Tumgik
#i'll fix it in another post
kyouka-supremacy · 3 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Finally gotten around scanning the September Animage issue. Please enjoy!!
167 notes · View notes
mistykaru · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media
i couldn’t make up my mind for who would be who for this meme but this is what i thought of first therefore
3K notes · View notes
public-trans-it · 14 days
Note
i was a trans man until after a lot of build up of doubting myself, i finally realized that we are putting ourselves further into boxes by not accepting that we are the biological sex that we are and we can do WHATEVER we want at the same time.
clothes and makeup and certain interests do not equal gender.
and not liking being a woman is an unfortunately natural symptom of puberty and/or experiencing society’s deeply ingrained misogyny. and everyone deserves support for those problems.
but we can all fight together against gender social constructs in a healthy way without prescribing people hormones and invasive cosmetic surgery to make them more like the sex they “should” be according to… social constructs…. and help them be comfortable in who they are
Alright. Its been like 9 fucking months that I have been staring down this ask. What better time than to give TERFs some nuance than right in the middle of a fucking hate campaign going on where people (well... singular person probably) are calling me a TERF. This wont backfire.
This post arrived in my inbox shortly after I made another post about gender, and just how fucking weird it can be, and how I genuinely believed every single person on this planet has a fascinating relationship with gender, and so much nuance and personal identity in theirs. Even cis people. Even TERFs. In the tags, I even begrudgingly encouraged TERFs to talk about their gender on that post if they wanted. I genuinely think that TERFs do have really cool relationships with gender. As I mentioned in those tags, the quickest way to explode a group of TERFs is to get them to start talking about their own relationships with gender, and see how vastly different it is, and watching them stab each other in the back over it. So I told them to ramble away about how they view gender, as long as they stayed the fuck away from the rest of the blog WHICH THIS ANON CLEARLY FUCKING IGNORED.
But... this anon does bring up another topic I want to talk about.
Detransition.
Read More
I am a huge supporter of detransitioning. This is... surprisingly... not a very common stance in the trans community, and it breaks my fucking heart. Like, I get it. I understand why. A LOT of detransitioners, like the person in this ask, end up weaponizing their feelings of gender against other trans people.
My support of transition comes from the intersection of two very central beliefs of mine:
Everyone should explore their gender without feeling a need to commit! This is a pretty common belief in the trans community! Damn near universal in fact! We even have a fun little term we use for people who decide to play around with gender, only to end up a bit closer to where they started and being perfectly happy with that: Cis+. Someone who is cis, but at least put in the work to understand the trans experience, and actually CHOOSE to remain Cis instead of just defaulting to it with societal pressure. Many trans people are much more comfortable around 'Cis+' people, because they know these are people who have taken the time and put in the work of being an ally. Self examination isn't easy, especially not publicly, and doing so is genuinely one of the strongest ways a Cis person could ever show their support.
It is never too late to transition. This is also a pretty common belief in the trans community! It is... sadly not quite as universal though. But it is something very important that needs to be said. You could be 80 years old, sitting in a retirement home, and go "You know what? I think I'd rather wear a dress and be treated like a lady. I don't want to be buried as a man." And I think every single trans person should have that freedom!
I was discussing this with @thydungeongal the other day, far more paraphrased than this post, and she said something incredible that has been knocking around in my head ever since.
"Gender is an ongoing process"
Those five words they said to me sum up my feelings far more than this entire post could. Gender IS an ongoing process. My gender has changed SO MUCH over the past three decades. From the straightjacket of assigned gender that I was once forced into; to the very stylish and still lovable finely tailored suit of femininity that grew a little too stuffy to wear constantly, even though I do still enjoy it and try it on from time to time; to the wonderful and freeing losely fitting clothing of being aegogender, finally feeling free to be myself and just act naturally and feel natural without having to keep up an appearance!
And I think, there is no length of time you can try out being trans, and trying out new genders, before eventually coming to the realization you were cis all along. Even if you started HRT. Even if you got SRS. Heck, I don't even think you should have to call yourself trans to do either of those things in the first place, why would I be upset that someone did them and then realized they weren't trans? No single moment in your life should EVER lock your gender in place into some unchanging, set in stone thing.
So I support detransitioners completely, with my entire heart. They deserve just as much support as every other 'Cis+' person out there.
So anon, while many people may hate you and lash out at you for detransitioning, I want you to know, that I am not one of them. It sounds like your detransition might have been forced by peer pressure, which is heart breaking to hear. No one should ever force their own gender expectations on another. I hope that wasn't the case. I hope you came to the decision yourself, after realizing whats right for you. I will never give you hate for your detransition.
I WILL ABSOLUTELY GIVE YOU HATE FOR BEING A FUCKING TERF THOUGH. YOUR OWN EXPERIENCE WITH GENDER DOES NOT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO POLICE THE GENDER OF OTHERS, FUCK OFF. GET THE FUCK OFF MY BLOG, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!
69 notes · View notes
pallanophblargh · 4 months
Text
You know what the worst feeling I've been having lately is? Wanting more than anything to get back into Actual Art again but finding a sudden anxiety that stops me. Even if I'm still as capable as I was, it's the mental block. It's why I've all but kept commissions closed for this whole time: this overwhelming fear of letting people down. Especially in times as troubled as these, where money is tight, and patience is thin. I've always been blessed with such patient and considerate commissioners, but I would hate to test people because of my malfunctioning brat of a brain.
I just wish it came to me as easily as it did before the massive burnout/medication. But it's up to me to come up with my own motivation. And it's ME.
Anyway. Thanks as always for sticking around despite... all of this. I'll get back on the horse soon.
132 notes · View notes
hecklefreckled · 6 months
Text
Tumblr media
Human design for AUTO that I've been working on!
59 notes · View notes
bpzau-art · 20 days
Text
Tumblr media
Heartthrob Alune!
I'm working on Aphelios next
25 notes · View notes
ceemi · 25 days
Text
he's been spinning in my head so here's this freak
Tumblr media
he's not really fully finished. i wanna give him different shoes than those but could not be botheres lmao
22 notes · View notes
I'm back on my bullshit thinking about the Hawke siblings again and how much I love a "both twins live" AU... but y'know what I love just a little bit more? An AU where all three Hawke siblings are alive, but one of the twins still get attacked by the ogre in Lothering and is presumed dead when they actually survived.
I like to think that since the narrative in DA2 is framed as a story Varric's telling Cassandra, we can play around with the fact that he's an unreliable narrator. Varric wasn't there in Lothering. He only knows what Hawke told him. It makes for a better story if Leandra, Hawke, and the surviving twin get to huddle around the dead twin and say their goodbyes... especially if they didn't actually get to do that. I mean, a lot of us already have that train of thought when it comes to Leandra's death and Hawke getting some closure through her final words telling them how proud she is. Whose to say Varric didn't do that for the lost twin, as well?
All that to ask what if the ogre attack happened, but the group was so overwhelmed by darkspawn they had to flee further and couldn't check the twin who "died?" Flemeth still showed up, but it was too late to go back and say goodbye.... so Hawke made a deal with the Witch of the Wilds and they all pushed forward to Kirkwall.
Imagine Bethany, left behind with broken bones and bleeding in the sand, fading in and out of consciousness as the remaining darkspawn surround her. She knows how to heal, how to fight back, but she's weakened. Her staff lays out of reach. Air shakes in her lungs. She tries to call for help, but only wheezes come out. Where's her mother? Her siblings? Did the ogre get them, too?
At this point, we all know what happens to the women darkspawn take, and Bethany could've met that fate; she doesn't have the strength to fight back as they drag her away. But before they can bring her underground, she's saved by another group of survivors. Perhaps they're more soldiers fleeing Ostagar, or townsfolk who recognize her from Lothering. They do what they can to treat her wounds but she needs a healer, so they bring her with them to seek refuge in Redcliffe... except they eventually realize she's an apostate. Well, she doesn't seem dangerous, but they still contact the templars.
Bethany wakes in a warm but unfamiliar bed with skilled healers tending to her. Templars hover by the doorway. First Enchanter Irving greets her, gentle in explaining she's safe inside of Kinloch Hold and that she's going to survive. When Bethany asks about her family, he gives her a sympathetic smile and says they only found her.
Bethany, who never took to embracing her magic the way her older sibling did and always felt like it burdened her family... has lost that very family. Could they survive the ogre and darkspawn? Or did the ogre tear them apart, too? How did she survive... but not them? Did the Maker really have such a sense of humor? How else would she end up in the Circle, a place her family went to great lengths to keep her safe from?
She doesn't want to think about it. She hopes they made it to Kirkwall, but the prickle of dread that crawls up her spine knows how unlikely it is. Bethany finds comfort in speaking with the mages who rotate in to heal and bring her food. Some feel trapped by their magic just as she does, but others remind her of her older sibling in the way they embrace their magic, a gift from the Maker. The younger apprentices who aid the mages ask her questions about what lies beyond the walls. The templars mostly keep their distance, but one is friendlier than others. A man with curly blonde hair and a sympathetic view of the mages bothers to speak to her more than his fellows do.
She's still in recovery when Uldred and his blood mages attack the tower, but she survives. Bethany heals, even as she's haunted by nightmares of the ogre wrapping its tainted hand around her body to crush her, flinging her aside to lay among the limp bodies of her family... haunted by the horrors the blood mages unleashed on the tower. She aids in restoring the tower the best she can, and accepts her new home, her new life. When she's well enough, she lights a candle for each of them; her father, mother, her eldest sibling, her twin... she even lights a candle for the family mabari, and prays to the Maker to give them her love as they stand at His side.
The Blight ends. Years pass. Bethany settles into her new life, becoming a fine example for the younger apprentices she mentors. She witnesses wrong doings against her fellow mages, loses friends to their harrowings or tranquility. She accepts what she is, even if bitterly. The Chantry's teachings about magic scar more than enlighten; she sees it in some of her fellow mages, feels it in herself. Secret meetings. Whispers of escape, of freedom. More escape attempts. Harsher restrictions.
Around this time, back in Kirkwall, Knight-Captain Cullen stands where he always does in the Gallows courtyard. He notices Hawke appear with some of their companions. It hurts to think back to Kinloch Hold, but something occurs to him: he knew of another Hawke who was brought to the Circle while he served there. They only spoke once before... well, before. He wonders if there's any relation. When Hawke wanders over to speak to him, as they always do, Cullen brings it up.
Hawke pales. A beat of silence. Cullen recognizes heartbreak; he sees it unfold in their eyes and swell in their throat as they realize that all this time, their baby sister was alive.
Then the day comes where new whispers float among the mages in the Circle. A visit by a Grey Warden. Most, including Bethany, assume he's here to recruit... until Irving comes to her. He says this warden's requested, though more like insisted, he see her now. But then Irving smiles; the warden in question said his name is Warden Carver. He received an urgent letter that his sister is here, alive, and he demands to know if that's true.
Bethany nearly collapses when she sees him.
While the reunion can't last; she can't leave the Circle and he has his calling; the twins embrace, sobbing out apologies and exclamations that they thought the other was gone. Carver tells her of Kirkwall, the expedition that led him to the Grey Wardens, and their older sibling's status as Champion. With a gentleness she never knew her brother to have, he tells her what happened to their mother, and more tears flow freely. Their sibling learned about her from a templar, though Carver grumbles that the bastard could've said something sooner.
There's the Maker's humor again.
...Now flip the script: imagine Carver being left behind instead.
For as strong and passionate as he is, that ogre still picks him up and slams him to the ground. Bones crack. Black splotches flood his vision, agony exploding across his skin. His sword flies from his hand. The soulless bastard tosses Carver aside like he's nothing, and he's left to lay there. His mother's cries muffle in his ear as though he's stuck underwater, sinking slowly into the dark.
It figured, honestly... that he'd survive Ostagar while his fellow soldiers were cut down all around him, that he and his eldest sibling would flee the field when all hope was lost... that he'd make it home to get his family out of Lothering... only to die protecting his mother. And why not? He is a protector. A warrior. It's a honor to die saving those he loved... so why didn't it give him peace?
Carver eventually wakes in the night among the bodies of fallen darkspawn. Everything aches painfully hot and his thoughts reject coherency. He knows his family is gone; they're dead, or they've fled... either way, he's alone; left behind. Something's broken inside of him, but he has just enough will to pull himself up at the sound of approaching footsteps. A group of survivors find him- funny enough, the same group who aided Bethany in an alternate timeline. Imagine that.
That's how Carver ended up in Redcliffe's Chantry with an overworked healer tending to him. He doesn't even flinch when the mage works their magic on him, knowing all too well the sensation of healing magic seeping into his skin, mending the flesh. He tries not to think of Bethany, or what might've happened to her.
The Chantry's overwhelmed with townspeople hiding from a danger outside that he can only assume is darkspawn... except it's not. He wonders how hard he hit his head when he hears the undead have come from the castle to slaughter what they can of the town every night. But then he sees it with his own eyes when one breaks in, taken down by a templar, and never before has he ever felt so useless.
Then the last two remaining Grey Wardens arrive. They're crucial in the final fight against the undead, swearing to enter the castle to stop the attacks at the source. While Carver couldn't participate in the final fight, something he complained loudly about, he did what he could in his condition to help like sharpening swords and handing out supplies. Mostly to keep his sanity and quite his thoughts throughout his recovery.
When the time came, he took up his sword again in the name of all those he lost.
An archdemon was said to be on the horizon, and the Grey Wardens needed everyone they could get to fight. Carver fights in the battle of Denerim where the Hero of Fereldan defeated the archdemon. He cuts his way through every darkspawn he sees. Ostagar flashes red behind his eyes. Lothering clutches at his heart. So much anger and sorrow built up inside him, flooding out in his tears and screams. Blood everywhere. Fire and smoke.
Then it's over.
In the aftermath of the Blight, like so many others, Carver has no home to return to. No family. He thinks to go back to Lothering to help rebuild, only to hear the lands were too tainted. These tainted creatures took everything from him... That's what eventually brings him to Vigil's Keep, standing before the Hero of Fereldan themself, asking to be made a Grey Warden. He already dedicated nearly two years of his life to killing darkspawn, and he had nothing else. Even when faced with the Joining, holding the chalice of darkspawn blood and being told to drink, he didn't flinch.
Life as a Grey Warden isn't as simple as he assumed it would be, but Carver finds purpose in his calling. Over the years, he grows to view his fellow wardens as family. He travels all over Thedas, venturing down into the Deep Roads to help clear out hoards of the darkspawn. But then comes the day he finds himself in Kirkwall, and it doesn't take long before he hears the name Hawke on the lips of the townspeople. His eldest sibling was not only alive, but they're quite popular among the people. But what about Mother? Bethany? He doesn't have to snoop too far to learn templars took Bethany away to the Gallows, and that Leandra Hawke was the final victim in a string of murders committed by a blood mage.
Carver finds himself standing outside the estate, glaring at the door. Furious. Heartbroken. Bitter. He wants to scream. This entire time, they lived. He's torn between wanting to reunite with his older sibling again, to get the truth from them, and wanting to barge into the estate, demanding answers to how they could let the Circle take Bethany... after what Carver sacrificed, how could they let Mother die like that? Was it all pointless in the end?
He leaves without knocking. He can't bring himself to see them. Not that it mattered. Before he could leave Kirkwall, the tensions with the qunari finally overflowed, and chaos fell upon the city. He's forced face to face with his older sibling again, but he wasn't prepared to watch the recognition slowly bloom on their face, or for all his anger to turn to mush. Carver's the first to speak.
"Somehow, I knew it would be you."
.............So, yeah. I really like this idea.
38 notes · View notes
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
only just processed that luca added the flames to the colander helmet...implicitly b/c of alberto’s “also i added flames” dream vespa design alteration...
#like evidence afterwards that someone was paying real attention even when at the time the other party felt ignored / tuned out....So sweet.#which also my audhd life experiences like. if i learn anyone ever absorbed anything i said it's like oh whoa living large lmao#anyways the point is it only occurred to me the other day lol. like i'd noticed the flames but just didn't piece anything else together#i Love how many like. threads & details you Can piece together like that but are just kind of quietly in the bg otherwise#and fun how everything luca needs for the race is definitely like Somewhere Underwater...colander fell in the sea...bike by the sunken boat#god knows what color situation i fumbled my way into here. so the classic spin of just like Also there's more stripped down versions#who knows if i'll like do more of a full color approach version. they can't stop you. nor stop you from just posting lineart#or stop me from going off the walls w/their tail lengths lol#luca#luberto#lucalberto#😚😚😚#fish freckles you are everything to me...#eta not me forgetting to save the [solid bg color]less pngs as transparent....i was up all night#didn't help w/the color selecting that i'm bad at anytime lol#ok hopefully now they're actually transparent#smhhh now i've realized i forgot a little line to indicate webbing betwixt alberto's fingers there#not as big a deal as how i ALMOST forgot to include any of their arm/leg fins. i'll fix it if i do the [full coloring] deal lol. imagine it#yet another eta: occurs to me i could've made alberto purpler & the bg blue. well;
347 notes · View notes
whirling-fangs · 1 month
Text
[[ KNY MOVIE TIME KNY MOVIE TIME !!!!! Selfies under the cut!!! ]]
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Plus actual gear because the weather is apocalyptic
Tumblr media
18 notes · View notes
trashiiplant · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
ayy the main gang's designs are here
TALL GANG
THE SILLIES
SNEO + ADDISONS
336 notes · View notes
whoslaurapalmer · 2 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
laura (1944) / laura by vera caspary -- waldo and laura meet
bonus deleted scene from the movie script, with a third interpretation of their meeting --
Tumblr media Tumblr media
13 notes · View notes
kickingshoes · 7 months
Text
social media is so annoying lol why is it so focused on doing everything on the phone.
You can't add audio to Tiktok videos on desktop, or save tiktoks as drafts on desktop, or make Insta reels with sound on desktop, so I thought I could game the system for Swordtember by making an Instagram post on desktop, then make it a reel on my phone (so I could add music). Then I download that reel to my phone and then upload it to Tiktok.
I've done this for 7 days only to find out today that Insta has a limit of 30 sec reels, so all the videos we've made so far have cut off half the video and I never noticed because Insta never said "oh yeah btw we're cropping the post cuz it's too long" :/
31 notes · View notes
leafy-m · 6 days
Text
My stupid story is 20k now how I do make it stop 😵
7 notes · View notes
weepingfromacedartree · 5 months
Text
Ten Milestones: Hopes & Dreams
Hi friends! Chapter 5 is now available!
TW: drug and alcohol use
Tumblr media
When Colin’s eyes scan over the next milestone, his face lights up in that aggravatingly adorable way it always does when things go exactly his way. 
“Oooh,” he gloats. “This is a good one.”
“What?” Penelope asks, impatient. He’s sitting just close enough that she could steal the phone out of his hands if she wanted to, but she resists the urge. 
“Number Four: Sharing Your Hopes and Dreams. Before you and your partner make the commitment to share a life together, you must first share what each of you wants out of that future. This conversation is important — not only will it teach you about each other as individuals, but it will also give you an understanding of how you fit together as partners. A strong partnership is made up of two people who support each other’s goals.”
Penelope doesn’t say a word. She simply smiles. 
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Nine Years Earlier: December 23rd, 2014
Relationship Status: Good Friends
December 24th, in Penelope’s opinion, has to be one of the worst days a person can be born on. (Third worst to be exact, narrowly being beaten out by December 25th and February 29th.) Every year, the celebration of your birth is overshadowed by the eve of someone else’s birth. Your birthday presents double as Christmas presents. Your friends are too busy with their own holiday plans to celebrate your birthday with you. Hell — most people forget your birthday exists in the first place. 
December 24th is a rather shitty birthday for one to possess. But in all the years she’s known him, Colin has never been one to complain. 
It helps that the other Bridgertons always make an attempt to separate his birthday celebrations from the holiday he just so happened to have been born on. That’s why these sorts of parties are always held the night before his actual birthday. 
Daphne took the anti-Christmas strategy to a whole nother level this year. Invitations went out two weeks ago with a disclaimer at the bottom. 
Red and green garments are strictly prohibited on the premises. 
Penelope originally wanted to wear a velvet burgundy dress that she found on Dover Street tonight, but the garment has since been banished to the back of her closet. Instead, she’s wearing a dress made of a softer shade of pink. 
Now, 57 minutes into the very-much-not-a-holiday-party party, Penelope stands above the Bridgerton foyer with a dark red drink in her hand. Eloise is beside her, grumbling about the many “unique” choices made for this event. (Including her required attendance.)
“I know Daphne banned holiday music, but surely she can play something better than Coldplay.”
“I like Coldplay,” Penelope mutters defensively. Eloise does not seem to hear her above all the other noise in the room.
“Have you seen the birthday boy anywhere? It’s his party and I have not seen him all night.”
“No. I haven’t.”
They’re standing on the second story landing, above the front entrance and foyer where most attendees mingle. This should be an optimal vantage point to look for Colin, but when Penelope scans the crowd, she comes up empty. 
“I’m usually the one to pull a disappearing act at this sort of thing, and even I wouldn’t dare do so at my own party.” 
Eloise’s words temporarily break Penelope out of her premature worry. She giggles. 
“Weren’t you three hours late to your last birthday celebration? Something about needing to go downtown to visit a certain —”
“That’s different!” Eloise cuts in. “That was a surprise party — how was I supposed to know?!” 
“Didn’t your family —”
“I thought I was delaying a casual birthday dinner with my mum and seven siblings. Obviously I would have been on time if I knew there were a hundred people crouched in the dark, hiding behind potted plants and couch cushions, just waiting for my return.” 
Penelope’s giggles do not let up.
“Is that what you think happened while you were gone?”
“I don’t know.” Eloise literally waves off the question, gesticulating her hands so ardently that she nearly spills all the wine out of her glass. “I’m more concerned about Colin’s whereabouts at the moment.” 
“Is something wrong?” Penelope asks, worry rising up in her chest again. It’s squashed just as quickly. 
“No. But if I have to suffer through this party, so should he. It’s his fault we’re all here in the first place.” 
Penelope scans the crowd once more. Yet again, nothing. 
“Knowing Colin, he’s probably in the kitchen.”
“Oooh.” Eloise’s demeanour changes immediately. Her scowl pulls into a smile. “That also happens to be where they store the one thing that could actually make this party enjoyable.”
Penelope lifts an eyebrow, fighting off another bout of giggles. 
“And what might that be? Good conversation? An old friend? The ghost of not-Christmas pres—”
“No. Liquor. Perhaps after a few drinks, your jokes will start to sound funny.” 
As one final round of giggles bubbles up in Penelope’s throat, Eloise loops their arms together and leads them towards the stairs. 
“And after a few more drinks, perhaps Coldplay will start to sound like actual music.” 
꙳ ꙳ ꙳
Twenty-one minutes later (and half a vodka cranberry later), Penelope walks out of the kitchen by herself, realising that she has seen every Bridgerton at this party except Colin. 
Violet and Daphne had both greeted her at the door. She spoke to Francesca while waiting for the loo. She walked in on a fist fight between Gregory and Hyacinth. Anthony brushed past her to break it up, barely managing to prevent Hyacinth from knocking Gregory’s front tooth out. Benedict was in the kitchen, where he and Eloise are currently having a spirited (but hushed) debate over what Christmas movie to watch tomorrow night. 
Glass in hand, condensation already dripping onto her fingers, Penelope walks the Bridgerton halls.
There are people everywhere she turns. Some she knows from her lifetime in Mayfair or from her extensive experience at Bridgerton events. Some she vaguely recognizes from Colin’s social media or from her sporadic trips up to Cambridge. Some she doesn’t recognize at all. 
As her footsteps trail forward, Penelope resists the urge to look and listen. To keep listening. To peer into the conversations of these strangers and acquaintances, all while she remains unnoticed. 
 It’s a game she knows well, but still she resists. She looks for a face far more familiar than these. 
Just before her feet can step into the foyer — into the heart of the party — they stop short. Her body moves to the side, leaning rigid into the wooden doorway, hidden beneath the cover of a shadow. On the other side of the room, Colin stands with his back against a wall and his arms crossed in front of him. Clearly, no one informed him of the dress code for his own party; he’s wearing an emerald green cable knit sweater. 
(He’s also wearing a light blue birthday hat atop his head — one she can only assume was hand-crafted by Violet Bridgerton.)
He isn’t alone. Daphne stands beside him, body facing him, arms at her sides. They’re talking. Penelope couldn’t even begin to guess what it is they’re talking about, but she can tell from the other side of the room that Colin isn’t happy about it. 
He isn’t saying much; Daphne is doing most of the talking. 
After a stranger brushes past her, Penelope raises her glass to her lips and takes the smallest of sips. Her mind briefly considers walking over to the other side of the room, but her feet remain firmly planted in her spot in the doorway. She feels a peculiar, paralyzed sensation up and down her legs as she watches their conversation unfold from afar. She can’t help but worry and wonder why Colin looks so defeated at his own party. She also can’t help but deem this conversation too dangerous to peer into uninvited. 
“Oh, Pen! There you are!” 
Automatically, Penelope’s head turns in the direction from which her name had been called. Eloise is excitedly walking (basically skipping) down the hall towards her.
“You’re coming over tomorrow night, right? Ben is still advocating for Elf, but with your vote I think I can swing us back to the far superior Nightmare Before Christmas.” 
“Oh! Yes, I think so. By the way, I found —”
Penelope turns her head, expecting to find Colin exactly where he had been not twenty seconds prior. But he isn’t. Neither is Daphne. 
“What?” Eloise asks, now standing in the doorway beside Penelope. 
“Nothing.” Penelope shakes her head, then shoots back the rest of her drink. “And just for the record: Benedict is right. Elf is easily the superior Christmas movie.”
Eloise’s jaw goes slack.
“You traitor.” 
꙳ ꙳ ꙳
All night, the only thing Colin wanted was to disappear from his own party. He is aware of how bad that sounds — how he sounds like an ungrateful child instead of a man on the cusp of twenty-two. But even then… 
No one can plan for their birthday. He didn’t choose this to be born on December 24th. He didn’t want to have this party to begin with. He couldn’t have predicted that tonight would land in the middle of one of the most uncertain, precarious, bad-mood-inducing phases of his life. It’s not his fault that he’s currently in one of those moods — one that makes the happiness of others feel like a personal attack on you specifically. 
A party was the last place Colin wanted to be tonight. Now, he finds himself in a room situated in a more private wing of the house. He’s out of view of the random, too-happy people filling the halls, but close enough to hear the remnants of faraway music. He’s sitting in front of the giant oak that used to belong to his father, arms crossed in front of him and eyes trained on the door to his left. Anthony’s on the other side of the desk, donning an expression that makes Colin wish he was back in the heart of the party. 
“Must we have this conversation now? I’m fairly certain mum’s downstairs lighting candles on a cake as we speak.”
That look on Anthony’s face — equal parts annoyance and amusement — does not let up one bit. 
“I’ve been trying to have this conversation with you for weeks. It’s not my fault that we had to throw a party in your honour just to keep you at home for more than fifteen minutes.” 
“That’s —” 
Colin doesn’t finish that sentence. He could attach a million different adjectives to the end of it that would (rightfully) attack Anthony’s character, but none of them would make his words untrue. 
“I’ve been busy,” he says instead.  
“Clearly.” Anthony puffs out an audible breath of air from his nose as he leans back in their father’s chair. “Seeing as you can’t even make the time for one single phone call.”
For the first time in several minutes, Colin’s arms uncross. His hands move to the arms of the chair, ten fingernails biting into its vinyl surface. 
Contrary to Anthony’s claims, they’ve actually had some version of this conversation several times over the last few weeks. Over those weeks, Anthony had suggested, reminded, then demanded that Colin reach out to an old friend of their father’s — one who just so happens to be the head of English Literature at Oxford. Also during those weeks, Colin reminded his older brother that he has no intention of doing so, but such details always seem to fall on deaf ears. 
Also contrary to Anthony’s claims, Colin does have plans — or at the very least, dreams for what to do after he graduates from university in the spring. His aspirations simply have nothing to do with Oxford or any other form of higher education. His dreams — 
“Is this about Marina?” 
Those words break Colin out of the thought spiral he hadn’t realised he had fallen into. They leave him feeling even more annoyed and misunderstood than he had just a moment ago. 
“Excuse me? What exactly —”
“This. This insistence to avoid real life. To sulk around and avoid your responsibilities.”
“I am not —” 
“It’s fine, if it is!” Anthony offers, sarcasm not lost in his tone. “I get it. Your first real breakup can be hard. But at a certain point, you have to —” 
“That was months ago. And I don’t see how a silly little breakup has any bearing on my career aspirations.” 
It isn’t until those words leave his lips that he realises how potently they taste of bullshit. 
No, this is not about Marina or the ultimate demise of their relationship. Obviously, she has no bearing on any of his future plans. But to refer to their breakup as “silly” or “little” feels dishonest. (On his end, at least. The words are probably more fitting for Marina’s feelings on the matter.)
In truth, Colin had been in a perpetual bad mood since she ended things between them back in August. They only dated for six months, but that was approximately five and a half months longer than any relationship he had held previously. He thought Marina was the love of his life; after their breakup, she admitted that the only reason they ever dated was to make her ex-boyfriend jealous. 
At least the relationship had been successful for one of them. 
“‘Career aspirations?’” Anthony mocks, pulling Colin out of yet another thought spiral. “Is that what we’re calling them now?” 
Now, Colin wishes for nothing more than to strangle his older brother. Instead, he lets go of his tightening grip around the armchair. 
“Once again — can we table this conversation for another day? Daphne will kill me if I kill you and thus, ruin her party.”
Anthony rolls his eyes, but nods. 
“Fine. But isn’t this your party?”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
Anthony immediately stands from his chair, but Colin remains sitting. His gaze turns to the left again, pointlessly pointing at that big brown door — wishing against all reason and logic for someone to walk through the precipice. 
Just as he always does on nights like this. 
꙳ ꙳ ꙳
At approximately 11:33 PM, after cutting the cake, after dodging more of Anthony’s questions, after acting like an ungrateful, bad-mood-wielding ass at his own celebration, Colin sits alone. 
He’s in the drawing room, perched precariously on the edge of a windowsill. The room is dark, lit by one dying bulb in the lamp by the door. There’s a hastily-rolled joint (a birthday gift from Benedict) between Colin’s thumb and index finger. There’s a cloud of smoke sitting on his tongue and a bitter December breeze drifting in from the open window beside him. 
The party he left behind is probably wrapping up right now. People are probably looking for him. He should probably go say goodbye (or even “hello”) to them. He shouldn’t keep himself here, secluded in a well of his own misery. But just the thought of going downstairs and speaking to one of those random, too-happy people fills him with a misery that —
Shit.
The door to the drawing room starts to creak open. Before it can open all the way — before he can even turn his head to identify the perpetrator behind that noise — Colin flicks the joint out the window. When he finally does look over to the entrance across the room, his panic starts to settle. 
“Sorry. I thought you were someone else,” he says, just as Penelope says, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Even in the dim lighting — even from across the room — Colin can see her cheeks flush pink as she laughs nervously and steps across the precipice. Thankfully, she shuts the door closed behind her.  
“Sorry,” she says again. “Hope I don’t disappoint.” 
“Not at all.” He shuts the window before standing from his spot. He meets Penelope halfway on the light blue couch in the middle of the room. “Quite the opposite.” 
As she walks closer, her cheeks grow just a little more pink. The nervous smile drops though, her face settling into a look Colin has become quite familiar with over the years. He knows there’s a question behind it — something gnawing at her insides, begging to be asked aloud. Given his admittedly odd behaviour and the fact that this is the first time they’ve spoken all night, he feels rather confident about what question he’s about to be asked. 
But he’s wrong.
“What happened to your birthday hat?”
“Fucking hell,” he unconsciously mutters. The words slip from his lips as his hands raise to the crown of his head. “Forgotten by a tray of eclairs. I think.” 
That gnawing expression on Penelope’s face drops. She giggles. 
“Shall we go look for it before your mum catches on?” 
“No.” It isn’t until that word shoots off his lips that he realises how deeply he despises the idea of being anywhere except this spot on the couch. “Mum will forgive my carelessness.” 
Penelope nods, a soft hum of agreement on her lips. 
“Is there a reason you’re hiding up here instead of by that tray of eclairs?” 
Colin’s first instinct is to deflect. He opens his mouth to do so — but before he can say anything, he’s suddenly hit by a wave of clarity that doing so would be wrong. That Penelope already knows something is up with him and lying to her would do neither of them any good. The epiphany is almost certainly a consequence of the weed he inhaled approximately 60 seconds ago, but still…
“Just in a bit of a shit mood. Which — I should really apologise for. To you and the hundred other people held hostage by said shit mood all night.”
Penelope’s face flashes with an expression different from inquiry, but just as familiar to him after all these years: worry.  
“Don’t apologise.” 
Maybe it’s the joint currently burning a hole in his mother’s lawn. Maybe it’s the deflection finally breaking through. Maybe it’s his inherent need to pull the worry off Penelope’s face, but Colin cannot help but smirk. 
“Sorry. I’ll try to remember to stop doing that.” 
“Why are you in a shit mood?” she asks, seemingly unphased by his facetiousness. 
Colin shrugs. 
“Not in the Christmas spirit this year, I suppose.”
“I don’t see how that’s of any relevance, considering the fact that this is not a Christmas party. In fact, I believe any mention of said ‘Christmas spirit’ has been banned entirely.” 
“Bloody hell.” 
Colin runs a hand across his face, literally wiping away that smirk. 
“I told Daphne to relax on the ‘rules’ for this thing. Actually — I told her to skip this party altogether. To just tack on a birthday cake to the usual Christmas Eve celebrations tomorrow. Unfortunately, I don’t believe my input is of much relevance on the subject.”
Penelope remains quiet for a second longer than Colin feels is necessary or comfortable. In those few seconds of waiting, she sports a new expression on her face. This one is harder to read than the ones that came before. 
“Is that why you two were arguing before?” she finally asks. And when Colin simply gives her a look of confusion, she clarifies, “I saw you two talking in the foyer earlier tonight. You looked a bit… I don’t know. Cross?” 
Once again, Colin feels himself hit with a desire to drop his faux-nonchalance and charming deflection. To speak plainly. If there ever were a person to be candid with, surely it’s Penelope. Throughout the entirety of their friendship, she has only ever regarded him with an open mind. All his life, she has been so constant and loyal. If there is anyone he should be discussing matters such as this with, surely it’s her. 
Surely. 
“No, that wasn’t what we were talking about. As silly and unnecessary it may have been… You know how excited Daphne gets about these parties. I didn’t want to complain. Not that directly, at least. We were, uh —” He clears his throat. “We were actually discussing my post-uni plans.”
In the relative darkness surrounding them, Penelope’s eyes light up with eager curiosity.
“Oh?” 
“Yeah. Anthony has been on my ass for weeks regarding the future — which is completely out of character from him, I know. But I… I don’t know. Anthony isn’t exactly the easiest person to talk to about that sort of thing and I… I thought it would be easier to talk to Daphne about it, but…”
The longer he speaks, the more apparent it becomes that his usual capabilities for completing sentences have seemingly slipped away from him. It’s probably the weed, but…
“What are your plans?” Penelope asks, filling the interim silence. “It’s fine if you don’t know yet, of course. Not everyone has to know exactly what they want to do after uni, but —”
“No, I do have plans,” Colin is quick to clarify. “They’re just a bit… mad. According to Anthony, at least.”
“Oh.” Penelope shifts in her spot, sitting up a bit straighter. A wicked smile creeps up her lips. “Well, that’s much better than no plan at all.” 
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I guess so.”
“So what are these mad plans, exactly?” 
“Well,” Colin can feel his body sink just a little bit deeper into the couch cushion as he continues, “you know how I’ve always wanted to travel?”
“Of course,” she says, a softer smile suddenly appearing on her lips.  
“I always thought of that as some far away dream. Like, once I become an actual adult and have my life figured out, then I can take time off from my ‘real life’ to go see the world for myself. The only problem was…”
His voice trails off again, still unsure of what words he could use to best describe what lies in his heart. Thankfully, Penelope describes it for him.
“You never had any dreams for your so-called ‘real life?’”
“Exactly.” 
Though the window has since been shut tight, the air in the room remains quite cold. And yet, Colin feels a sudden warm sensation in the center of his chest; he does his best to ignore it as Penelope opens her mouth again.
“So you want to make a career out of travelling the world?”
“Something like that,” he mutters, his shoulders unconsciously shrugging upwards. “Though, when you put it like that… maybe I can understand Anthony’s reservations on the subject.” 
“Don’t say that,” Penelope insists, a gentle breath of nervous laughter on her lips. “Lots of people’s jobs revolve around travel. There’s nothing wrong with that.” With another tiny laugh, she adds, “And I’m sure a business degree from Cambridge will be useful in securing those future plans.” 
“I don’t know how true that is,” he admits, the words tasting sour on his tongue. 
In truth, Colin had no idea what he wanted to study or work towards when he first started at Cambridge at eighteen. He had chosen to study business simply because it seemed like the rational choice to make at the time. Unlike his older brothers, both of whom knew exactly what they wanted to do with their lives before they hit secondary school, Colin was late to such a realisation. It wasn’t until very recently that his hopes and dreams for the future started to solidify. 
“What do you mean?” Penelope asks.
“Well, obviously any degree from Cambridge will be useful for my future. I just meant…” He sucks in a cold breath of air. “If I were to go back in time and do it all over again, I wouldn’t have chosen business. I think I would have, uh, chosen something more in line with English Literature.” 
Once again, Penelope’s face lights up in the darkness.
“You want to write?” 
“Yeah.” He chuckles again. “I think so.” 
“Colin, that’s —” Penelope’s hand, which had previously been sitting limply in her lap, moves as if she’s about to reach out and touch his shoulder. It doesn’t in the end. It now rests on top of the couch in the space between them. “That’s a great idea. Truly.” 
That warm feeling makes a sudden reappearance in Colin’s chest. Again…
“Really? You’re not worried about what will happen if you’re no longer the only writer in this friendship?”
“No,” she insists, almost sounding defensive. “The world needs more good writers.” 
“Well, I don’t know if it’s fair to say —”
“You’re a good writer, Colin.” 
At her words (and the adorably serious manner in which she spoke them), Colin cannot help but laugh. 
“And you know this based on what? A few emails?” 
To claim Penelope has only received a “few” emails from him feels disingenuous. But still, he struggles to see her point. 
He sent the first email in January, shortly after returning to Cambridge from winter holiday and approximately six weeks after Penelope’s father passed. The email wasn’t about her dad or uni or anything in particular. If anything, it was a compilation of random thoughts (and several puns) he had collected in his brain in the five days that passed since they last spoke. 
He sent that first email on a Friday. She responded on the following Monday. He sent another on Friday. She responded again —
Suffice to say, a pattern emerged. Both of them missed a few Mondays and Fridays over the last eleven months (especially around the end of the spring term and the termination of his relationship with Marina), but even then… 
Penelope has read more of Colin’s writing than anyone else. More than even his professors at Cambridge.
“Yes, based on a few emails, Colin,” Penelope insists, rolling her eyes lightly. “Really, you are such a terrific writer. It doesn’t matter if it’s in an email to a friend — or in a term paper or a book or whatever it is that you want to do. I can tell that you like to write, and that’s really the fundamental requirement for becoming a writer.” 
That warm feeling in Colin’s chest is back and it feels like it’s about to leave a rash on his skin. 
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Colin sighs and leans a few inches away from Penelope. 
“Well… Thank you. But I believe Anthony would protest that last point.” 
“What do you mean?” Penelope asks, similarly drawing a few inches backwards. Her left hand falls back into her lap from the couch cushion. 
“Anthony is of the mindset that liking something isn’t enough of a reason to upend your life for that thing. He thinks the idea of me running off to another country after graduation and writing about my experiences is ‘silly.’ That if I want to be a writer, I should stay put, apply for a graduate program, and actually learn how to become one. Which…” 
His voice trails off, because saying it all out loud makes his own plans sound a lot more “silly” than he had originally thought. 
“Well…” Penelope starts. “In fairness to Anthony’s perspective, you can’t wake up one day, decide to be a lawyer, then go litigate a murder case at the courthouse down the street. But becoming a writer… It’s different than becoming a lawyer. Maybe Anthony isn’t the best person to talk to on the subject.” 
Colin nods, a vague hum of agreement on his lips as he thinks over her words. 
Maybe not so silly, after all.
“And Daphne? What did she say?” 
“Oh.” 
He had almost forgotten why they’re having this conversation in the first place. 
“She was more supportive than Anthony. I think I was just a bit frustrated because she didn’t seem to fully understand what it is that I want to do. She thinks I just want to fuck off for a year, then come home and figure out what to do with my ‘real life.’ Attend postgrad, get a job in an office, do… Do whatever it is that real adults do.”
Penelope doesn’t say anything right away. She’s looking at him in that way that makes it clear that she has a lot to say and is still figuring out how to say it. Before she can, he opens his mouth again.
“I shouldn’t be cross with her. Or Anthony, even. I just think — for my own sake — I need to commit to the idea. To go out and try to make something of myself without having a backup plan to revert to if I don’t succeed within a year’s time.” 
“Then you should go for it.” Her words come out quickly, in one determined breath — like she needs to get the words out before he continues rambling. “Anthony will come around. He probably just needs some time. And perhaps some perspective.” 
“Yeah, may—”
“What is it that you want to write, by the way?” Penelope asks, interrupting whatever further deflection he was surely about to throw her way. “A book about your travels?”
Colin considers the question. 
“No, I was thinking more in terms of a blog. Or,” he laughs, “a magazine, if they’d hire me. But I do like the idea of writing a book one day. Not any time soon, but once I’m older and wiser and have lived a little more, I think I’d like to have some written recollection of my experiences to look back on. That’s sort of the magic of writing, you know?” 
Penelope doesn’t confirm that last bit. She stays quiet as she gives him a look that says, “keep going.” 
“Like… When I was at Aubrey Hall last summer, I got bored one day and went snooping through my grandfather’s old study. When I did, I found this cardboard box in the back of his closet. It held all these little mementos from when he was on tour back in the forties. He kept so many journals from that time — all filled with these little details about what his life was like. Leaving England for the first time. Seeing the Eiffel Tower. Eating strudel in Vienna. Skinny dipping in the Danube. Wa—”
When Penelope lets out a surprised giggle, Colin can’t help but laugh, too. The bad mood that had been plaguing him all night has long since been forgotten. 
“Anyway… I read through approximately five years worth of those stories in one afternoon, and I just — I couldn’t help but think about how lasting the written word is. My grandfather died before I was born, and yet I learned so much about him just because I happened upon those old journals. Just because he sat down one afternoon seventy years ago and decided to write about the time he and a bunch of his army buddies stripped naked and jumped into a river.”
Penelope laughs again. So does Colin. 
“I just — I like that idea. That —” He inches forward to grab a little white napkin from the coffee table. “I could grab a pen, write about all the delectable food we ate here tonight, hide this in an archaic book on the shelf over there, then seventy years from now, my grandson could find it and understand just how ardently his grandfather loved eclairs.” 
Penelope laughs again. This time, the laugh is strong enough to make her lose a little bit of her resolve; when she tips forward, her forehead lightly brushes against his shoulder. 
“But like I said…” He says, only once Penelope has returned to an upright position on the next cushion over. “I think I need to live a little more before I even think about writing something as definitive as a book.” 
“Well… Whatever you end up writing, I’ll read it.” 
Colin laughs again. He can’t help it.
“You know — you’re quite the loyal reader, Pen. First you put up with my weekly long-winded, rambling emails, now you’re —”
“I don’t ‘put up’ with anything, Colin. You’re a terrific writer. I always enjoy reading your emails. Even if they almost always include one too many puns.”
“That’s debatable,” he mutters defensively, only able to cling onto those last few words.
“Even with the jarring amount of puns in your work —”
“Hey!”
“— your writing is good. You obviously have a passion for it, and that matters a hell of a lot more than a lit degree.” 
Penelope takes a breath. Speaking a bit more softly now… 
“Possessing a passion is important. It will fill your hours with a sense of purpose. When others doubt you or success seems illusive, that passion will drive you to keep going. To achieve something definitive — something you can look back on decades from now and be proud of.”
When Penelope stops speaking, Colin is reminded of that inability he possessed just a few minutes ago — the one that made it impossible to finish his sentences without trailing off into oblivion. It definitely wasn’t the joint. (The more he thinks about it, the more apparent it becomes that Benedict’s “present” was nothing more than a few grams of oregano rolled into a little white paper.) 
No. A few minutes ago, Colin was unable to properly put his hopes and dreams into words without trailing off or sounding like an arsehole — just as he has been unable to do for several months now. But now… 
Now he can. Now it all makes sense. 
After thanking Penelope for her kind, insightful words, Colin decides it is time for this discussion to alter course.
“And what of your dreams, Pen?” 
Penelope doesn’t answer right away. Though the room around them is still rather dark, Colin’s eyes have adjusted enough to see the blush that quickly forms on her cheeks. 
“You know I’m studying to become a journalist,” she says, which is more of a protest of his question than an actual answer. 
Of course he knows that. Unlike Colin, Penelope knew what she wanted to do with her life long before she began attending university. But despite their increased correspondence over the last few months, Penelope never really talks about why she made that choice. 
“Obviously. But what is it that you’re so passionate about? What fills your hours with purpose?” 
She considers his questions.
“I don’t know. I always loved reading, and that just naturally bled into a love of writing.” 
“Okay,” he says belatedly, not initially realising that was her entire response. “But why journalism? Why not fiction or poetry or —” Colin chuckles. “Travel writing?”
“I don’t know,” she says again. “I just — I’ve always been interested in people’s stories. Real people’s stories. One day, I might wake up and suddenly want to write a romance novel or a children’s story, but right now… Journalism feels like the right fit for me.”
After another prolonged silence, Colin asks, “What interests you about real people’s stories?” 
“I don’t know,” she says for a third time. “People are just so… complicated. Everyone has a million stories inside of them. That’s the fun part of interviewing people — finding ways to get those interesting, hidden details into the light.”
In the back of his mind, Colin wonders if Penelope has been practising that particular skill on him during this conversation. He waives the thought away before it can fully develop. 
“Is there an area of journalism you’re specifically interested in?”
Before answering his question, Penelope scrunches her nose, then lets out a forced breath of laughter. 
“Colin, I don’t know why you’re getting so caught up in the small details of it. What my dream is now could be different than what it is ten years from now — or even two years from now. However I choose to spend my hours, I just hope that I have a purpose to drive me. Something satisfying and fulfilling. Something that will challenge me to be brave and witty. Something to propel me forward and set me free.”
It takes Colin a moment to realise that he has been stunned into silence. Thankfully, he’s able to pull himself out of the daze with a little effort. 
“What could possibly measure up to all of that?” 
She shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.” 
They sit in a shared silence for a moment. Colin wishes he could hear what is going on in Penelope’s head; his is filled with her voice. 
Something to propel me forward and set me free.
“I think it’s amazing that —”
“Oh, stop,” she says, another forced laugh on her lips. Though she remains rooted in her spot on the couch, Penelope’s face turns away from Colin and towards the nearest door. For the first time in several minutes, he remembers that there’s still a party going on downstairs. His party.
“It’s late,” she says. “Don’t pay too much mind my silly little words.” 
“I think your dreams are bigger than you let on, Pen.” 
She turns back towards him, eyes meeting his again through the darkness. 
“Weren’t we discussing your dreams?”
Yes, but he much prefers this subject.
“I —” 
“What’s holding you back? Is it just your siblings’ reactions?” 
“No,” he admits. “There are certainly bigger obstacles than Anthony’s lack of enthusiasm.” 
“Such as?” 
Colin doesn’t respond right away. While his concerns may be easier to conceptualise than his hopes or his dreams, they’re harder to speak aloud. 
“Well… Working as a travel writer would also mean spending the majority of my time away from home.” 
For the first time tonight, a strikingly sad expression flashes on Penelope’s face, as if it is only now that she realises the consequences of Colin’s dreams coming true. It’s only a flash, though. Her smile makes a quick reappearance, even if it isn’t quite as bright as it was before. 
“You already spend the majority of your time away from home.”
“Yeah, but Cambridge is only two hours away. Plus, Eloise is there to annoy me if I’m ever feeling homesick. If I’m off in a different timezone the majority of the year…” 
His voice trails off again. This time, Penelope doesn’t jump in to fill the lull.
“Is it awful to say I’m worried that life will move on without me here if I’m away?”
“No, it’s not awful.” Penelope’s smile looks even sadder than it did before, but it doesn’t drop. “I think a lot of people worry about that, regardless of their career paths. I think that’s just part of growing up.”
“What do you mean?” 
“I mean…” 
Her voice trails off as she looks away from him and towards the ceiling, seemingly racking her brain for the right words to use. It only takes her a few seconds to find them.
“When you’re growing up, your world is pretty small. You have your siblings and your neighbours and your friends at school, and for the most part, that world is stable. Some people move away and you lose touch with others, but most people remain a constant. But then as you get older and leave for uni or work or wherever it is that life takes you, the world is suddenly really, really big. 
“Those people who made up your entire world when you were younger are still there, but their lives aren’t intertwined with yours like they used to be. It’s more like they’re running parallel. Like… you know all those emails we send back and forth?” 
It takes Colin a rather long moment to respond, and all he can muster in the end is a single nod. 
“We’re still in each other’s lives, but the stories we share with each other are… separate.”
It takes him even longer to respond to that last part. 
“Pen… Was that meant to be reassuring? That was the most depressing thing I’ve heard in my entire life.” 
“Oh stop.” Penelope laughs half-heartedly. “It’s not depressing — it’s just life. Actually, it’s a bloody miracle. We should be thankful that our friendship has lasted so long, despite how much our worlds have changed over the years.”
After another extremely long beat of silence, Colin musters what little energy he has left to draw the faintest hint of a smirk to his lips. 
“So, what you’re saying is… You will not miss me if I disappear to a different country every week?” 
Penelope’s forced smile finally drops. She rolls her eyes. 
“Obviously, I’ll miss you. But that’s no reason for you to stay home and prevent yourself from reaching your full potential.” 
And just like that, Colin is eighteen again, not seconds away from turning twenty-two. He and Penelope are on Fife’s rooftop, not on the couch in his family’s drawing room. He’s hopeful for the future, not scared that their friendship won’t survive this next phase of life. 
“I —” Penelope starts, back on the couch in his family’s drawing room. Colin has no idea what it is that she is about to say, because he leans in and hugs her, incidentally muffling her words with his cable knit sweater.
With his lips practically in her hair, he whispers, “Thank you. For being so supportive.” 
Penelope doesn’t respond until approximately 25 seconds later, after she breaks the embrace apart and looks him in the eye. 
“You don’t have to thank me for my silly little words.” 
Before Colin can find an adequate response to such a ridiculous statement, Penelope removes herself from his touch completely. She stands from her spot on the couch and looks down at him as she continues speaking. 
“It’s getting late, I should get…” 
Her voice trails off when her eyes land on her phone. She smiles. 
“Look,” she instructs, holding up the screen for him to see. 
12:01 AM. 
“Happy Birthday, Colin.” 
Now standing beside her, Colin takes the phone from her hands, smirks, then throws it gently onto the couch. The cushions are still indented in the spots they sat together. 
“Merry Christmas Eve, Pen.” 
-------------------------------------------------------------------
“No debating that one, I suppose. What’s next?” 
15 notes · View notes
Note
Only one who cares at that moment as in like, LB and CN are still scrambling after MQ with the hero identities and the guardian stuff on Marinette's side + their own personal relationship drama if that's included + they don't hate Chloé but maybe there's a liiittle bit if resentment causeeven if they don't blame her for it she was still the akuma that made them lose the entire team and they don't have the full picture yet with what happened? or they didn't have time to think about it in depth just yet and Chloé was starting to backslide more at that point so it seems like shes back to normal but also if she stopped showing up to school or they don't see/hear from her for a little bit then it's like "okay we can think about that a little later after we've gotten everything else settled." They were probably going to see what's up but they never got the chance before she left?
Zoe would be the one to see the bigger picture because she's seen the home side of things. But also if Andre is gonna be on his "im gonna disown you" bs then could it be because of Miracle Queen?
Yeah its!
Maribug and the class don't really like Chloé. They were trying to give her a chance, but when MQ happens they're scrambling and don't think about it too much and assume she just gave up.
Adrien and Sabrina are a bit more concerned than the others but Adrien is hesitant to ask because 1.) scrambling with LB and 2.) the past few months have shown him Chloé at her worst and he's still sorting out all of that and how he sees her and what's the 'real' Chloé anymore. Meanwhile Sabrina tries, but with Chloé retreating into something 'safe' of being a jerk and not caring about others, she's keeping her at arms' length too and leaning into her mom's whole 'you can work for me but you're not Exceptional™ so I'm not supposed to care about you' thing.
I debated on Chloé beiing sent away because of MQ, but I want her to meet and interact with Zoe.
The whole thing could be /building/ from post-MQ, with her Season 4 actions being extra straws on the fox's back until it breaks by the end of Season 4.
And then Season 5 diverts A Lot™
17 notes · View notes