mainly cropped with wheat, barley, oats and canola, but there is also a lot of uncropped land, mostly looking too boggy to crop. Quite a bit of the uncropped land is still productive though, with miles of road and rail verges being harvested and baled for silage. It is obviously harvest time over here with quite a lot of crop already cut, but with plenty more still to go. We haven’t seen much actually being harvested, but plenty of hay bales in neatly shorn paddocks. There are a few cattle but no big herds. Also a few horses, half a dozen goats, a donkey, a young deer standing beside the track staring at me - and at least one fox scampering across the prairie with four magpies harassing it. It was nearly two days later before we saw any sheep: about 20 near one house and 3 at another – then none through to Vancouver.

There have been a few shallow lakes, mainly fairly small and at last, a few birds. We crossed one wide river, very shallow with flat mud islands and hundreds of birds: all gulls and Canada Geese as far as I could see. It is very frustrating not having any internet because I can’t identify the birds conclusively without my favourite Merlin app, but I am taking photos and making notes and hope I will be able to tie some of them down later. It is even more frustrating that Heather can sit there posting to Facebook and her blog almost any time when the SIM we purchased for me doesn’t work in either my phone or my iPad!

There were a few places along the rivers and nearby lakes where I suspect beavers were at work. A couple of creeks appeared to be dammed and there was an area near one suspected lodge where a whole lot of smallish trees had been felled – all with pencil-sharpener bases. And I saw a few flat conical structures a metre or so above the water level – again with a collection of pick-up-sticks pencil-ended logs embedded in the structure. I could be just imagining it, but the indications seemed to be there that beavers could have created the dams and underwater pyramids.

It is strange that we rocketed through the night, speeding along much faster than anywhere to date, making for a very bumpy ride - then arriving in Saskatoon where they said we were way ahead of our timetable so there would be a two hour stopover to get back on schedule. Go figure! The track we are on is apparently owned by a freight company and freight trains always have priority. This means that we frequently need to stop at sidings or on branch lines, often for half an hour or more until a freight train passes. The freight trains are massive, up to about 3 kilometres long and mostly double-deckers that roar along carrying hundreds of thousands of tonnes of cargo across the country day and night. They are not as bad as in Russia where a few kilometres of freight barrelled past us every time I raised my camera for a shot, but there must still be at least several dozen here each day.

Next time we woke up, we were in Saskatchewan and the terrain slowly became more varied, with lumpy low hills, uneven ground, more diverse vegetation, taller trees and in due course, we had an hour or so stopover in Edmonton and next morning we rolled into Jasper in the Canadian Rockies. Our Edmonton stop was marked by the start of a dramatic electrical storm. It was really ferocious with lightning flashing brilliantly around us every few seconds. We went to dinner as it was getting dark and the lightning outside the dining car was tremendous. We were soon locked up, cosy in bed, but several other passengers said the electrical storm was amazing and followed us for hours.

1 note · View note

bonnissance · 6 years

Note

pippa owns a small secluded cottage in the forest/countryside and invites hecate over for the weekend

so fun story, I sat down and wrote two whole other sections of this theme before I decided to focus on she/they high femme nonbinary Pippa Pentangle and their home away from the castle (which they’ve secretly always wanted Hecate to be a part of), and idk if the parts mesh together into one fic, so y’all get this one on it’s own for the moment

Pippa Pentangle(/Hecate Hardbroom), 1.5k+, teen. CW: references to nonbinary exclusion, few references to transphobic rhetoric (hmu if i’ve messed anything, this is an area of writing i’m unfamiliar w), gay pining (when isn’t it?)

Pippa has a cottage, a few hours away from Pentangle’s, more hours away from Cackle’s, the furtherest away from Hecate, in the middle of both then off to the side, on the farthest edge of Darkwood and a few miles more: a strange sort of diamond that spans across the coast to encompass the woodland of the country side.

It’s in the middle of clearing in the heart of the forest, hidden far away from prying eyes and further away from the responsibilities they spend their days fulfilling, upholding, taking up themselves to push herself and the students to become the best magic casters they can be.

Pippa loves Pentangle’s dearly, but sometimes they just need to get away.

And she’s had it for years, decades—a home to come back to, while they worked their way up and down the country moving from teaching position to different school, never quite finding her feet on solid ground in any of them.

It was hard, in the earlier years of their career: the more traditionalist academies hated Pippa’s disregard for rigidity and blind obedience towards authority, while the schools that claimed modernity, that Pippa had hoped were more their style, still clung to assumptions Pippa had long since realised simply weren’t necessary.

Like keeping witches and wizards segregated to limit the possibilities of what magical children could grow up to be.

That’s what get her fired from her last position, before they took over Pentangle’s when their Aunt had passed away a year later and entailed the family school to Pippa.

‘Absurd,’ the headmistress had said. ’Of course you can’t teach wizards witchcraft, what utter nonsense.’

She’d practically laughed Pippa out of her office, in the wake of Pippa’s request to take on a new applicate from a nearby town: a young boy whose magic didn’t seem to sit right in the school where an old friend was the school nurse. An old friend who’d thought of Pippa when the wizard kept coming into the ward with depleted energy and almost not casting to show for their spent magic, and there was nothing she could do to help them.

Pippa had been desperate to help, positive they knew the root of the young caster’s problem, but no one was willing to listen, no matter how much they begged. The headmistress had demanded Pippa’s resignation not long after, citing a pile of complaints made during Pippa’s time at the school, from parents with problems with their teaching methods, the results, the way they introduced themselves during parent’s evening.

It was the last one that truly stung.

Pippa almost spat in the witch’s face before packing her bags and leaving the grounds: the staff had known what they were getting when they hire Pippa, they’d never hidden who they were, never shied away from curious, harmless questions about their dissertation—still making waves more than a decade on—and the witch who wrote it. And what drove Pippa’s research in the first place.

But no matter how much the rest of the teachers listened, very few of them every really understood. And even fewer really cared.

So, Pippa left and never once looked back at a society that kept magic casters divided to make sure there was nowhere welcoming for the type of witch they’d become.

They made a quick detour to visit her friend on the way, to offer their services to the wizard in her care, before coming home to the cottage their great-grandmother entailed them a decade ago.

It had been a bit drab, when they’d first inherited it. Dusty like it hadn’t been used in half a century (67 years, to be more precise, since Great Aunt Petunia, the famous family hermit, had passed away and left it to Pippa’s grandmother), decorated like it was the 80’s—1880’s, that is—and Pippa always was more of a twentieth century sort of person.

The first thing they’d done was redecorate the whole house, inside and out: painted the exterior champagne and pale with blue trim on the window panes, the inside peach sweet and light and adorned with long velvet curtains in warmest purple (they’d considered a crushed pink, when they were deciding on decor, but there was something about the purple that caught her eye. They thought it blended well with the red of the armchairs by the fireplace, at first; it took almost a full year to realised it was the colour of Hecate’s sash when they were at school).

They’d installed bookshelves along every wall, bare and empty at first, but swiftly filled to the brim with tomes and textbooks and grimoires: ancient texts that ground their research, studies that reach all around the globe with broaden it, newer text to further it. A balance between the ideas that delight her, and as many that contradict: to be as thorough as possible, of course, by putting the skills she’d developed when she was young and determined to find a suitable, useful gift to give Hecate every year, so she could see her best friend smile.

Pippa knows why they’re drawn to the most archaic of texts and does her best to forget (they don’t need to anymore: the biggest gift of all).

Nonetheless, their collection grew. More so with her first pupil: in Pippa’s care for a year, where they watched the young caster bloom with promise, until her Aunt had died.

He’d been Pentangle’s first new enrolment, coming with Pippa as they took over as Head Teacher; their first graduate, too, and Pippa couldn’t be prouder of the caster they grew up to be, the youngest member of the magic council.

But as proud as Pippa of all the students in their school, that doesn’t mean they never needed time away. And when she does, Pippa comes here, to her home away from the castle, with only Artemis to keep her company, usually perched high on the extra armchair Pippa really doesn’t need, no matter how fond her familiar is of it, especially given he has a handcrafted tree of his own, (and if the trunk of Pippa’s creation also happens to be a scratching post, it’s simply to keep her birds claws in check, nothing at all to do with the needs of any other familiar. Certainly not).

She used to have chickens, once, in a coop along the far side of the house. But when Pippa took over Pentangle’s they soon realised the longer hours required she be on-site, that taking paperwork with them wherever they went really wasn’t an option, and it simply wasn’t feasible to keep the brood caged away with no one to care for them.

So Pippa brought them back to the school during the first summer holiday. Set up an area on the east side of the castle, the expanse of overgrown grass that no one ever seemed to be able to tame or replace, where Pippa added few trees for shade and a dash of magic to help things along and made them all the beginnings of an orchard.

The teachers hadn’t known what to make of it, yet one more new thing to accept now that Pippa ran the school, but the students had loved it, even more when new chicks hatched, and their collection of fowls had almost tripled in the space of one spring.

The goat had been their Deputy’s idea, and by the end of Pippa’s second year at Pentangle’s the school had the makings of an entire farm, a vegetable patch even bigger than the one Pippa has at home.

They hadn’t realised why they needed such a huge patch, why she’d plotted but never planted. Why they just let it grow whatever it wanted. Not till that tried to tame it, stripping it back in time for the spring break and Hecate impending visit: the reason Pippa had made it in the first place.

Because it’s always been Hecate, even when Pippa thought she hated her: the colour of her curtains and the extra chair by the fire, a quite wilderness just outside a kitchen stocked like a baker lives in the same cottage Pippa has spent half their life perfecting.

And it is, perfect: almost, that is. Almost perfect with it’s always burning fire and enough books to keep even the most particular of occupied on rainy days, and a calendar on the wall that that marks nothing besides the passing of the moon and their loves next visit.

A calendar with a pink circle marking this very day: a day practically perfect in every way.

Pippa looks out the window, see a silhouette on the horizon coming closer and closer: the missing piece, only just out of reach.

But not anymore, because Hecate lands other side of the hip-height picket fence, cloak flapping in the breeze while she strips off her gloves, before making her way to Pippa’s front door.

Pippa meets her there, welcomes her in before she can knock: holds her closes, kisses her cheek, draws her inside. Goes off make tea while Morgana begins to sniff around the house; brings the tray back to see Hecate making herself at home, here, in front of the fire, sitting in a red velvet armchair with a book already in her lap.

Comes back to find Hecate has made herself comfortable here, in Pippa’s home, just the way it should be.

#goblinsnacks #pippa pentangle #hicsqueak #i wrote a thing #the worst witch

62 notes · View notes

gnomegirlgabby-blog · 4 years

Text

Let me introduce you to Gnorris!

He is the spokesgnome for Cath Kidston and their garden gnomes collection! Below is their introduction of Gnorris and his story!

This season we’re telling Garden Stories with the help of our friendly little guide, Gnorris the Garden Gnome. Many of you have been bringing Gnorris along on your travels and taking part in our competition, so we thought you might like to join in with Gnorris’ latest adventure. The Adventures of Gnorris the Gnome start here – and we need your help writing them! Read on for the first chapter of Gnorris’ story and don’t forget to tell us where you think he should head next by commenting at the end of the post.

(I definitely think more of this gnomes adventures need wrote!)

Once upon a time there was a pretty little cottage in the English countryside, surrounded by a beautiful garden. The family who live there love their garden and have filled it with lots of pretty plants and flowers. But flowers aren’t the only thing you’ll find there – the garden is also home to a little Garden Gnome named Gnorris and his friends Bee and Ladybird.

Each winter the garden turns cold and dark, Bee and Ladybird go into hibernation and the flowers are no more. Gnorris waits eagerly for spring to arrive so the garden will burst into bloom again and Bee and Ladybird will wake up from their long winter sleep. Gnorris is lonely without them, and wishes he had a friend to keep him company.

One day Gnorris is startled by the sound of flapping wings. A beautiful Blossom Bird glides down from the sky and lands beside him.

“Hello little Gnome. Why are you all alone?”

“Hello Bird. My friends are hibernating for the winter and I’m lonely without them. I wish it was spring again!”

“I’m flying south for the winter, where it’s warm! Why don’t you come with me? You might even make some new friends there.”

Gnorris has never ventured outside the garden before so he feels a little bit frightened. He loves his home…but maybe it is time he went on an adventure…

“OK bird, I’ll come with you!”

Blossom Bird scoops Gnorris up and takes to the sky. Up, up and away!

Soon Gnorris and Blossom Bird have left the little cottage and garden far behind them. Gnorris can’t believe his eyes – there’s so much to see! Suddenly he notices something, or someone, on the ground far below them.

“Look Bird, what’s that?”

Blossom Bird glides down to take a look. It’s a fluffy little dog with a friendly face and a waggy tail.

“Hello I’m Billie! I don’t suppose you know the way to London do you?”

“London?! What’s that?” said Gnorris.

“It’s a big city full of exciting things to see!” said Billie “Everyone should visit. I’m on my way there but I seem to have lost my way. Can you help me?”

“There’s a bus stop up ahead” said Blossom Bird. “If you wait there a bus will pick you up. This is Gnorris the Gnome by the way, he’s going on an adventure!”

“An adventure! Well Gnorris, you must come with me to London then!”

Our fans have spoken and voted for Gnorris to continue flying south with Blossom Bird…

Gnorris is enjoying his flight with Blossom Bird, watching the country whizzing by below him, and whilst London sounds exciting, it might also be a bit scary for a little Garden Gnome! So he and Blossom Bird take to the skies once more.

“Farewell Billie, safe travels!”

“You too Gnorris, I hope our paths cross again!”

Gnorris and Blossom Bird continue flying south. Gnorris can feel the warmth of the sun already, and his chilly little garden feels a long way away. He watches the landscape unfold beneath them and notices villages and towns, fields and rivers. Suddenly he notices a strange, half-built circle of enormous stones in the middle of a wide green space.

“What’s that?!”

“That’s Stonehenge. Those mysterious stones are thousands of years old and no-one’s quite sure why they’re there or how they got there.” said Blossom Bird. “Want to fly down and take a look?”

Our fans have spoken and voted for Gnorris to visit Stonehenge…

“Yes please!” said Gnorris.

Blossom Bird comes in to land and gently sets Gnorris down on the grass.

“I can’t stay I’m afraid Gnorris – I must keep flying south.”

“That’s ok Blossom Bird, I want to stay and explore!” Gnorris is feeling brave after his exciting adventures.

“Good luck then! See you around!”

“Thank you for the ride Blossom Bird! Safe travels.”

Gnorris looks up in awe at the enormous stones towering above him. There are people visiting Stonehenge too, but Gnorris is so little they don’t take any notice of him. As Gnorris explores he notices the shadows cast by the stones getting longer and longer as the day starts to draw in. Soon all the human visitors have left.

“Oh no!” thinks Gnorris. “I’m all alone again!”

Poor Gnorris isn’t feeling very brave anymore – without Blossom Bird as his guide he’s not sure what to do. Just then he notices something moving out of the corner of his eye. It’s a bunny rabbit!

“Oh I’m so pleased to see you! I’ve been on an adventure but I don’t know where to go next!”

“Goodness, that sounds very exciting!” said Bunny. “But it’s quite late to be continuing with your adventure today – I have a nice cosy burrow where you can come and stay the night. Mrs Bunny and the baby Bunnies are at home but you’re very welcome! Then you can carry on with your adventure in the morning when it’s light.”

“Yes please Bunny! said Gnorris. “I’m Gnorris by the way. I can’t thank you enough!”

Gnorris follows as Bunny hops back to the burrow. Mrs Bunny and the baby Bunnies give him a warm welcome, and he snuggles down happily for the night – his gnome ancestors lived underground so Gnorris feels quite at home in the cosy burrow. The next day dawns bright and sunny, and Gnorris feels refreshed and ready to continue with his adventures!

“Where should I go next Bunny?” said Gnorris.

“Well” said Bunny. “If you walk over the hill you’ll see a forest in the distance. I’ve never ventured that far, but some say it’s enchanted.”

Being a little bit magical himself, Gnorris thinks that an enchanted forest could be just the place. He thanks the Bunnies and heads on his way.

He trudges up the hill and sure enough, at the top he can see a forest in the distance. Eventually (he can only walk so fast on his little legs) he reaches its edge. It’s eerily quiet. He notices a toadstool, but it’s a toadstool unlike any he’s ever seen before – it’s a toadstool with a door! Feeling brave once again, Gnorris knocks on the door.

A magical Garden Fairy is at home. She’s very beautiful, and Gnorris feels a bit bashful in her presence!

“Hhhhhello Fairy!” he stammers. “I’m Gnorris!”

“Welcome to the magical forest Gnorris” said Fairy. “Where have you come from?”

“I’ve been on an adventure!” said Gnorris. “I’m…I’m…a long way from the garden where I used to live…”

All of a sudden Gnorris feels rather sad and homesick for his little garden.

“Don’t be sad!” said Fairy. “You’re welcome to stay and explore the forest – all magical creatures are welcome here – but if you’re ready to return home then I’m sure I can make that happen. I am a Garden Fairy with magical powers after all…and there’s no place like home, is there?”

Our fans have spoken for the last time, and voted for Gnorris to stay and explore the magical forest with Garden Fairy…

Gnorris thinks how lucky he is to have made such welcoming friends on his travels.

“Thank you Fairy. I’ll stay a while!”

And so Gnorris settles into forest life, meeting the other inhabitants both animal and magical and making plenty of friends. Garden Fairy and her fairy friends take rather a shine to him, making him flower crowns to wear and trying to teach him to fly and cast spells. Gnorris tries his best but isn’t sure he makes the best fairy!

Gnorris is happy and settled but sometimes feels a little pang of loneliness that he can’t quite explain. One day he wanders deep into the forest, further than he’s ever ventured before. The greenery is very dense but the sun occasionally peeks through the trees, and in a patch of sunshine up ahead he notices another little toadstool house. As he walks closer he realises that there’s someone stood by the little house…someone that looks rather a lot like him! It’s another Garden Gnome, but she’s a girl!

“Hello there!” she shouts. “A fellow Garden Gnome, how exciting! I haven’t seen any of our kind in the forest before, so I’m very glad to see you. I’m Gnatalie by the way!”

Gnorris might be a long way from the garden he used to call home…but suddenly he feels right at ‘gnome’!

– THE END –

Thanks to all of you for taking part in The Adventures of Gnorris the Gnome by entering the competition and contributing to his story! Want to make up your own story for Gnorris and Gnatalie? Why not make your own glove puppets, or download and print your own Gnorris and Gnatalie and take them both on a new adventure?

Please I beg of you to continue the Adventures of Gnorris and revive the collection! Cath Kidston Gnomes!

#gnomelove #gnomegirlgabby #gnomes #gardengnomes #gnomeart #gnomesgnomesgnomes #gnomewant #neededgnomes #GnorrisTheGnome #CathKidstonGnomes #FavoriteGnomes #FavoriteGnomeStyle #GnatalieTheGnome

0 notes

damnfinecupocoffee · 5 years

Text

Reprise - Chapter 2 (exr)

An Enjoltaire / JBM+R friendship fic for @williamvapespeare

Rated T for now, higher rating in later chapters. Set modern era, time skip to their 30s.

READ ON AO3

Chapter 2 (of 10) (4,634 words)

Grantaire opened his door at exactly the same moment Enjolras stepped out of the guest room the following morning.

He’d be hard-pressed to explain why it felt so utterly mortifying - besides the fact he was standing there in front of the most beautiful man in the world, in nothing but a ratty old pair of boxers and a faded t-shirt that pulled a little tight around his gut - but Grantaire still felt the hot flush creeping up his face and neck as their eyes met across the narrow, crooked corridor of the cottage’s second floor. Enjolras looked, as he always did, practically flawless, with his long curls already swept back into a neat bun and a pair of check pyjama bottoms hanging low off his slim hips. He was shirtless, although he had a small selection of clothes held to his chest, obscuring the view of his equally flawless torso. Probably for the best. The sight of him was already rubbing salt in the old wound that had reopened last night.

“Good morning,” Enjolras said politely, although Grantaire was sure he was being judged for the state he was in when Enjolras looked him up and down. “Were you heading to the shower? I can wait.”

The plan had been to get coffee and eat too much breakfast in his underwear, then spend the day wrapped up in a blanket in an armchair, doing nothing in particular and not bothering to get dressed at all unless it became absolutely necessary. That was what he’d usually do when he stayed here, but faced again with Enjolras’ presence Grantaire felt his usual comfort evaporate like a rug pulled out violently from beneath his feet.

“Go ahead,” Grantaire said, wetting his lips and looking anywhere but at the small slither of skin visible between the waistband of Enjolras’ pyjamas and the clothes in his arms. When Enjolras didn’t immediately move, Grantaire gestured towards the bathroom with a sweep of his arm. “Please. I’m...I’ll just-”

He gave up, shooting Enjolras a forced smile instead.

When he’d first woken up, buried to the neck in blankets and cushions on the pull out bed in Musichetta’s office, Grantaire had ambitiously thought this could work, that he could stay here in the cottage with Enjolras in the room across the hall and treat it like nothing was different to normal, and still have a good time. This was his safe place, after all - one spanner in the works shouldn’t have been enough to tear it all down.

The problem was, Enjolras was a pretty sizeable spanner and Grantaire’s inner workings were already a fragile mess, always on the verge of a breakdown.

Ducking back inside the office, Grantaire closed the door and leaned against it as though there was some reason to hold it shut. He could feel the first signs of a panic attack gathering in his chest: electric shocks pulsing in his head, spots in his vision, his chest constricting so tightly it crushed the air out of his lungs. Fighting to stave it off was a practiced art, but not an easy one.

He’d been wrong. This was never going to work.

Folding the sofa bed away felt like finalising his decision. He’d have to go elsewhere. Once the cushions were back in place, Grantaire took a seat on it and looked around at the small office that doubled as a second guest room, taking in the cute, eclectic decor and feeling a twist of sadness at the idea of leaving so soon. The room was a funny shape, a chimney breast sticking out into it with no fireplace, creating two small alcoves on the far wall, and Bossuet had built a custom desk around it - with Feuilly’s help - for Musichetta’s jewellery making and leather work. They’d filled the spaces above it with shelves and filled the shelves with everything and anything. There were Joly’s medical journals, dog-eared and well-thumbed novels - fantasy for Bossuet, travel stories and romances for Musichetta, and Joly’s favourite crime thrillers - and crafting books, ornaments collected from trips around the country and overseas to Musichetta’s family, and colourful flags strung wall to wall. And picture frames - so many picture frames. They were littered between the shelves and hung up on the wall space like a gallery. Most of them were pictures of the three of them and their friends. Grantaire could have spent hours reminiscing over the moments captured in those stills. As it was right now, he didn’t want to look.

Someone knocked lightly on the door.

“R, it’s me,” came Musichetta’s soft, sing-song voice. “Can I come in?”

He tried to reply but found himself having to clear his throat before he could get the words out. “Sure thing.”

The door opened gently, his friend’s loving face poking through the gap.

“Just wanted to say hello.” She lit up with a smile. “It’s been a long old time.”

Grantaire beckoned her in, appreciating how she took the time to close the door after herself before she hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her even closer, hoisting her into the air as he did so and revelling in the little squeal of excitement she made before he placed her down again.

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine. More than fine,” she replied, sunshine grin still plastered on her face. “I’ve got so much to tell you, I was going to call but I’m so glad you’re here!”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Grantaire said, and he meant it. Unwanted visitor across the hall or not.

“Are you hungry? I think we’ve got eggs still. Bossuet’s not been here to demolish all the groceries before I’ve had a chance to cook anything with them.” She tapped her chin in thought. “Spicy eggs and hash browns? Or I can pop into the village for pastries if you’d rather.”

“Whatever you’ve got in is fine, honestly.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble at all.”

“I’m sure,” he chuckled. No one had taken care of him like this since he was last here. Grantaire’s heart ached for it, knowing without a doubt that Musichetta meant her words; he never doubted any of them. They were the most honest people he knew.

More reasonably dressed - that morning was enough embarrassment for one day - Grantaire sat outside in the garden with a full belly, the plate on the table behind him scraped clean of every last morsel of his breakfast. The morning was warm and his head was a little quieter. Eyes slipping closed, he listened to Musichetta chatting idly over the peaceful ambience of the countryside.

“And you know what his luck is like, so by the time Bossuet got down there, the post office was already closed. I ended up having to courier the documents to the solicitor for three times the price.”

Grantaire chuckled, tipping back his head back so he could feel the sun on his face. “Where is he anyway? Joly said he was away until Friday.”

“Oh…he spends the weekdays in Paris now.”

Musichetta instantly shrank a little as she spoke. Grantaire could see a touch of sadness in her expression and feared the worst. His friends had never failed to make their three-way relationship work before, not even in the beginning when they’d been blindly trying to work the whole thing out.

Back then, everyone had been a little unsure, none of them more than Grantaire. Accepting - of course, who was he not to be - but nervous to see any of them hurt, when Joly had first come to him and nervously admitted he’d agreed to share Musichetta with Bossuet, who, whilst being his long term house guest, had not been anything more than Joly’s close friend at the time. Grantaire had strived to understand it and prepared himself to help pick up the pieces when someone got jealous, but they never did until one night, months down the line, Joly wound up in Bossuet’s lap at the Musain and they finally admitted the whole thing had naturally progressed into what it was today. Grantaire had seen their blossoming relationship through every obstacle and every hiccup, navigating the constraints of conventions and expectations with courage and grace; unaccepting parents, close-minded businesses, unbending laws. The world wasn’t built for what they shared, but they made it work without exception and Grantaire could no longer picture one without the other two.

“Why?” He asked carefully, his heart thumping a little harder in his chest. “Is everything okay?”

“Work,” Musichetta said innocently, then noticed Grantaire’s obvious distress. “Oh! Yes, of course. It’s just his new job. We’re fine, I promise.” She laughed at his comical sigh of relief. “He’s working at a legal consultancy in Paris, helping families who can’t afford lawyers. They let him work from home Monday and Tuesday, then he heads to Paris on Tuesday night and he’s back again on Friday afternoon. It’s not ideal, but it’s been really good for him. He loves it.”

“I’m glad. It’s about time he found his calling.”

“You’re telling me.” Musichetta took a sip of tea, smiling into her cup. “Not that I don’t love having him around, but he was driving me crazy in the house all day. We want to make all sorts of improvements here but I don’t want him to be the one doing it.”

If it was up to Grantaire, he’d never change anything about the cottage. It was so perfect as it was; every crack in the stone, every flake of paint peeling off the woodwork, even the stained carpet in the guest room. Still, it wasn’t his home. He’d never been one for home improvements anywhere he’d ever lived. “What did you want to do to it?”

“This garden for starters!” Musichetta gestured out at the space. Grantaire looked over it with a more critical eye. The old flagstone path had disappeared into the lawn, which looked more like wild grassland for how overgrown it had gotten. The string lights in the back bushes were hidden in the leaves and the flowerbeds were being strangled by weeds. “In my wildest dreams we’d have a perfect little garden with foxgloves and roses and a vegetable patch, but I’m useless with plants. I ought to have Jehan out here to teach me someday.” She sighed, staring out at the space for a long moment. “I’d get rid of that old shed and put a pergola up, and maybe we could have a fire pit with seating instead of this old table. Better lighting so we could drink out here when it’s dark. Somewhere we could entertain people with pride! But as it is, everyone’s coming for a barbecue on Bastille Day and I’m going to be ashamed of letting them out here.”

“They are?” Had he been that out of touch, Grantaire wondered, that he’d not been invited?

Musichetta nodded. “You never RSVP’d. Is that not why you’re here?”

He must have missed it. He wasn’t the greatest with emails, or checking his messages. The voicemail icon had sat in the top corner of his phone screen for months.

“I didn’t see the invite.” He laughed at himself, shaking his head. “I’m an idiot, sorry Chetta.”

She feigned hurt, batting him playfully on the arm. “No love lost, you’re here all the same. Everyone is going to be so happy to see you!”

As much as the sudden reemergence of Enjolras had made him panic, the prospect of all of his friends gathered in one place again filled him with joy. He counted in his head; Bastille Day was Sunday, four days away. Four days until he could see everyone together as a group, after four whole years of separation. But it was four days with Enjolras, cooped up together in close quarters, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

She looked so excited at the prospect of him sharing the day with them and he couldn’t pretend he didn’t want to. He couldn’t lie to her.

He should have known he needn’t have worried about how to tell her - she could see straight through him.

“You’re not staying.” Her smile dropped. “Grantaire…”

“I don’t know. Maybe, it’s just…seeing him again is strange.”

Musichetta leaned on his shoulder. “Strange is not bad.”

“No.” One of Grantaire’s hands instinctively came up to pet her hair. “I don’t know if it is bad. I just don’t know if I can handle it.”

It was easier to talk to her about his feelings than Joly sometimes. Grantaire hadn’t spent quite so many nights in tears with Musichetta as he had done with the guys, and she had an innate sixth sense with emotions, like some kind of oracle. She probably already understood what he was going through better than he did, without him explaining.

“Just know that whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. You’re allowed to feel it.” Chetta took her hand from his hair and cradled it in her lap. “Don’t feel like you have to make an effort with him just because you used to be friends. Things happen. People change. You don’t even have to like him anymore.”

“That’s the problem,” Grantaire admitted. “I do still like him. All those feelings, they’re still there.” Musichetta sat up straight, her face lighting up. She kept her expression controlled, but Grantaire could see the excitement in her dark eyes. “I wish they weren’t. Or rather…I wish I could go back and undo everything that happened. It’s all so awkward now.”

The back door rattled open, silencing Grantaire immediately. He glanced around, knowing before he looked what he was going to find.

Enjolras stood in the doorway with a steaming mug in his hand. The sight of him took Grantaire’s breath away. He was dressed now in a pair of dark chino shorts, a grey t-shirt that clung to his slender chest and a denim shirt thrown over the top, rolled at the sleeves. The sunlight glinted off his perfect hair and illuminated his smile and all Grantaire wanted to do was touch him to see if he was real.

Instead, he tensed up and stared at the ground.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Enjolras said, completely oblivious to the conversation he’d interrupted. “Mind if I join you?”

Musichetta glanced at Grantaire, graciously giving him a moment to say no before she smugly slid further down the bench, making space between the two of them for Enjolras to sit. “Not at all. Come, sit.”

It was too late to stop it from happening. Grantaire considered getting up and going inside without a word, but to do so would be making even more of an issue of the tension between them and he thought he might just keel over and die if that happened. Instead, he shifted as far the other way as he could to widen the gap so that him and Enjolras had no chance of touching in any way.

“No cereal straight out of the box this morning?” Old habits died hard, it seemed. He’d have to bite his tongue to keep from getting too insulting if he was going to stay.

Which he wasn’t. Definitely not.

Enjolras sat down and hugged the warm mug of coffee to his chest. “I don’t really eat in the morning.”

“He doesn’t really eat, period.” Musichetta gave Enjolras a knowing glare. “I’m starting to think he hates my cooking. ”

“I don’t hate your cooking,” Enjolras insisted, with the air of someone who’d had that conversation already. “I just don’t need to eat that much. I don’t get hungry.”

“Caffeine is not a substitute for nutrition.”

“You’re starting to sound like Joly,” Grantaire cut in, much to Musichetta’s dismay. “Sorry Chetta, but it’s true.”

Enjolras laughed. Suddenly Grantaire wasn’t so sure the sunlight was coming from the sky. The expression lit his whole face, little crinkles around his eyes giving away at last how he’d aged with the rest of them. Grantaire hadn’t noticed the freckles before, but he could see them now, scattered like stars across Enjolras’ nose and cheeks. They must have come in with the summer. They were absolutely captivating.

“Alright, I don’t need you two teaming up against me,” Chetta grumbled. “I get enough of that with my boys. See if I care about your health ever again.”

The brilliant laugh faded into a contented smile, Enjolras leaning back against the picnic table and taking a sip of his drink. Grantaire remembered acquiring the table with Bossuet years ago, finding it in a pile of garbage where a local park in the next town over was being turned into apartments. It was far too big to fit in any car they had access to, so they’d carried it home to the cottage, just the two of them. It took them nearly three hours and Bossuet had torn his jeans trying to get it over the garden wall. Still, it’d been worth it. They’d fixed it up with new wood and Chetta had painted it a pastel green to match the back door, and it’d been the best feature of the whole garden.

Not so much anymore, he realised. The paint had faded, almost all of the little daisies around the edges worn away with use, and it shrunk into the landscape like it was ashamed to be seen. The garden really did need fixing up.

“Did you hear back from that publisher?” Enjolras asked, resting his mug on his knee.

Grantaire perked up. “Publisher? Is this for your blog?” Musichetta ran a crafting and homemaking blog online that had grown quite rapidly in the last two years. Her unconventional domestic situation brought people to her site out of curiosity, but they stayed for her sense of humour and beautiful words.

Musichetta almost leaped out of her seat. “No! How could I forget? R, I’ve written a book!” She turned to Enjolras excitedly. “They got back to me last night. They love it!”

“Congratulations, Chetta.” The smile hadn’t left Enjolras’ face for even a moment. He hadn’t looked this relaxed in all the time Grantaire had known him - it must have been the magic of the cottage at work. Happiness suited him, Grantaire thought.

“That’s amazing. What kind of book?” He asked.

“It’s a children’s book. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she explained, biting her lip. “I need an illustrator.” A long pause. Grantaire made no attempt to fill the silence, bracing himself for what he knew was coming. “I was kind of hoping you might do it.”

Musichetta and Enjolras were both looking at him expectantly.

“I don’t do that anymore,” Grantaire said blankly.

“R…”

“I haven’t drawn in years. I doubt I even can anymore.”

Not since he left Paris. Grantaire had barely put a pencil to paper in that time. He was in no position to illustrate a children’s book.

“Please?” Musichetta pleaded. “If I ask really, really nicely?”

If he started, he’d never be able to finish it. Even if he got past his own insecurities and found the motivation, he’d burn out before he was done. He’d let her down, and let himself down. It was what Grantaire did.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, knowing full well he wasn’t going to be able to say no if she kept pushing. Musichetta had always fawned over his doodles as though he had genuine talent. Enjolras had stayed thankfully quiet throughout the exchange; if he’d had something to say on the matter, Grantaire didn’t know how he’d react. Enjolras had never cared for any of Grantaire’s hobbies, least of his art. He’d made that quite clear the last time they spoke. Still, he couldn’t decipher the look on Enjolras’ face. The conversation had passed in a civil manner to this point. It was time to quit whilst he was ahead. “I’m going out for a walk.” He stood up, grabbing his plate and Musichetta’s empty teacup. “Call me if you want me to pick anything up.”

The walk into Auvers-sur-Oise town centre took Grantaire down winding footpaths through the beautiful countryside, past vegetable farms and sprawling wheat fields, and the local cemetery, touting the tomb of Van Gogh. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had made their home in the valley of the Impressionists, home and inspiration to so many of the painters Grantaire admired and imitated during his years of studies. He felt an echo of their lives as he passed quietly by places they must have walked, things they must have seen. If he was still an artist, he’d have brought his easel out here in a heartbeat and captured the enchanting scenery on canvas.

But he wasn’t. He didn’t do that. Grantaire had quit painting for photography, a simpler medium that didn’t cause him nearly as much heartache. Photography didn’t require him to turn his soul inside out to create.

If he stayed - which he still wasn’t planning to - he’d come back out here with his digital camera and photograph the landscape and the town. Photographs like that sold well as stock images, even if they didn’t fetch a great price. Enough of them would earn him enough to bolster his savings a while longer. He still couldn’t decide if he was going to keep travelling or find somewhere new to settle down; Grantaire didn’t want to think about it whilst he was at the cottage, especially not if he was leaving that afternoon. Or tomorrow. Monday, at the very latest.

Consisting of just one street, the town centre didn’t offer much for him to do besides enjoy the atmosphere. There were a few small, locally run shops and a handful of wonderful restaurants. The smell of freshly ground coffee poured out onto the street from the town’s only coffee shop, Cafe de la Paix. He stopped for a coffee and sat in the window, staring out into the street. Just down the road was a dingy bar, the only one in the area, where Grantaire had spent many miserable nights. It was open even now, before midday.

What a waste of his life those nights had been. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink anymore. He was still as self-indulgent as he’d ever been, just with more self-control. A glass of wine with dinner. A beer on a warm afternoon, or a single whiskey as a nightcap. He had to regulate his intake; drinking was one of the vices that had nearly killed him.

Enjolras was the other.

It hadn’t been just one thing leading up to Grantaire’s departure from Paris. Instead, the trouble between the two of them had built and built over months, starting with Enjolras catching Grantaire slacking on the first task he’d ever trusted him with for Les Amis, and only escalating from there. It was as much his fault as it was Enjolras’. Grantaire knew he was insufferable. Until those last few months, they’d never argued. Bickered, sure, but never viciously. Grantaire had always enjoyed teasing Enjolras for his optimistic outlook on impractical change, the same way Enjolras had always tolerated him for his sense of humour. Their relationship had been symbiotic for years: Enjolras got the critique he needed on his ideas - granted with more mocking than necessary - and Grantaire got to bask in his presence, living in his orbit without consequence, loving him from just enough distance that Enjolras never figured it out. But their fighting had grown worse every time they spoke until it was unbearable for anyone in their company to listen to. Then Senator Lamarque had died.

In hindsight, Grantaire realised how bad a place it must have put Enjolras in. Lamarque was not just the people’s politician, the one person in the Paris council Les Amis could always rely on, but also a personal idol for their leader in red...but that only explained his anger, it didn’t excuse it. Grantaire had been at his lowest then, drinking most hours of the day, occasionally worse. He was skirting the abyss of self-destruction, dancing back and forth between hurting his friends with cutting jokes and hurting himself, but one night when he’d pushed too far, Enjolras had pushed back hard. Said things none of them had ever voiced, things that cut deeper than anything Grantaire had ever experienced.

They hurt so much because they were true, and they pushed Grantaire right over the edge.

Joly hadn’t let Enjolras see him whilst he recovered, and Grantaire had left Paris as soon as he was out of the hospital.

Grantaire stared out into the street, watching pedestrians idle by, wondering how different things might have been if they’d spoken before he disappeared. He’d never know if Enjolras had intended to apologise or take back what he’d said. Would he have held his tongue if he’d known how Grantaire felt about him? If he’d known how bad Grantaire really was? It’d been years, and those days were nothing more than a shadow in his past, but at the time Grantaire told himself again and again Enjolras would be better off if he hadn’t pulled through. That he’d have been glad about it.

It just wasn’t true. Enjolras was such a good person at his core - maybe the best Grantaire had ever known - and he’d never wish something so terrible of anyone, not even the people he’d spent his life standing up against. He was a miracle to witness, full of vehement passion, a fervour for life and a soul so strong that it went unblemished by the burden of the world that he carried by his own choice. Those were the things that made him so special, the things that made him stand out in any crowd, like a god among mortals. He lit a raging fire inside Grantaire where everyone else had only roused a spark; Enjolras was the only person who’d ever made Grantaire believe there was something in life worth fighting for. That he could be better than he was.

That was what scared him, he realised suddenly.

Four years without him and Grantaire had drifted through life without purpose, comfortable in the mindless flow of his own existence. Not learning. Not improving. Never changing. Never making friends, nor falling in love. Not really feeling anything at all.

Being numb was easy. Being numb with Enjolras in close proximity, impossible.

What scared Grantaire the most was that he wanted that, more than anything: raw, overwhelming emotion. Pain, fear, anger, laughter. Love. Hatred. Madness. Grantaire wanted to feel again. And no more than half a kilometre from where he was sat, back inside the walls of that magical cottage, sat the only person who could make that happen.

He laid his coffee cup down heavily and dug out a phone, tapping out a message to Joly to call him as soon as he could, and found his phone ringing less than a minute later.

“What is it?” Joly asked urgently. “Did something happen?”

“I’m staying,” he said, sounding mad with desperation. “I have to stay.”

A moment of startled silence.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Joly laughed, albeit a little nervously. “Are you sure you’re alright? You sound a little strange.”

Grantaire nodded, wetting his lips, not thinking about the fact Joly couldn’t hear him at the other end of the line. His mind turned over and over, processing the revelation.

“It’s Enjolras,” he said when he realised Joly was still waiting for an answer.

“What about him?”

“I think-” Grantaire stumbled, the words catching in his throat. If he admitted this out loud, he’d be crossing a line he couldn’t come back from. But so be it. “I’m still in love with him.”

#exr #enjoltaire #jbm #enjolras/grantaire #les mis #les amis #les mis fanfic #joly/bossuet/musichetta #my stuff #fanfiction #williamvapespeare #grammarly called me out 30 times for 'non american variant spellings'#like beech I'm english and this is a story set in france #get out of here

15 notes · View notes