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aineryeo · 3 years

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Prominence ௹ ATSUMU

The letters of the first few days when you parted ways 📨

Prominence: “Find someone great, but don’t find someone better.” You’d say to yourself, though it was directed to your ex-boyfriend, writing in a number of papers, serving as letters. Awaiting your impending doom.

Timeskip! Atsumu x Reader

Synopsis: You break up with Atsumu Miya in hopes to alleviate his pain. And for what he'd have to deal with. » 6.2k Words

Warnings: Depictions of Mental Illnesses & actual disease, Angst, Suicidal tendencies, Cursing, Atsumu is an impulsive bitch, so is reader. Read at your own discretion. Do not read if this has any sort of possibility to trigger you, more if you feel encouraged to do something you shouldn’t. This isn’t what the fic is about.

It was a rainy day, droplets of water knocking on the window of what was your empty room. It wasn’t a space you were supposed to be getting used to at this point in your long life. A faint tune of a piano was penetrating through your thin walls as you stared into nothing in particular, maybe the particles that become visible with the peek of sunlight through the gray clouds piercing through your window pane.

Your body got up, but you had a stinging migraine, your limbs were weak, and today was an off-day from your work as a bustling city journalist. No phone calls for a sudden need for your presence in your job. Your blanket was wrapped around you loosely, your feet navigating through your creaking floors. How depressing.

Empty fridge.

Messy bed.

Disorganized papers.

And clothes in unsuspecting places.

Your clothes. None of his. You can’t even reminisce about him anymore. Your migraine seems to have gotten worse. You spot one of the few things that were left organized. Your letters. You grimaced, the pain suddenly pushed to the back of your head as you were reminded of the contents.

“It won’t be bad to see him, at least once.” You reason to yourself with a small smile, it wasn’t a happy one. Nonetheless it was one. One reason out of many when you were always reminded that he was already happy, that Atsumu no longer needed you, and your relationship was a ghost of the past.

It has been for a month now, how else would it go, when you were the one who ended it?

Yeah, it was a bad idea to see him. You scold yourself for coming here, furthering your torture. You see him with a huge smile, bigger than when he was with you. Brighter than when you last picked a joke, at least that was what you thought. You dated him since you were sixteen, young, and fresh in-love.

“Tsum, baby, not here.” You vaguely make out, from hiding behind one of the tall bleachers near the exit from where their practice usually resided in. She was very pretty, her voice silky. You hear a rumbling chuckle in return, you feel your spine shudder at the familiarity. “Hm, honey where do ya want me ta do it then? I jus’ can’t resist ya.” You took your small window to catch a glimpse of them. The perfect lovers.

This was selfish, you knew it. But you inwardly cheered for him, happy to know that he found someone great. That he was happy, even if it was at your expense. Your eyes were glossy, dams about to break, so you walk away; like you always do, like you always did. Your mouth formed into a shaky frown, your fists clenching ‘till you were white-knuckling nothing in particular. White-knuckling all your pain, perhaps.

It was when you exited the establishment, into the car park, into your cheap second-hand car, did your tears fall; until everything kept breaking, your multi-functional tape to bar all your emotions inside, failing you for the umpteenth time for the past month. You were all alone, still clutching your keys to open the door to the driver’s seat. When you felt a hand on your shoulder, which made you jolt, you were too surprised that you didn’t get to wipe your residual breakdown off your face.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Your blurry eyes adjusted, and your heart almost jumped at the familiar face. You turned your face away from him, you were too ashamed to show your face to him. To the brother of the man you were still in love with. You changed your voice a few octaves higher, “Yeah! Thanks, sorry you had to see that.” Mishandling your keys before being able to open it quickly, though Osamu stopped you just as fast.

“I know it’s you, Y/N.”

You froze. “I’m not—”

Hearing a small laugh from him made you stop. “I think I’ve seen your car enough times before, with the same plate to know that it’s you when I parked right next to it.” Turning back, he already had his hand out holding a handkerchief.

“Sorry.”

He smiled sympathetically at your small figure, noticing that you’ve gotten smaller than you already were. More fragile. So he placed his hand that was roughly the size of your face, gently on top of your head to stroke it, hoping to bring you some comfort; roughly knowing the situation about you and his brother. How couldn’t he?

“It’ll be okay.”

It’s not. You recall, already sitting in your bathtub, not really crying, not really feeling anything of the sort. You exhaled as if it lightened your burdens. It won’t be.

You hum. Knees to your chest, “Not when...” You sigh, not now.

It was time for work, tedious work that requires you to write articles and camp out places at 2am in the morning, only to turn up and camp out at a different place again, just hoping for an interview for your channel. You didn’t feel like breaking down at all, but it felt like everything is typically more down. You refused to eat when your co-workers asked you to join them, you had no appetite.

You hadn’t for weeks.

A heavy feeling is always stuck inside you. Like everything is screaming at you, but you can’t scream back. You just can’t. Always heaving sighs, always staring into what once was blue skies, turned dull grey. Was it because you regretted having to let go of him? Or was it because of the news you had received prior to when you left him? Was it because the one time you felt like you couldn’t walk, the doctor told you that you had a few left; extend your life with a surgery that was high-risk.

Your hand ran through your hair for the umpteenth time, thoughts drifting to whether you should just end it quicker than what you had. What was the point? You failed to notice that your hand was writing on another piece of paper, as if documenting everything that ran through your mind. And maybe you wanted them to find out, when you’re gone. So you don’t have to face the burden of facing them afterwards and giving them any answers.

But you don’t want to ruin the happiness Atsumu had right now. He’ll blame himself, but this was all your fault. You ended it with a bad note so he’d forget you easily, you yelled at him, told him that he was useless, you didn’t love him anymore. You open your eyes, seeing yourself back at the situation where it all began, and where it all ended.

“Atsumu, I hate you.”

“Angel, what are ya saying? I said I was sorry! I’m tired from practice.” He replied, he was tired. He was stressed. You were stressing him. And he was getting rightfully agitated, it was working.

Your thoughts briefly flash to the days before, same old. You chose to do it days slowly, so it wouldn’t be too sudden; so he’d lose all love for you once you leave him. So you nitpick him again, even though it never really bothered you, “You always do this. Maybe we should just...” You swallow, it was like eating hard, bitter candy at once.

“What? Break up? Yeah, with your incessant yappin’ these days, Y/N, I wouldn’t mind one bit.” He said, looking at you with a harsh gaze. Similar to when some random fan begins screaming during his serving routine. You were nothing now. You nodded, if he had the right mind that time, he would’ve noticed that you were eerily calm; you were expecting this, why wouldn’t you?

“Yeah, break up.” You confirmed, with a somber smile. He hadn’t even noticed that more than half of your things were already gone from your shared apartment. You had one last suitcase, it was right beside the door. Atsumu failed to notice all the little things disappearing, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if he failed to also stop you before you hung your apron on the rack, turning the stove off, he was already gone. Into his bedroom, where he slept, too tired for anything his aching muscles couldn’t take right now. Your keys left untouched on the table before you left him altogether. Always, just always looking back with a heavy grimace.

The skies were the same color from that day, to everyday, same grey.

It wasn’t long before you found out he had a new love. Apparently an avid, and innocent fan of his whom he met during one of his morning runs in the park.

“What’re you writing there, Y/N?” One of your co-workers as of now, Akaashi Keiji, brought your head back up in the present. You hummed, folding the paper your hand subconsciously wrote in, and placing it in your pocket. “Nothing, really. My hand just kind of moves on its own when I think of anything in general.”

He smiles, sweet. “That’s endearing. Must be why you’re quite famous in the department.”

You chuckle, “I’m not famous, Keiji. If anything, this job just keeps giving me migraines. You’re the real MVP as a great editor in your dept.”

His hand was rubbing his nape, laughing softly with you. You stood up, supposed to get some water only to fall back down again. Your co-worker quickly catches you with worry etched in his delicate features.

“Y/N, have you been eating?” No, but..

“Keiji, I can’t feel my legs.”

It was showing.

You asked Keiji not to tell anyone, he in turn, asked if any of your family members knew this. It made you chortle, you said, “No. My grandmother died years ago, I’m an only child, and my parents didn’t last.” It wasn’t a funny thing, you knew that but it made you laugh anyway. Laugh at how pathetic you were.

He looked at you, on your bed at your home that he had kindly helped you in after calling your doctor from before. Saying it was that the disease was starting to become severe, causing your limbs, your legs, your arms, to lose its sensation. Slowly, you’ll become more agitated, and it’ll be harder for you to talk, or even move. Only your co-worker, and your boss knew for the time-being.

“You don’t have to help me. I know you’re busy.” You said, though weak, “I’ll only weigh you down.”

Keiji sighed, he knew that you worry too much about other people, he knew that you got lost enough to stop thinking about yourself. And it was sad, he empathized with you in the way that you were both overthinkers, though he’d understood for a while that you were more hasty with decision-making.

“No.” He said, simple.

You looked down at the blanket that covered your bottom half, your top half facing the big, musty, old window next to your bed. Facing away from Akaashi.

“Why?”

He was quiet for a few seconds, save for the usual noise from the surrounding roads. He looked up, before he looked back at your weak figure. “It’s just you—you’re all alone.” Walking around to the other side so he can face you. About to utter a tad more to his sentence, he stopped when he saw your eyes blown wide, a bit red at the bottom, a hard attempt to stop tears from falling. He didn’t miss a beat after, quickly crouching, and allowing your head to rest on his chest.

“So I thought you could use some company.”

You appreciated your co-worker, now close friend’s generous help. It’s been a few weeks, and you’ve been spending it cooped up in the hospital. He had also forced you to finally admit yourself so you can get immediate assistance in the case that something similar were to happen again. A similar event where he was forced to carry you to your car, and drive you home.

The cords stuck to your skin to hydrate you was a bother, but it was manageable. Here were your last few months alive. You still had no idea why you couldn’t just leave. You had no specific goal, you were bound to hit rock-bottom, and the least you can get is a few more months, maybe years of living if you get the surgery. There was no point, nothing to live for. You could work on your career, but what can you really do with legs that can barely stand, and… hands that can’t even pick up a pen.

The latter was the one that you cried to every night if you had tears to spare. The latter was the one where you try to continuously hit your head in hopes it can keep writing. It was such a simple task, why couldn’t it do its job? When Akaashi came to visit one afternoon, he had to rush and grab the sharp pen you had in your barely moving left hand, attempting to dig it in the skin of the right. Just to feel if it was still alive.

Then it was requested to have no pens, or sharp objects left near you without supervision. You’d call your friends, if by friends, you mean other than occasional visits from your co-workers that didn’t know much about your personal life; but still had the courtesy of visiting you nonetheless after hearing news from the boss, you’d consent to it since you were leaving the field. But he hasn’t fired you yet, apparently.

Sometimes it shifts, when your arms refuse to work, your legs will move for a bit, vice versa. A frown forms on your face when it happens to be both. Why couldn’t this just be quicker? You ponder, and hear the door open. Expecting the only person who visits you so frequently.

“Keij—” You stopped. He stopped. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm? So I can’t visit ya now?” Oh, his familiar tone.

“How did you even know I was here?” You said, a bit agitated.

“Asked one of yer co-workers.” He shrugged.

“...You visited my workplace? And they told you immediately?” You raised your brow, bringing your body up to sit on the bed instead. It was a feat on its own, but he’d seen your struggle, he was about to reach and help actually.

“Yeah, I had deliveries to make.” He said, leaning back. “And I may have made them slip it after overhearin’ yer name. Couldn’t resist my charm.”

“You’re ridiculous, ‘Samu.” You smiled, for the first time in a while. He could tell that it wasn’t a normal occurrence in a while, the thought of at least alleviating your stress for a bit eased a tide inside Osamu.

Osamu took his hat off, putting it on the table next to your bed. He was humoring you, because he didn’t want you to see the first look on his face when he confirmed that it really was you who's been confined here. Not any other person with the same name. He sat on the sofa beside you, next to the window. You’d lie if your heart didn’t clench at the sight of him, If you’d look inside, you’ll spot the tinge of pain; but outside, all Osamu could see was that you still adored him. By that, he meant his brother. He knew he might trigger you due to him being the twin of what was your love. Still is, he was sure.

Clearing his throat, your trance broke. “Y/N.”

“Hm.” You lay your back flat on the metal headboard covered in the white pillows of your white bed, in your white room.

“Why are you here?” It was true that Osamu had heard you were confined in the hospital while he was making deliveries to your place coincidentally, so he couldn’t help but perk his ears. Despite your break-up, he was still your childhood friend, and although he heard of the story of how it ended from none other than his brother’s dull voice on the phone that night he was closing up Onigiri Miya; he knew there must’ve been something that caused you to do that other than Atsumu himself. He’d investigate, and help rekindle the lifelong relationship you both shared if he wasn’t so busy himself. And if his brother hadn’t immediately used a rebound to inflict immediate pain upon you, maybe he’d have considered it.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged.

Osamu sighs, “You do. Tell me,” he looks at you with sincerity, placing his coarse palm from the work he’s been juggling in, on top of your pale, lifeless hands. Almost wincing at the cold temperature they held, “Please.”

You sucked in a breath, he placed his, what you assume to be, warm hand on top of yours. But you felt nothing. So you let it out, “I have Friedreich’s Ataxia. Apparently it’s genetic, uh, doesn’t allow me to use these flimsy things.” You glanced at your legs, slightly waving them along with your hands, “I can’t even feel the warmth of your hand right now. I mean, that is, if you’re warm. It’s always cold here. The doctors said they’d try to give me therapy and train me to walk again, or actually use my hands.” You chuckle.

“And something about heart surgery, though that won’t really extend my life for long.” You finish, opting to insert a joke that you thought was bright until you let it out, “Better than turning out blind though! Haha… Kidding, it may happen to me too, which sucks, by the way.”

Your rambling was cut off when you were met with an intense stare from Osamu. “And you’ve found out of this, when?”

“...Nearly 2 months.. Ago?” You gulped the lump that was stuck in your throat.

Osamu rested his elbows on his knees, thinking. “So that was the reason?”

You retained silence.

He sighs. “I knew it would be a valid reason, but I really wasn’t hoping it would be this.” His face hidden in his big hands, frustration was visible. But it was the breathy question of, “Why are the gods this cruel?” To which your eyes soften, albeit a little bit.

“Samu, can I ask a favor?”

He looks at you, face out of his palms. “Sure.”

“Can you… Turn the TV on?” He raised a brow at first before standing up and getting the remote by the stand, switching it on, immediately being greeted by the sports channel on Volleyball. Oh, they had a game today. He had nearly forgotten due to this new revelation from you. He looked at your face that was staring directly at the screen, then he saw the number thirteen, and his heart clenched tighter.

He placed the remote on the table beside your bed, and he took his black cap. He spun it on his finger for a bit, “I won’t tell ‘Sumu.”

You hummed again, before looking at him. “Thank you.” Then he smiles sweetly at you before turning around, his face immediately turning into a painful grimace. Because even he could feel the tragedy of this love.

Each day you were gone was a punch in the gut for Atsumu. His initial lack of reaction to his overreaction, trying to get back at you for leaving him. It was wrong. All he ever wanted was to call you, tell you to come back, have you in his arms, the lot. He’d miss the smell of your hair when he hugs you tight, or the clean apartment whenever he comes home to you beaming, cooking dinner; like his precious wife-to-be. Though he hadn’t proposed, the ring he bought for you started collecting dust in his drawer.

The girl he was with didn’t really last long, she broke it off after getting annoyed by him calling your name instead of hers on any normal occasion on impulse. His head in his hands, bed half-empty. His games gave him a little bit of adrenaline, but every time he sees the empty spot saved for you in his jersey, the adrenaline will scafe off, bit by bit. It’d be a lie if he said that he didn’t at least try to call your number in the past two months, he had actually, for a couple of times. But your number was unreachable, and your social media was non-existent.

It was like you weren’t real. Like a ghost. Sand that was slipping far from his fingers, his hold. His hold loosened in a moment of weakness.

To say his biggest regret was the night you left was a lie, because the biggest regret he ever made was never immediately trying to get you back. He was dazed off in the locker rooms after one of their games, his water bottle in hand. Hinata waved in front of him, Bokuto right next; to which his daze cut off.

“You okay, Tsum?”

He smiled, nodding. But his teammates knew it wasn’t the same for a while now. He was more rigid and tired in his movements. Probably not the kind of exhaustion that could be solved by sleep.

“Yeah, no worries.” Even Sakusa worriedly glances once in a while, he still cares, though not openly shown. Atsumu slung his gym bag over his shoulders after changing, he decided to visit his brother in his shop for now. He was walking out to drive when he accidentally bumped into someone, trapped in his little thoughts about you again.

“Oh—Sorry, didn’t see ya there.” Atsumu apologized, knowing it was his fault.

“It’s okay, Miya-san.” It took a few moments before Atsumu registered who this was.

“Akaashi? Keiji? Bokuto talks about ya all the time! Nice to meet ya.” He smiled, putting his hand out for him to shake. To which the latter man does. Oh, Akaashi recognizes him, not just from being his friend’s teammate; but from being your ex. He concluded in his thoughts by the few seconds they shook hands that he wished for him to not find out about you any longer. Thinking about the pain it would cause for both of you, especially him. They nodded at each other before bidding goodbyes and heading off to their own destinations.

Atsumu drove past the busy streets of the city, traffic holding him back a little bit. He was stopped a little bit in front of the city hospital. He didn’t know why, but his gaze lingered on the building a little longer than he’d like to admit. His left hand clutching the wheel, the other on the stick; Why does it feel like… He shakes his head to rid himself of ridiculous thoughts, seeing as the cars were finally moving, he did too.

Just as his foot pressed on the accelerator, his eyes landed on you. His eyes were the widest it had been, and this was the day he felt the most emotions since the day you left him.

“Y/N?” He asks, though his window was turned up and he was inside his car. He must be going crazy. Were you on a wheelchair? Was it really you? Or were his eyes playing tricks on him again, just like it had been every time he visited places he used to go with you. Or when he needed anything in particular, his first call in the apartment would be your name, expecting an answer back like you always had been.

He rolls his window down, and at that moment he swears your eyes met before you quickly changed vision. He’d run out of his car to chase you right now, if it weren’t for the honking behind him. Fuck.

He drives forward, and goes around to park for the hospital real quickly. Just to see if he wasn’t going insane by the amount of times he’d imagined seeing you again. He looks around the area, arriving at the greener part of the hospital, probably one of the places where they take some patients out for walks. Atsumu’s heart beats faster when he sees the same beautifully familiar hair, and angelic face he’s fallen in love with. He misses a beat, he stops, just plainly admiring; he notices your weaker stature, and your crest-fallen face. Paler skin, and limp limbs. And for that mistake, he fails to notice you were being guided in already.

He panics. About to bolt when he suddenly trips over his feet, and gets a bloody knee as the door closes. That doesn’t stop Atsumu, no, he’s dealt with much worse; one of which was the pain of not having you in his life. So he runs, and he sees the wheelchair you resided in enter the elevator; and once again, he swears, he swears, that his breath catches in his throat as he sees your eyes, and you see his.

And maybe he didn’t know, and maybe you didn’t know, but for the first time in months, you both saw colors.

“She was there, ‘Samu, I was sure of it!” Atsumu yells even in the midday of the bustling Onigiri Miya.

“Yer delusional as always, ‘Sumu. Ya should get yer head checked.” Osamu says from the kitchen in the back, there was faint squealing from the men and women alike in the restaurant. Feeling blessed for being able to witness the Miya twins in one sitting. And bantering, no less; even if it was over a girl.

“I can’t have mistaken it. I know when I see ma’ girl, Samu. Ya know it.” Atsumu groans, burying his head in his arms on the counter. “But when I asked the nurses, none of ‘em are giving me details. They say there ain’t Y/N L/N on their recent list of confined patients.”

Osamu was lucky he was working the kitchen right now, because he was low-key nervous of what to say, to not compromise you. How was his brother so close to it anyway? He wants to drive him away. He thinks he can agree with your rationale, but when he thinks of his brother’s side, wouldn’t it be more painful to just find out that you were just… Gone? His mind was splitting in half because of this dreaded situation, until Atsumu called him out again.

“Hey, ya scrub! Are ya even listening to me?” Atsumu lightheartedly yelled as Osamu’s heart softened. If anything, he didn’t want to see his brother bear the pain of losing you, permanently.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut yer trap. I have a business running here. Yer scaring off the customers.” Osamu says, getting out of the kitchen, arms crossed with a scowl.

“Help me, Samu. I just… Can’t bear to lose her.” Atsumu finally says, with a lace of evident longing. Osamu’s face contorts into a myriad of reactions that he couldn’t pick from. Before he settled with a sigh, and a lean on his forearms to poke his brother roughly on the forehead. A grunt of pain from the blonde.

“The only one who can help ya is yerself. If ya want to go find her, go ahead. Whatever your choice will be, don’t let it end with regret.” Was all he said before he went away to tend to the girls who were about to order, red-faced, and all.

Atsumu didn’t understand it a bit. How was that supposed to help him? He thinks. His fist digging into his cheek, face contorted into heavy thinking. It went on like that. He had no other clue, but he kept visiting the hospital, kept driving through, hoping he could catch a glimpse of you; to prove to himself that you were real. But for the first few days, he had no sign of you whatsoever. He kept bugging the nurses, or at least asking them everyday and ended up getting rejected again, and again, and again.

He sat in his car parked in the hospital on his free-day. As if a lightbulb turned on, he felt stupid for not visiting your workplace. They should at least know something about you, right? You were pretty well-known, and idolized in the industry. So he drove there, he may or may not have sped up a little more than he should but all in good purpose. He arrived there, and immediately knew where to park, the signature spot for everytime he comes to drive you home. Recently hearing that you bought a car when you broke up with him, made him sink a little bit. But he saw the spot was taken, eyebrows furrowing for a little before parking to the spot next to it.

When he got out, he noticed that the car that took your spot had dusting on it. As if it hadn’t been let out in a while. Or used. Quickly putting two-and-two together, maybe this was your car? The one you had bought? And if it hadn’t been used in a while… Then that supports his thoughts about you being in the hospital. His face shifted into worry. That must mean.. Whatever you had been sick of, was serious if you haven’t been using your car as often, considering your job was hectic.

He shook the thoughts off for a while, determined to find more clues about you instead. But he thinks the search suddenly became too easy when he suddenly heard a few gossiping women.

“Oh, poor Ms. L/N… She’s been hospitalized for a month now.”

“Really? Have you heard of any reason why?”

“I’m still unsure but I heard it’s chronic, and she doesn’t really have long.”

He sucks in a harsh breath. What? His ears perk up more to their conversation. He hides behind a wall, he assumes that they’re probably heading for their lunch break as a group right now.

Then a snicker, “I know this is kind of mean, but who’ll be replacing her now? Surely her position is up for debate.”

Atsumu’s face darkens at this. Stepping out of the wall as his big frame became all the more intimidating, “I mean, she’ll be biting the dust sooner or—”

“Shut your damn mouth, filthy whore.” Atsumu says with a sneer. Chin up, looking down. “Continue that sentence and I’ll see who bites the fuckin’ dust first.” A whimper, “It’s him again!” Shuffled feet, then they’re gone and out of his sights.

It takes a sigh, and a slump in his posture before everything sinks in. What does this mean? Is it.. True?

He shook his head, sure, you weren’t looking so good when he last saw you. You looked especially sick. But it was like nobody, not even the universe, had wanted him to see you. He thought back to the gossiping workers earlier. It’s him again? Atsumu hasn’t visited in a while, and he doesn’t think that he’s seen them… Oh.

Fuck, Osamu.

He could pass off as a professional racer with the speed he was driving at, only lucky enough to not have any cops tailing him. He was breathing heavily, his brother knew about you and didn’t tell him anything apart from that vague statement a few days ago? He couldn’t help the light betrayal he felt but in all honesty, he’d much rather force his brother to take him to you now. So when he arrived in Onigiri Miya, he didn’t waste a second dragging his brother out who was grumbling incessantly.

“The fuck ‘Sumu, I have a business to run!”

“No you, The fuck ‘Samu. You knew where Y/N was? Take me to her, now.” Atsumu said, foot on the ground, he won’t let anything come between his decisions now. Taking the bag of Onigiri from Osamu’s hand, “I’ll take this too. I’ll pay for it, I need to give a treat at least but we’re kind of in a hurry.” Osamu sighed, finally getting the gist of the situation. Deciding to spare his brother, he’d have to apologize to you later for spilling the beans. But he thinks he needs to let his brother let his feelings out as well.

“Okay.”

“No, you don’t have any other cho—Okay. Okay, get in the car.”

Osamu briefly yells at the part-timer he recently hired, telling them to take over for a while. To which they nodded eagerly, and so, the brothers left. Save for the quiet ride for the first few minutes. “...How—” Atsumu clears his throat, “How is she?”

A quiet beat, Osamu thinks of his answer. He settles for a passive one, “Okay.”

“Hn.” Atsumu grunts.

Osamu leans back on the passenger seat, “Just… Just make sure you don’t regret any of this.”

Atsumu raises a thick brow at this, “Why would I?”

“I think you already know why.”

He sucks in a harsh breath at this, and the silence remains. Atsumu reaches the hospital, parks the car, and Osamu leads the way to your room. Every step Atsumu took felt like the ground was shaking and trying to eat him whole. He wanted to see your pretty face again, your smile that could make his day whole and puff his chest out, or your hands that would comb through his hair and ask how it’s so soft when he bleaches it regularly.

So why was he seeing your writhing body under nurses yelling your name this time. Osamu breathes in, slowly understanding the situation as he quickly glances at his brother who was frozen. Both of them kept walking, until they were in front of what was supposed to be your room. Door open, and multiple people, trying to keep you alive. He hears that the doctor is coming, that you should wait, that you’ll get better in no time, at this point Atsumu didn’t know if the reassurances were for him instead.

When he sees your weak hand gripping the railing of your bed, he breaks. The bag of Onigiri long forgotten on the floor as he runs towards your bed.

“Darling, hey, hey, Angel, you—Yer okay, yeah? You’ll be fine, please be okay.” Atsumu says with shaky hands gripping yours, it was intensely cold, as if you weren’t even alive in the first place. He wishes so much that he was the one to give you warmth. “Look at me, you’ll be okay.”

And for the second time in a while, your eyes meet his, your weak, fragile, pretty little eyes; finally meeting him. The nurses noticed you calming down more, but your state wasn’t getting any better. They were initially going to let Atsumu out, but noticing the intimate relationship you two seemed to have displayed, they decided against it. More focused on bringing you back to life.

You had the heart surgery. You took the leap to extend your life, ever since you caught a glimpse of him a few days back; you just knew that the biggest regret you’d ever have is to never try. You told Akaashi when he visited that you were deciding on it, and he was supportive. He was really supportive. But you weren’t blind that it was a risk that may also shorten your life instead. Though wasn’t that what you were asking for, this whole time?

So maybe the time you got out of the surgery unscathed was the calm before the storm, it was the calm before this. But you were glad that even through your hazy vision, it was him that showed. It was Atsumu that kept telling you to look into his pretty eyes, and tell you that you’ll be okay.

Atsumu thinks that even in this situation, you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. So when the most beautiful thing slipped from his grasp, with no chance of clutching it back; his heart is torn, and burnt into crisps, non-existent flakes as his mind replays every memory he’s ever had with you, and how he was standing and watching warm, sunny spring turn into the ruthless, cold winter.

Osamu watched his brother break down in front of your bed, his own tears mixing in the lot, his cap covering most of his face. Another familiar figure that frequented visits with you, a solemn expression on his usual calm face. Heavy feeling on his chest, Akaashi approached the man who lay on his knees in front of your bed while the nurses that were scrambling to keep your life had promptly announced the date and time of your death.

Akaashi handed the box in his hand towards Atsumu who was kneeling with all his might, head on the ground, continuously asking for forgiveness from you, continuously asking for more time, just a little more. He hates this, he hates it. Because, when it sank in, you were gone.

The scene of your death. ⁆ To Visualize :) But instead of it being Kousei playing the piano, it's Atsumu when he plays volleyball, but when someone comes up to him, tapping on his back with a bright smile for an interview after the game; it's not you.

#Atsumu Miya #atsumu miya x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu x y/n #break up #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #timeskip atsumu #timeskip haikyuu #Akaashi Keiji #Atsumu angst #MSBY

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scarletmelody · 4 years

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Queenstrial - Chapter 1

Masterlist

warnings: language, drinking, sex

Semi-modern AU

Summary: Mare Barrow’s only wish is for true freedom. But all that’s taken away from her when a gods damned letter shows up on her doorstep. Gone is the hope for a life of happiness. Instead, she’s been chosen to enter the 50th Queenstrial competition to win Prince Tiberias the VII’s hand in marriage. But not only is the Prince she’s expected to win, not a stranger at all, but rather her previous one night stand, but now she’s competing against 20 other cutthroat women for his love and affections she’s not even sure she wants.

...

It’s rare for us to get mail in the stilts. Even rarer for it to be embellished with the royal insignia. And yet, that is exactly what I find waiting for me when I walk up the front steps of our home. With my meager stolen goods weighing down my jacket pockets, it’s hard not to scoff. Queenstrial happens to be the one golden ticket out of a life of poverty in the stilts. The only guarantee you have other than an apprenticeship. Yet, I don’t want it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life at some royal ass’s feet pretending to be something I’m not. Even if you don’t win the competition, most girls almost always end up becoming ladies in waiting for different ranking members of high houses. The only thing I’ve ever valued over my own life is freedom. The freedom to choose, and the freedom to simply be. And Queenstrial takes all of that away. But maybe it’s exactly for that reason that my mother made me enter in the first place. The only thing she’s ever wanted from me was the promise of a future. She doesn’t realize it but I catch all of the looks of disdain and grimaces she tries to hide when she sees me walk through the front door and empty my pockets of the few bronze pieces I managed to snatch up. I was never talented enough for an apprenticeship like my sister, Gisa. I was the odd one out; the black sheep in the family. My brothers were sent off to war before I turned 13, with only one half of an earring set to keep me company. The only person who’s ever had my back is Kilorn, my best friend. But he still has hope and promise awaiting him through his own apprenticeship with a fisherman. All I have is a sure death sentence in a few months when I turn 18. At 18 with no future, all that’s left is being drafted to the military; and most never make it back. Maybe it’s because I can’t stand what the expression is going to be on my mother or father’s face when I die in the trenches with only a fucking letter with the king’s signature slapped on to it, that I decide to pick up the letter and walk through our almost falling apart front door. Walking the few steps it takes to get to the kitchen, I’m almost hit with a wave of sadness. This is what I’m sacrificing. A home for the military because there is no way I’m getting into Queenstrial; not someone like me. The letter sits on the dining room table lit dimly by a single light fixture on the ceiling. I know it’s only a matter of minutes before my mother comes rushing into the room with excitement on her face. And of course, that’s what happens when she walks in and gives me a small smile, sitting down at the table with her hands folded neatly in front of her. “What are we waiting for?” I ask trying not to convey my own feelings of annoyance. Her elation over the possibility of me going to the castle to win a prince’s hand in marriage pales compared to my own. “We’re going to wait until everyone gets here.” She tells me, tersely. Basically saying ‘no room for discussion’. Great. And by everyone she means my dad and Gisa. Now I have to see their own downcast expressions on their faces when they realize I haven’t been chosen. All 17-year old’s are eligible to enter Queenstrial. That is only if you’re a newblood or silver. That’s the discrimination still present in our society. Red’s in the dirt as always. If you’re a newblood, you get a few more perks, but still not much better. I’ve somehow been blessed to have been born with the ability to wield and create lightning. Although, it’s nothing that I’ve been experimenting with because it’s banned in my village. 10 years ago, a boy no older than myself blew up the black-market trading center and it’s never been allowed since. And it’s because of that, that I limit myself to a small taste of my own ability. All I have is the tempting pull of the energy within the walls of my own house. 5 minutes later as I walk around the small kitchen pretending to clean to avoid doing nothing, the heavy silence is interrupted by a squeal and a bang as the front door is thrown open. Gisa, then. And then I hear the squeaking of rusty wheels following her. That would be Dad. “Is it here yet?” Gisa practically yells as she finally emerges into the kitchen, breathless. Dad follows her in his wheelchair, although a more subdued smile sits on his face. “Yes”, is all I have to say as they both more towards the table, eager to see the envelope lifelessly sitting there. Mom still hasn’t moved an inch until Gisa tries to snatch it. All she does is smack her hand and tell her to wait for another moment. I can’t help but feel some deep part of me almost feel bad for her, knowing that she’ll eventually read that letter of rejection and don her face of disappointment whilst telling me that everything’s going to be alright. When I finally take my own seat at the table, Mom finally makes a move to open the envelope. Every moment that it takes her to carefully unseal the damn thing, is like waiting for a bomb to drop. And then her face loses all of its natural red flush and goes bone white. And she screams. Actually. Fucking. Screams. It only takes a moment longer for Gisa to jump out of her chair and run behind Mom before she yells out, “Mare you made it! You’re going to the capital!” Then both of them get up and attempt to show dad before they all start cheering. Their sounds of excitement become subdued as my ears dull down to a sharp ringing noise. And I still sit in my chair. Unmoving, and silent. The only thing I can think of is What. The. Fuck. There is no gods damned way that the people sitting on their asses in Archeon would choose me. Me out of what has to be every other 17 year old in Norta. And that letter. I snatch it up from where it still sits opened on the table. Mare Molly Barrow, We are delighted to offer you a place in the 50th Queenstrial for Tiberias the VII, Prince of Norta. You are one of the 20 lucky young women selected to compete for his coveted hand in marriage. There is no need to bring any of your belongings other than a few of your sentimental items. Clothes and other necessities will be provided. A palace guard will arrive at your home tomorrow to pick you up and will travel with you to the castle. You will receive further instructions upon your arrival. We look forward to meeting you, The Royal Family of Norta Tomorrow. That letter means that by tomorrow I’ll be in a car on my way to the capital. Away from my family, from Kilorn, from everything I’ve ever known. I think I might actually throw up. “Mare?” my father asks, breaking me out of my self-induced shock. “Mare! Aren’t you excited!” Gisa smiles, shaking my shoulders in an attempt to wake me up. The only response I can muster is “Yeah.. sure Gis.” Mom looks at me still with another disappointed expression before she tells me, “This is a good thing, Mare. This is your chance”. Chance for what? I almost want to ask. Chance to leave everything I’ve ever known in the hopes that some prince will like me enough to keep me around? That I’m going to spend the next however many months of my life parading in pretty gowns pretending to be someone i’m definitely not? It’s this realization that hits me and at the same time the air seems to be trapped in my throat. ‘I can’t breathe’ is the only thing I can think about. All I can do is speed towards my room and slam the door shut. Granted, it’s not just my room. It’s shared with Gisa. Collapsing on my bed, I let the tears start streaming down my face. Frustrating fucking emotions. There’s no use in wallowing in something you can’t change, is what I try to tell myself. And then it occurs to me. If tonight’s going to be the last night of my freedom, why not make the most of it. Forcing myself to stop my pitiful crying, and wiping away what’s left of my tears, I let my lips turn up into an almost smile. Moving towards my closet I rummage around towards the back end and pull out a deeply revealing almost too scandalous deep purple velvet dress. It was meant to be somewhat of a joke that Kilorn got me when I tuned 17 this year. He claimed that it was a birthday gift and that I should wear it out to get all the men drooling. I only might have threatened to cut off a too-sensitive part of his if he said that again. But now.. Now this could come in handy. 20 minutes later I was finished. Stealing a glance in the mirror, I had to admit. I looked pretty damn good. I had styled my hair in voluminous curls and my lips were painted a bright ruby red. And that dress… That was undoubtedly the statement piece of tonight’s look. The v-cut of the spaghetti strapped dress showed off my cleavage, and the soft material hugged what little curves I had, magically making it look like I had some to begin with. Satisfied, I pulled my only pair of shockingly tall black stiletto heels before creeping towards the back door, carefully avoiding my family still celebrating over my impending doom. Quietly I shut the door before yelling, “I need to run for a bit, don’t wait up” and walking out. I should be rushing to Kilorn’s shabby room in his master’s apartment, but I won’t. I won’t because he’ll find out soon enough, and I already know what he’s going to say when he sees me dressed like this. I don’t want his fucking pity. So, I keep on moving, catching a ride with what seems to be a local fabric trader by giving him 2 coins. And then we’re off, leaving me to my thoughts as the only sound remaining becomes the thumping of the truck’s wheels on the unpaved dirt road. It’s so utterly stupid how one letter can change my entire existence. I can’t walk away from the Stilts. Even if it’s a complete and utter shit hole, it’s my home and the only place I’ve ever known. The trader continues driving until we reach the center of the stilts. The area where the night life is just about starting. Where bars are beginning to become crowded, with people spending their earned coins on women and cheap alcohol. Getting out of the car and thanking my driver, I stand there like an idiot for another 2 minutes in the center of the area. This is all I’ve known for my meager 17 years of existence. Why not enjoy it one last time? Finding my usual bar that I usually conduct my excursions in, I casually muster the best smile I can whilst attempting to make my breasts pop out even more to the bouncer waiting at the front. He only gives a slight nod and lets me walk in. No need for I.D here. They’ll let in anyone underage if you know how to get around it. Once I walk inside the club the smell of watered-down beer immediately hits my nose and I unconsciously crinkle my nose. Through the swarm of sweaty bodies, my eyes catch on what appears to be the only stool left at the bar. I make a beeline towards it before it gets snatched up and try my best to haul myself up the chair. Being short never helps. The barmaid rushes towards me with a flushed face, clearly stressing over the mass amounts of people here at the hour. “What can I get you sweetie”, she smiles sweetly. “Just a vodka cranberry”, I say. Not the most expensive option but for my last night of freedom, I’m willing to sacrifice an extra copper. No later than 30 seconds, my drink arrives before me before she’s off to take someone else’s order. And I’m left alone to ponder over my thoughts and drown myself in alcohol. Sometimes it’s better to be alone.; to never have to care what other people think. To not have to deal with the pressure of disappointing everyone you care about. Although I’m sure I’ve done that too many times to count. Part of me wants to show up at the castle tomorrow and make myself so unapproachable and vulgar, I’m sure to be kicked out before anything’s even started. But the other part of me knows that I’ll only be more of a disappointment. To myself, to my parents, to Kilorn… Looking over, I see someone new climb into the seat next to me. A man around my age, with a strong and muscular build. You don’t see many people like that around here. Most of the residents here are thin and frail. All from the fact that they can’t afford food. But for him, he must be paid well and have a fairly easy life in the Stilts if he looks like that. The heavy coin pouch looped onto his belt confirms my suspicion. I avert my gaze towards him for a moment longer and see him ordering his own drink. And maybe it’s my desperate need to not be a failure, or the impending doom that awaits me tomorrow, that my hand slyly moves towards that pouch like I have so many times before. One coin or two can’t hurt him if he has more than plenty. But just as my fingers loop around the opening, my hand stops, not out of my own accord. I look down at my hand and see another pair of fingers wrapped around my wrist. I can’t believe it. I- I’ve been caught. I turn my gaze toward the man’s face and he stares right back. Those dazzling amber eyes pouring into my own. There’s a fire in those eyes. Something that’s unexplainable, but there. And he still looks at me like he can see me for exactly what I am. He probably knows that I’m just another lowly thief with no fucking future. “Thief” he finally says, clearly shocked. And it’s the alcohol that answers for me when I roll my eyes and reply, “Obviously”. He only continues staring, his eyes grazing down my entire body. And in those few golden moments I know I should try and take the chance to escape his burning grasp and run before he calls for security, but something in the way his gaze blazes into mine, makes me stop. I’m left staring at him dumbfoundedly like an idiot until my jaw drops even more as he releases my wrist and grabs a coin out of his pouch. And not just any coin, a whole fucking silver tetrarch; worth more than any of the pitiful coins I’ve stolen. “Here” he says, his mouth in a grim line. “That should be more than enough for you” “I- thank you” is all I can manage to say before I slip it in my own pouch. What other option is left but swallowing my pride. But I can’t just accept it with no answers. Curiosity always gets the better of me. “Why?” I ask him. His eyes open in shock with my question. But he just shakes his head and his lip crooks up ever so slightly. “You need it more”. That makes me want to punch his face. The only thing I can’t stand besides disappointment is pity. “So, what’s your name?”, he asks me turning back towards his drink but legs still angled towards me. I’m tempted to tell him the truth for some reason, but the part of me that’s still sane knows to lie. “Mareena.” Close enough. “Mareena” he repeats, testing my name on his lips. He actually smiles this time still sipping on his drink which upon closer examination I determine to be whiskey. “And what’s yours?” “Cal” he tells me. And as I keep on staring at his face, I start to notice how undeniably handsome he is. His sharper than glass jawline and those eyes still glued on me create this pull that I thought could never exist. And it’s at this moment that I throw all caution out the window. By tomorrow my life will be forfeit. Might as well make the most of tonight. And nothing better than a hot complete stranger to accompany me. Discarding my empty drink on the table, I turn myself completely towards him. Holding a hand out I ask him, “Dance with me?” He downs his own glass before setting it down and his eyes flare in a way that makes me want to blow up before he puts his hand in my own. “Thought you would never ask”. I lead him to the back of the club where there’s currently a mass of sweaty bodies swarmed together on the small dance floor. The crowd parts as we enter in the midst of it all, just as the DJ turns on a heavy EDM soundtrack. His nose grazes my neck and just that simple moment of contact makes me want to cry out in pleasure. But I want more With my back towards him, his hands grip my hips possessively as mine wrap around his neck. We sway to the blaring music as I ever so slightly grind against him. He stiffens and explores my body with his hands, slightly cupping my thighs when he teases me by riding his fingers upwards until he grazes the lace of my underwear. I can’t help but let out a little moan at that touch. It’s been so long since I felt like this. Then he leans his head down to mine before whispering to me, “You look beautiful”. That makes me smile. It’s been a long time since someone told me that, too. And then I unlink my hands and turn to face him. He pulls me closer to him until I’m flush against his chest. Moving my hands across his well-tailored white shirt, expensive from the feel of it, I feel the muscles beneath them. That only makes the aching between my thighs become even more unbearable. Leaning up, having to still rise on the balls of my feet even with these heels because gods he is tall, I capture my mouth to his in a hungry kiss. He doesn’t only taste like whiskey, but he has a scent of ashes and smoke that I’m embarrassed to say I breathe in deeply. His hands move to my ass as my own grasp onto his shoulders. I know he’s probably only here looking for release, but so am I.

I break our kiss and say in his ear, in what I hope is my best sultry voice I can muster, “What do you say we get out of here”. He looks right into my eyes and I can see the lust right there. Cal doesn’t even bother to reply before taking my hand and bringing me to the front desk at the very back of the club for getting a room-for-rent above the bar. Slamming another coin down on the counter he practically grabs the key from the lady who winks at me as if she knows exactly what’s going to go down. She would be right about that.

After finding the room down the hall, Cal unlocks it by throwing the door open, while I drag him in before he can barely shut the door. Once the door closes, I immediately shove him against it, running my hands into that silky black hair of his which is just as soft as I thought it was. I push my mouth against his, into a heated sloppy kiss which he takes, opening his mouth to allow my tongue access to sweep in. He breaks our kiss before moving his lips towards the place where my collarbone and neck meet. That’s going to leave a mark tomorrow. But I don’t have enough common sense left in me before he finds a particularly sensitive part of my skin and I actually let out a moan this time. Cal pauses and pure desire shine up as his eyes meet mine and he shows off a crooked smile. That only makes me want him more. Greedily I unbutton his shirt before sliding it off his shoulders and onto the floor. I take this as an opportunity to mark his skin with my own brand before he captures my mouth into another wet kiss. Gods damn him, he’s actually a fucking good kisser. His hands move from the sides of my face towards my legs, lifting them up. Instinctively I wrap them around his hips and immediately feeling something hard between where our hips meet giving me a sense of what’s yet to come. Lifting me towards the bed in the center of the room, he releases me for a moment before moving on top of me and continuing to kiss my body. His eyes glance to me for permission as his fingers latch around the straps of my dress. I can only nod. How could I say no to him when he’s making me feel like I’m going to explode out of my own skin. Removing my dress off of me, I’m pretty damn happy with myself that I decided to wear my best pair of underwear as I watch him wet his lips as he sees the black lace underneath. Until he removes those too. His mouth starts another hot path from my chest downwards, past my navel. When he finally reaches where I so desperately need him, he teases me by running one of his fingers down the center. Now I feel like burning. “Fuck stop teasing already”, I gasp out while grabbing his hair. He lets out a dark laugh as he inserts one of his fingers, the calloused pad of it scraping against my skin. His mouth joins it, licking and sucking making me feel things I never thought I could feel. When his tongue reaches that one damn spot I let out an uncontrolled spark. Cal looks up at me then, a wild grin on his face. “Nice Sparks” That only turns me on more. Then I flip us around so that he’s pinned under me and I’m straddling him before I start attack his belt and try to unhook it. Removing it off him, I pull them down along with his own undergarments. Grinning, I take his length into my own hand, pumping up and down. “Fuck Mareena”, Cal lets out, laying back on his elbows. My heart almost pauses as I suddenly wish he would say my real name out loud like that. But then again, I’m only here for one night. “Condom?” I ask him, breathless. I need him. Now. He shakes his head, but I know better than to think that this is the end. I know well enough that these rooms have condoms in the bedside drawers. Reaching over I open a drawer and dig around until I grab one of them. Tearing it open with my teeth, I put it on him. Letting me take control, he watches as I line myself and slide down onto him, deep. We both let out moans of pleasure as his hands dig into my hips. Adjusting to the feel of him, I start to move against him, as my eyes roll into the back of head. I swear to god I’ve never felt this good before. Cal rolls us both back over until he’s on top again, and groans as he pushes slowly out before thrusting back in. I think I’m seeing stars at this point. He continues to set a harder, rougher pace before kissing down from my neck to my chest and sucking on one of my nipples. That movement brings me over the edge as he rolls his hips in time, letting me live out every ounce of pleasure. Fuck. I never want to leave this moment. It’s too bad I’ll be gone tomorrow and I’ll never see him again. That becomes the thought that brings me back from my high as I start trailing sloppy kisses across his muscled chest and then bring them back to his mouth. Our lips come together just as he tips over his own edge and his groans of pleasure become captured by our kiss. We stay like that for another minute, foreheads pressed together,both panting and out of breath. I feel the urge to swipe the messy locks of his hair that have fallen out of place, to see his face, with his cheeks and lips covered in messy lipstick marks. “Again”, I let out, with the only thing I have left in me to say. His eyes flare up yet again, and he smiles with that somewhat goofy crooked grin of his as he obliges. ... a/n: Well, well here we go: The start of a new fic! I’ve been meaning to write this ever since the idea hit me in a hotel room on my vacation in Europe and now I’m finally making it a reality. This is the first chapter of what I hope to be many. But other than that, let me know your thoughts on this and I hope you all enjoy! Love you all!

#queenstrial #mare barrow #cal calore #fanfic #writing #bachelor #modernau #red queen

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gray-anxiety · 5 years

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No Sympathy → Levi Ackerman Chapter 9 → Fight Pools

Read the rest of the chapters here!

Ironically I found inspiration for how the fight pools looked by an underground dog-fighting ring of all things. Also, to make up for shitty updates and for this story being so damn boring, have an almost 4,000-word chapter which includes shitty fighting scenes. Funny enough, this is the longest thing I have ever written and it is total shit :)

Levi mentally groaned at letting Hanji of all people order fast food — she looked like a fucking high and drunk person and an insane psychopath had a child and abandoned it out of fear of the monstrosity they made. Levi was known as a regular at the fast food drive in, mainly because he never brought a car with him through the drive-in; because of that, whenever anyone said Levi was with them they immediately got a discount of something — he was just that damn attractive apparently. Aella laughed at how crazy Hanji looked carrying the bagged food back to the small parking space the five of them resided at — and Levi did have to admit, she looked even crazier than before. The dumbass behind the cause of Aella’s laughter waddled like a duck with two bags of food in both of her hands — Hanji’s mouth somehow carrying the cupholder with five drinks sloshing around; how the cup holder didn’t snap in half was beyond Levi by now, but as long as it worked it didn’t matter to him.

“Imfh comfh brimngf giffs!” Hanji screeched, though everything she had said was completely muffled by the cupholder still hanging from her teeth.

“The hell did you say, Hanji?” Erwin smiled, earning glares from everyone knowing how Hanji will more than likely drop the cupholder without hesitation when asked to clarify before realizing her mistake. Just like that, Hanji opened her mouth, letting go of the cupholder containing all the to-go cups full of precious carbonated sodas and water.

“I said I come bringing gifts!- oh shit!” Hanji stopped mid-sentence realizing what she had stupidly done and froze — watching the drinks fall to their doom. Well, until Mike and Levi caught all of them before making a mess. Levi checked the lids of all the drinks and sighed — they were all intact, no thanks to Hanji.

“You jackass, those drinks alone cost me $10!” Levi snapped while standing in front of Hanji with three drinks in hand. Levi rolled his eyes and begun to hand out each drink to their designated owner — Mike doing the same.

“I swear to all hell, do not drop the food either. Just give me the damn bags before you do anything more stupid.” Levi snatched the bags away and checked every single one of them before sitting back down by Aella to eat his sandwich.

“So, I’m going to ask the question everyone is thinking right now — just what in the hell are the fight pools?” Levi asked before biting into his sandwich. Hanji’s face flushed red and her mouth quirked up in an insane grin — even mischievous chuckles came out.

“The fight pools are the center of attention here, dear Levi! Simply put, whoever enters the ring cannot, under any circumstance, bring weapons or anything that could harm a human being unless it is your body. If you win a round you join a new rank, successfully raising your earnings higher if you choose to keep fighting. If you make it to the elite of the elite, your winnings rank into the thousands maybe even hundred-thousands depending on the bets. Though fight pools have long since been illegal, no one could give a shit — even police fight in them every so often. Currently, the fight pools we’re going to has two undefeated champions that fight side by side; their names being Eren and Mikasa. You might know them from school! It’s mainly Mikasa doing all of the fighting, but Eren is so persistent that even when he’s knocked down he somehow gets back up — they never lose because of how well they work together. I don’t recommend taking them on ever.” Levi knew about fight pools — even he entered some as a way to earn a quick buck when he felt bored but never has he heard of two champions.

“How long have they been undefeated?”

“About three or so years I believe.” Now that was something that caught Levi’s attention. No one was strong enough to defeat two bratty children? Unbelievable. Levi managed to finish his sandwich during Hanji’s endless information essay about fight pools while Hanji hadn’t even started on hers yet — leaving her to be the only one not close to being finished eating. Levi stood up and walked in the direction of the fight pools, shoving his hands in his pockets. Erwin was already standing by the lamp post overhead, so he followed Levi along with Mike and Aella — leaving Hanji in the dust.

“Hefgh! Wmhpf fomph mehf!” Levi looked back towards Hanji and raised his brow.

“No, we’re not waiting for you. Hurry the hell up or get lost.” Hanji quickly scarfed down her sandwich and bolted to be with the other four — discarding her trash in a nearby trash bin. Hanji sped ahead of the rest of her friends and pointed towards the well-known slums of the city.

“The building acts as a bar, but it has an entire fake wall blocking out the fighting area in case the interior police come by to check for anything. Every high schooler known in Maria has at least been here once or twice for a good time or to let off some steam. Hell, this place is actually where most fights happen to prevent any damages in Karanese. I heard tonight is especially going to be busy thanks to Eren and Mikasa announcing their fight at school last week — they make a shit ton of money thanks to any passerby who has no clue about those two. Interesting tactic, really. I wonder just how much they make in a week when they give it their all...” Mike stared back towards Hanji:

“They made well over $500,000 in total when they fought for one week straight. They most likely have millions stacked up waiting to be used after high school.” Aella’s jaw dropped.

“They didn’t start fighting until right after freshman year! How in the hell are they already making that type of money? Why haven’t they moved to Rose or Sina?” Erwin put his hand on Aella’s shoulder.

“Eren didn’t want to leave Armin alone — you know those three have been inseparable since they were only children. I talked to Eren the other day — they are moving out of Maria after graduation, but to where is unknown.” Levi remained silent the entire time — fighters, excellent money managers, and secretive? Talk about a mafia boss’s wet dream; though all of the talk seemed too good to be true.

“We’re here — welcome to Lago district.” Levi looked up and saw endless decaying buildings almost out of zombie apocalypse movies; the entire district from the eye could see was almost completely in disarray and abandoned, except for one tiny homey bar as lively as could be. Shouts and screams could be heard even from the outside along with endless smashing of glass bottles and excited cheers and whoops — it was as chaotic as could be. Hanji opened the door and one by one, each person stepped into the mess of the bar. The air was full of booze, sex, and vomit; never mind the endless smell of blood and sweat pouring out of every vent possible. Smoke filled the bar from head to toe, creating a fog-like atmosphere in the pitch black room only illuminated by the technicolor of the TVs and neon signs placed around the room. Hanji and Mike stepped towards the bartender and nodded, sitting down to order two ‘sex on the rocks’ extra bloody — the code word to enter the fighting portion of the bar. Though it wasn’t necessary for the bar to be as secretive as it was, precautions were taken in case any government official decided to suddenly give a damn about Maria. Levi felt like he was going to gag from the endless amount of smoke in the room alone nevertheless the scenery — never in his life had he seen an environment as dirty as this one. Wooden tables and chairs were strewn around the room — some chairs even on the floors covered in vomit from poor sick bastards that had drunk too much; the thin black carpet was sticky and wet — producing the smell of mildew and even mold. Levi wanted to leave and take at least five showers alone just from standing — not even being seated in the sticky seats that clung to all types of fabric from the sugar residue left over from spilled boozed never cleaned up. Aella grabbed Levi’s hand and lead him through the mess to get to the wall across from them — Levi practically was a cat trying to stay out of water. Weaving and bobbing through the mess, Levi’s face still remained as stone cold as ever, but on the inside, he was practically yelling from disgust. Levi bent his back backward at the same time some dumbass drunk waved his half-full mug of beer towards another man across from him, evidently right in Levi’s path. Aella just kept squeezing Levi’s hand until they finally had made it to the other side of the wall, leading towards the long-awaited fight pools; Hanji was practically vibrating off of the ground from excitement when the bartender slid open part of the wall.

“The main fight starts in 5 minutes, you can place your bets over there.” The bartender pointed towards one of the several bars strategically placed by the entrance before returning to his place at the bar. Hanji bolted in followed by Erwin and Mike — Levi was still semi-traumatized from seeing such a mess. Aella dragged Levi into the fight pools and looked around. Unlike the bar section, the fight pools had elevated ceilings and were fairly well lit — the stone floors were spotless and acted as a ramp leading the viewers to the fighting ring in the center. Aella stepped closer to see a sandy fighting ring dug deep into the ground semi elevated and had boxing ropes around the ring. The viewing area was above the fighting ring by several centimeters, though the drop into the fighting ring surprisingly didn’t hinder anyone from being able to see as it was all formatted like a giant basketball court — including the seats itself, which were only benches. The entire set up must’ve been mostly underground as windows were only placed near where the entrance was, nevertheless the aforementioned (and terribly described) ramp set up the floors had. Aella saw Hanji seated at the area closest to the ring and sighed — if the mess didn’t kill Levi, Hanji most definitely would. Levi regained his composure fairly quickly and lead Aella through the crowd towards Hanji — he must’ve spotted her as well. Aella and Levi quickly took a seat and looked at the raised ring in the middle; off to the side stood a ravenette girl beside a brunette teen with his hair pulled up in a bun — those two must’ve been the undefeated champions based off of how the crowd behind them were going wild before anyone else. Every light not focused on the ring was shut off; blinding spotlights turned on and the crowd collectively went absolutely mental — it was time for the fight.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary pals alike, are you ready to rumble?” Aella presumed that the man standing in the center of the ring was the owner and organizer of the fight pools as he was dressed to the nines in expensive as hell clothing. The ground shook with stomps accompanied by cheers — the fight pools were definitely the place to be right now.

��“On the right, we have the tag team duo consisting of Annie and Reiner!” Two blonds stepped in the ring — the female most likely a foot shorter than the male. The male stood at a staggering height with muscles that bulged like no other — his hair was cut short and had wrapped his hands and feet in fighting tape beforehand. Needless to say, he was a beast. In contrast, the female was slim but well built; her hair was pulled back into a bun with only her bangs hanging out on either side of her face; her hands and legs were also wrapped. Instead of wearing a bra with her short running shorts, the female had bound her breasts with tape, though every female experienced with tape already knew that the removal will hurt like hell later on.

“Jesus, check out the guy. He’s a fucking monster.” Levi commented, never once taking his eyes off of Reiner; Levi was intrigued about Reiner’s fighting style — he had to have been aware of how much of an easy target he was with that type of body build.

“The girl doesn’t look any less dangerous either; check out her face — she’s fucking bored already. I’m surprised she can put up with the serious B.O. that guy probably has — especially since he’s already shirtless.” Aella observed, looking at the stances both teammates were in. They most certainly weren’t relaxed, but they also weren’t in fighting position either.

“On the left, we have the undefeated, unstoppable, invincible, Eren and Mikasa!” Aella thought her ears were going to burst from how loud the crowd got as soon as their names were mentioned — chants quickly started left and right, though most were of ‘Eren’ or ‘Mikasa’. Aella looked over with a confused look towards Hanji and tapped her shoulder.

“I don’t get it, why haven’t they started fighting?” Hanji looked over and shook her head.

“They want to give the crowd something to cheer for to stretch out the fight so they buy food and drinks — pretty basic business plan.” Aella nodded her head and turned back to face the ring — unlike Reiner, Eren and Mikasa just stood there and ignored the crowd; they really must’ve only been there to earn money.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!” Aella bit her lip — who was going to win? They seemed evenly matched.

“Begin!” The four just stood there in their readying stance, ignoring the sign to begin completely; they were going to begin on their own terms without anyone else encouraging them otherwise. Reiner nodded his head towards Annie and broke into a sprint, angling his body to punch Eren square in the face. Reiner’s body angled to the left as his right hand flew almost dead on, for sure to make its mark until Eren caught his hand with his own, moving his head out of the way mere milliseconds before. Eren stood clamping onto Reiner’s good hand when Mikasa suddenly broke into a sprint — tripping Reiner and making a beeline towards Annie. Annie only had two seconds until Mikasa was in her face to prepare herself with her signature stance; Mikasa let out a yell and faked a punch towards Annie before slipping underneath to trip Annie with her foot. Hooking her leg around the back of Annie’s knee, Mikasa quickly took care of Annie to deal her onto the floor, but Annie had planned otherwise; waiting until the last second to hit the ground, Annie landed strategically in the best position to roll away to pick herself back up once more to head towards Reiner. Every time Reiner was close to landing a blow on Eren, Eren simply dodged before landing a few blows to well-known soft spots along Reiner’s neck until Annie immediately bolted to Reiner and faked a punch towards Eren to only have Mikasa tackle her to the ground with a yell for Eren to look out. Eren nodded and kicked Reiner back towards Mikasa where she quickly pinned him down to the ground on top of Annie, holding them until the ‘referee’ checked to see if one of them were passed out. Eren and Mikasa had won with little to no effort and still held the title of undefeated champions. Levi was in shock at the quick victory; only mafia members were able to make such precise attacks without speaking — were they cheating? Erwin leaned over to whisper in Levi’s ear:

“They say Mikasa is a part of the well-known Ackerman clan — making her one of the only known people to instantly know what to do without thinking at this high level of fighting. Some say it’s the knowledge of her ancestors helping her, others say she uses steroids. Who knows?” The Ackerman clan, huh? Levi only had heard of the legendary tales of some of the clan members but never had he thought he’d ever bear witness to one of them in a damned fight. Levi stood up, leaving a confused Aella looking at his retreating form as he walked straight up to the ring leader:

“I do hope you accept challenges after a well-performed match.” The ring leader turned around and raised a brow.

“Oh? You couldn’t possibly beat Eren and Mikasa alone.” Levi clicked his tongue and grabbed the man’s shirt while lifting him up in the air.

“Are you certain about that…Sir?” The man gulped and quickly agreed to let Levi have a go by himself. Levi was intrigued like none other by the two teens — Mikasa especially. What was it like to take on an Ackerman not even at peak strength?

“We have a new competitor entering the ring! Everyone give it up for Levi!” Aella’s head snapped towards the ring to see Levi taking off his shirt before entering the ring.

“Oh my god, Hanji, are you seeing this right now or am I just high on something?” Hanji followed Aella’s gaze towards Levi and blinked.

“Holy shit, Shorty has really gone off the deep end this time… Erwin, you didn’t by chance have anything to do with this?” Hanji raised a brow at the unsuspecting blond sitting behind them. Erwin slid his eyes towards Hanji and smiled.

“This sure is going to be a challenge for them, no? I wonder just how evenly matched, are they? Who knows.” Mike snorted and glared at Erwin.

“And you’re not giving us a straight answer, huh? What are you hiding, Erwin?” Erwin set his eyes back onto Levi and crossed his arms.

“The facts will be revealed shortly. Just watch the fight.” Aella felt like she couldn’t breathe; yes, she knew Levi damn well could hold his own against numerous men at once, but Levi against Mikasa? Those two were practically evenly matched based off of fighting style alone, how in the world would Levi be able to take on her along with Eren? Levi stared at the two fighters with a bored expression dawned on his face. Mikasa nodded her head towards Eren and the two broke into a sprint at the same time headed for Levi — Levi simply waited in his same position for the attack; he was testing them, and they knew it. Mikasa went straight towards Levi with a fake to the right followed by a punch to the face while Eren went straight towards the face, but Levi pulled off his own counterattack that left the two reeling. Levi had managed to punch both fighters with so much force it sent them down to the ground with little to no effort on his behalf. The once loud cheering crowd went silent in shock — no one had ever had both Mikasa and Eren on the ground at the same time within the first fifteen seconds. Levi clicked his tongue while walking over to the two now sitting on the floor:

“Don’t bother getting up; you’re planning on staying down until the last second, followed by an attack to the back of the knee and ribcage to land the final blow with a headshot. It won’t work. Normally, the two of you have time to observe your opponent, but with me, you only had to rely on what Armin told you about me, no?” Eren glared at Levi:

“Damn right.” Levi scoffed.

“You know where I am during school — come find me. Otherwise, my work here is done unless you want me to break every bone in your body bit by bit?” The silence was all that Levi needed to interpret as a solid ‘no’. Levi walked off the ring and put on his shirt.

“This fight is over — go home, dumbasses,” Levi spoke to the crowd until his steely hues met Aella’s shocked ones and shook his head. Erwin knew Levi’s goal all along, didn’t he?

“Well done, Levi. You managed to catch their attention.” Armin. Levi turned around and stared at the blond punk in front of him.

“You told them I only wanted to talk, didn’t you Arlert?” Armin nodded and smiled.

“Yes, that’s correct. I told them not to risk dying just to try and win against you; I knew you’d be here today and would’ve wanted to test those two out for whatever reason you have. I simply wanted to keep my friends alive.”

“I see.” Levi showed no guilt, but he sure as hell felt it; he didn’t need to induce more violence than necessary, but he did. The fight resulted in a tie by Levi’s demand and the five snuck out amidst the chaos of the next fight in the other ring being so bloody and violent. As soon as the two got home, Aella hugged Levi and rested her head on his shoulder while Levi was tensed up beyond belief.

“Don’t do that again, Levi. Consider yourself immensely lucky to be receiving this hug right now because I never ever give them out — you worried me that much. Think about if the people after you hear that you fought in the fight pools tonight! You’d have your cover completely compromised.” Levi already knew what Aella said was true — he risked his anonymity for people he didn’t even know would agree to become recruits. Levi relaxed into Aella’s hug and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

“I know, but I wouldn’t have done it had I not thought it’d be worth it.” All that he had to do was wait and see what Mikasa and Eren would do tomorrow. Would they meet up with Levi or would they ignore him? The next morning rolled around quickly — Levi finding himself at his normal location atop of Karanese High’s roof overlooking the entire district.

“You got our attention, Levi. What do you want?” A voice called out behind him. Levi turned around, flicking his cigarette to god knows where, to meet Eren’s turquoise green eyes. Levi crossed his arms and raised his brow.

“Simple. Join my ‘gang’. You already know Erwin, Hanji, and Mike. Your fighting styles aren’t too bad and if you train with me, you two might not be completely useless.” Mikasa glared at Levi until Eren sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Alright, we’ll join you.”

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sharpiefaceontangerine · 5 years

Text

Harry Styles’ New Direction (Harry’s 2017 Feature in Rolling Stone)

(because apparently I didn’t have the full text on my tumblr and u can never be too careful)

January 2016. There’s a bench at the top of Primrose Hill, in London, that looks out over the skyline of the city. If you’d passed by it one winter night, you might have seen him sitting there. A lanky guy in a wool hat, overcoat and jogging pants, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Harry Styles had a lot on his mind. He had spent five years as the buoyant fan favorite in One Direction; now, an uncertain future stretched out in front of him. The band had announced an indefinite hiatus. The white noise of adulation was gone, replaced by the hushed sound of the city below.

The fame visited upon Harry Styles in his years with One D was a special kind of mania. With a self-effacing smile, a hint of darkness and the hair invariably described as “tousled,” he became a canvas onto which millions of fans pitched their hopes and dreams. Hell, when he pulled over to the side of the 101 freeway in L.A. and discreetly threw up, the spot became a fan shrine. It’s said the puke was even sold on eBay like pieces of the Berlin Wall. Paul McCartney has interviewed him. Then there was the unauthorized fan-fiction series featuring a punky, sexed-up version of “Harry Styles.” A billion readers followed his virtual exploits. (“Didn’t read it,” comments the nonfiction Styles, “but I hope he gets more than me.”)

But at the height of One D–mania, Styles took a step back. For many, 2016 was a year of lost musical heroes and a toxic new world order. For Styles, it was a search for a new identity that began on that bench overlooking London. What would a solo Harry Styles sound like? A plan came into focus. A song cycle about women and relationships. Ten songs. More of a rock sound. A bold single-color cover to match the working title: Pink. (He quotes the Clash’s Paul Simonon: “Pink is the only true rock & roll colour.”) Many of the details would change over the coming year – including the title, which would end up as Harry Styles – but one word stuck in his head.

“Honest,” he says, a year later, driving through midcity Los Angeles in a dusty black Range Rover. He’s lived here off and on for the past few years, always returning to London. Styles’ car stereo pumps a mix of country and obscure classic rock. “I didn’t want to write ‘stories,’ ” he says. “I wanted to write my stories, things that happened to me. The number-one thing was I wanted to be honest. I hadn’t done that before.” There isn’t a yellow light he doesn’t run as he speaks excitedly about the band he’s put together under the tutelage of producer Jeff Bhasker (The Rolling Stones, Kanye West, “Uptown Funk”). He’s full of stories about the two-month recording session last fall at Geejam, a studio and compound built into a mountainside near Port Antonio, a remote section of Jamaica. Drake and Rihanna have recorded there, and it’s where Styles produced the bulk of his new LP, which is due out May 12th. As we weave through traffic today, the album no one has heard is burning a hole in his iPhone.

We arrive at a crowded diner, and Styles cuts through the room holding a black notebook jammed with papers and artifacts from his album, looking like a college student searching for a quiet place to study. He’s here to do something he hasn’t done much of in his young career: an extended one-on-one interview. Often in the past there was another One D member to vector questions into a charmingly evasive display of band camaraderie. Today, Styles is a game but careful custodian of his words, sometimes silently consulting the tablecloth before answering. But as he recounts the events leading up to his year out of the spotlight, the layers begin to slip away.

It was in a London studio in late 2014 that Styles first brought up the idea of One Directiontaking a break. “I didn’t want to exhaust our fan base,” he explains. “If you’re shortsighted, you can think, ‘Let’s just keep touring,’ but we all thought too much of the group than to let that happen. You realize you’re exhausted and you don’t want to drain people’s belief in you.”

After much discussion, the band mutually agreed to a hiatus, which was announced in August 2015 (Zayn Malik had abruptly left One D several months earlier). Fans were traumatized by the band’s decision, but were let down easy with a series of final bows, including a tour that ran through October. Styles remains a One D advocate: “I love the band, and would never rule out anything in the future. The band changed my life, gave me everything.”

Harry Styles reveals the inspiration behind his new music. Here’s five things we learned about Harry Styles’ new album.

Still, a solo career was calling. “I wanted to step up. There were songs I wanted to write and record, and not just have it be ‘Here’s a demo I wrote.’ Every decision I’ve made since I was 16 was made in a democracy. I felt like it was time to make a decision about the future … and maybe I shouldn’t rely on others.”

As one of the most well-known 23-year-olds in the world, Styles himself is still largely unknown. Behind the effervescent stage persona, there is more lore than fact. He likes it that way. “With an artist like Prince,” he says, “all you wanted to do was know more. And that mystery – it’s why those people are so magical! Like, fuck, I don’t know what Prince eats for breakfast. That mystery … it’s just what I like.”

Styles pauses, savoring the idea of the unknown. He looks at my digital recorder like a barely invited guest. “More than ‘do you keep a mystery alive?’ – it’s not that. I like to separate my personal life and work. It helps, I think, for me to compartmentalize. It’s not about trying to make my career longer, like I’m trying to be this ‘mysterious character,’ because I’m not. When I go home, I feel like the same person I was at school. You can’t expect to keep that if you show everything. There’s the work and the personal stuff, and going between the two is my favorite shit. It’s amazing to me.”

Soon, we head to the Beachwood Canyon studio of Jeff Bhasker. As we arrive, Styles bounds up the steps to the studio, passing a bored pool cleaner. “How are ya,” he announces, unpacking a seriously cheerful smile. The pool cleaner looks perplexed, not quite sharing Styles’ existential joy.

Inside, the band awaits. Styles opens his notebook and heads for the piano. He wants to finish a song he’d started earlier that day. It’s obvious that the band has a well-worn frat-house dynamic, sort of like the Beatles in Help!, as directed by Judd Apatow. Styles is, to all, “H.” Pomegranate-scented candles flicker around the room. Bhasker enters, with guru-length hair, multicolored shirt, red socks and sandals. He was initially busy raising a new baby with his partner, the singer and songwriter Lykke Li, so he guided Styles to two of his producer-player protégés, Alex Salibian and Tyler Johnson, as well as engineer and bassist Ryan Nasci. The band began to form. The final piece of the puzzle was Mitch Rowland, Styles’ guitarist, who had worked in a pizza joint until two weeks into the sessions. “Being around musicians like this had a big effect on me,” Styles says. “Not being able to pass an instrument without sitting down and playing it?” He shakes his head. It was Styles’ first full immersion into the land of musos, and he clearly can’t get enough.

Styles starts singing some freshly written lyrics. It’s a new song called “I Don’t Want to Be the One You’re Waiting On.” His voice sounds warm, burnished and intimate, not unlike early Rod Stewart. The song is quickly finished, and the band assembles for a playback of the album.

“Mind if I play it loud?” asks Bhasker. It’s a rhetorical question. Nasci cranks “Sign of the Times,” the first single, to a seismic level. The song began as a seven-minute voice note on Styles’ phone, and ended up as a sweeping piano ballad, as well as a kind of call to arms. “Most of the stuff that hurts me about what’s going on at the moment is not politics, it’s fundamentals,” Styles says. “Equal rights. For everyone, all races, sexes, everything. … ’Sign of the Times’ came from ‘This isn’t the first time we’ve been in a hard time, and it’s not going to be the last time.’ The song is written from a point of view as if a mother was giving birth to a child and there’s a complication. The mother is told, ‘The child is fine, but you’re not going to make it.’ The mother has five minutes to tell the child, ‘Go forth and conquer.'” The track was a breakthrough for both the artist and the band. “Harry really led the charge with that one, and the rest of the album,” says Bhasker.

“I wish the album could be called Sign of the Times,” Styles declares.

“I don’t know,” says Bhasker. “I mean, it has been used.“

They debate for a bit. Nasci plays more tracks. The songs range from full-on rock (“Kiwi”) to intricate psychedelic pop (“Meet Me in the Hallway”) to the outright confessional (“Ever Since New York,” a desperate meditation on loss and longing). The lyrics are full of details and references – secrets whispered between friends, doomed declarations of love, empty swimming pools – sure to set fans scrambling for the facts behind the mystery.

“Of course I’m nervous,” Styles admits, jingling his keys. “I mean, I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m happy I found this band and these musicians, where you can be vulnerable enough to put yourself out there. I’m still learning … but it’s my favorite lesson.”

The album is a distinct departure from the dance pop that permeates the airwaves. “A lot of my influences, and the stuff that I love, is older,” he says. “So the thing I didn’t want to do was, I didn’t want to put out my first album and be like, ‘He’s tried to re-create the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, Nineties.’ Loads of amazing music was written then, but I’m not saying I wish I lived back then. I wanted to do something that sounds like me. I just keep pushing forward.”

“It’s different from what you’d expect,” Bhasker says. “It made me realize the Harry [in One D] was kind of the digitized Harry. Almost like a character. I don’t think people know a lot of the sides of him that are on this album. You put it on and people are like, ‘This is Harry Styles?’ ”

Styles is aware that his largest audience so far has been young – often teenage – women. Asked if he spends pressure-filled evenings worried about proving credibility to an older crowd, Styles grows animated. “Who’s to say that young girls who like pop music – short for popular, right? – have worse musical taste than a 30-year-old hipster guy? That’s not up to you to say. Music is something that’s always changing. There’s no goal posts. Young girls like the Beatles. You gonna tell me they’re not serious? How can you say young girls don’t get it? They’re our future. Our future doctors, lawyers, mothers, presidents, they kind of keep the world going. Teenage-girl fans – they don’t lie. If they like you, they’re there. They don’t act ‘too cool.’ They like you, and they tell you. Which is sick.“

Styles drives to a quiet dinner spot in Laurel Canyon, at the foot of Lookout Mountain Avenue, onetime home to many of his Seventies songwriting heroes. He used to have a place around the corner. As the later tours of One Direction grew larger, longer and more frenetic, he offers with irony, “It was very rock & roll.” He’s not a heavy drinker, he says, maybe some tequila on ice or wine with friends after a show, but by the band’s last tour there wasn’t much time even for that. John Lennon once told Rolling Stone that behind the curtain, the Beatles’ tours were like Fellini’s Satyricon. Styles counters that the One D tours were more like “a Wes Anderson movie. Cut. Cut. New location. Quick cut. New location. Cut. Cut. Show. Shower. Hard cut. Sleep.”

Finding a table, Styles leans forward and discusses his social-media presence, or lack thereof. Styles and his phone have a bittersweet, mature relationship – they spend a lot of time apart. He doesn’t Google himself, and checks Twitter infrequently. “I’ll tell you about Twitter,” he continues, discussing the volley of tweets, some good, some cynical, that met his endorsement of the Women’s March on Washington earlier this year. “It’s the most incredible way to communicate closely with people, but not as well as in person.” When the location of his London home was published a few years ago, he was rattled. His friend James Corden offered him a motto coined by British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli: “Never complain, never explain.”

I mention a few of the verbal Molotov cocktails Zayn Malik has tossed at the band in recent interviews. Here’s one: “[One D is] not music that I would listen to. If I was sat at a dinner date with a girl, I would play some cool shit, you know what I mean? I want to make music that I think is cool shit. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.”

Styles adjusts himself in his chair. “I think it’s a shame he felt that way,” he says, threading the needle of diplomacy, “but I never wish anything but luck to anyone doing what they love. If you’re not enjoying something and need to do something else, you absolutely should do that. I’m glad he’s doing what he likes, and good luck to him.”

Perched on his head are the same-style white sunglasses made famous by Kurt Cobain, but the similarities end right there. Styles, born two months before Cobain exited Earth, doesn’t feel tied to any particular genre or era. In the car, he’ll just as easily crank up the country music of Keith Whitley as the esoteric blues-and-soul of Shuggie Otis. He even bought a carrot cake to present to Stevie Nicks at a Fleetwood Mac concert. (“Piped her name onto it. She loved it. Glad she liked carrot cake.”)

This much is clear: The classic role of tortured artist is not one he’ll be playing. “People romanticize places they can’t get to themselves,” he says. “That’s why it’s fascinating when people go dark – when Van Gogh cuts off his ear. You romanticize those people, sometimes out of proportion. It’s the same with music. You want a piece of that darkness, to feel their pain but also to step back into your own [safer] life. I can’t say I had that. I had a really nice upbringing. I feel very lucky. I had a great family and always felt loved. There’s nothing worse than an inauthentic tortured person. ‘They took my allowance away, so I did heroin.’ It’s like – that’s not how it works. I don’t even remember what the question was.”

Styles wanders into the Country Store next door. It’s a store he knows well. Inspecting the shelves, he asks if I’ve had British rice pudding. He finds a can that looks ancient. He collects a roll of Rowntrees Fruit Pastilles (“since 1881”), Lindor Swiss chocolates (“irresistibly smooth”) and a jar of Branston Pickles. “There’s only two shops in L.A. that stock all the British snacks. This area’s kind of potluck,” he says, spreading the collection on the counter.

The clerk rings up the snacks. In the most careful, deferential way, the young worker asks the question. “Would you … happen to be … Harry Styles?”

“Yep.”

“Could I get a selfie?” Styles obliges, and leans over the counter. Click. We exit into the Laurel Canyon evening.

“Hey,” shouts a grizzled-looking dude on the bench outside the store. “Do you know who you look like?”

Styles turns, expecting more of the same, but this particular night denizen is on a different track.

“River Phoenix,” the man announces, a little sadly. “You ever heard of him? If he hadn’t have passed, I would have said that was you. Talented guy.”

“Yes, he was,” agrees Styles, who is in many ways the generational opposite of Phoenix. “Yes, he was.”

They share a silent moment, before Styles walks to his car. He hands me the bag filled with English snacks. “This is for you,” he says. “This was my youth …”

Harry Edward Styles was born in Worcestershire, England, in true classic-rock form, on a Tuesday Afternoon. The family moved to Cheshire, a quiet spot in Northern England, when he was a baby. His older sister, Gemma, was the studious one. (“She was always smarter than me, and I was always jealous of that.”)

His father, Desmond, worked in finance. He was a fan of the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, a lot of Queen, and Pink Floyd. Young Harry toddled around to The Dark Side of the Moon. “I couldn’t really get it,” he says, “but I just remember being like – this is really fucking cool. Then my mom would always have Shania Twain, and Savage Garden, Norah Jones going on. I had a great childhood. I’ll admit it.”

But in fact, all was not perfection, scored to a cool, retro soundtrack. When Harry was seven, his parents explained to him that Des would be moving out. Asked about that moment today, Styles stares straight ahead. “I don’t remember,” he says. “Honestly, when you’re that young, you can kind of block it out. … I can’t say that I remember the exact thing. I didn’t realize that was the case until just now. Yeah, I mean, I was seven. It’s one of those things. Feeling supported and loved by my parents never changed.”

His eyes moisten a little, but unlike the young man who wept over an early bout with Internet criticism, a powerful moment in the early One Direction documentary A Year in the Making,Styles tonight knocks back the sentiment. Styles is still close with his father, and served as best man to his mom when she remarried a few years ago. “Since I’ve been 10,” he reflects, “it’s kind of felt like – protect Mom at all costs. … My mom is very strong. She has the greatest heart. [Her house in Cheshire] is where I want to go when I want to spend some time.”

In his early teens, Styles joined some school friends as the singer in a mostly-covers band, White Eskimo. “We wrote a couple of songs,” he remembers. “One was called ‘Gone in a Week.’ It was about luggage. ‘I’ll be gone in a week or two/Trying to find myself someplace new/I don’t need any jackets or shoes/The only luggage I need is you.'” He laughs. “I was like, ‘Sick.'”

It was his mother who suggested he try out for the U.K. singing competition The X Factor to compete in the solo “Boy” category. Styles sang Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely.” The unforgiving reaction from one of the judges, Louis Walsh, is now infamous. Watching the video today is to watch young Harry’s cheery disposition take a hot bullet.

“In that instant,” he says, “you’re in the whirlwind. You don’t really know what’s happening; you’re just a kid on the show. You don’t even know you’re good at anything. I’d gone because my mum told me I was good from singing in the car … but your mum tells you things to make you feel good, so you take it with a pinch of salt. I didn’t really know what I was expecting when I went on there.”

Styles didn’t advance in the competition, but Simon Cowell, the show’s creator, sensed a crowd favorite. He put Styles together with four others who’d failed to advance in the same category, and united the members of One D in a musical shotgun marriage. The marriage worked. And worked. And worked.

You wonder how a young musician might find his way here, to these lofty peaks, with his head still attached to his shoulders. No sex tapes, no TMZ meltdowns, no tell-all books written by the rehab nanny? In a world where one messy scandal can get you five seasons of a hit reality show … how did Harry Styles slip through the juggernaut?

“Family,” answers Ben Winston. “It comes from his mom, Anne. She brought him and his sister up incredibly well. Harry would choose boring over exciting … There is more chance of me going to Mars next week than there is of Harry having some sort of addiction.”

We’re in Television City, Hollywood. Winston, 35, the Emmy-winning executive producer of TheLate Late Show With James Corden, abandons his desk and retreats to a nearby sofa to discuss his good friend. More than a friend, Styles became an unlikely family member – after he became perhaps the world’s most surprising houseguest.

Their friendship was forged in the early stages of One D’s success, when the band debuted on The X Factor. Winston, then a filmmaker and production partner with Corden, asked for a meeting, and instantly hit it off with the group. He became a friendly mentor to Styles, though the friendship was soon tested. Styles had just moved out of his family home in Cheshire, an inconvenient three hours north of London. He found a home he liked near the Winstons in Hampstead Heath. The new house needed two weeks of work. Styles asked if he could briefly move in with Winston and his wife, Meredith. “She agreed,” Winston says, “but only for two weeks.”

Styles parked his mattress in the Winstons’ attic. “Two weeks later and he hadn’t bought his house yet,” continues Winston. “It wasn’t going through. Then he said, ‘I’m going to stay until Christmas, if you don’t mind.’ Then Christmas came, and …”

For the next 20 months, one of the most desired stars on the planet slept on a small mattress in an attic. The only other bit of house-dressing was the acoustic guitar that would rattle into the Winstons’ bedroom. While fans gathered at the empty house where he didn’t live, Styles lived incognito with a couple 12 years his senior. The Winstons’ Orthodox Jewish lifestyle, with a strong family emphasis, helped keep him sane.

“Those 20 months were when they went from being on a reality show, X Factor, to being the biggest-selling artists in the world,” recalls Winston. “That period of time, he was living with us in the most mundane suburban situation. No one ever found out, really. Even when we went out for a meal, it’s such a sweet family neighborhood, no one dreamed it was actually him. But he made our house a home. And when he moved out, we were gutted.”

Styles jauntily appears at the Late Late office. He’s clearly a regular visitor, and he and Winston have a brotherly shorthand.

“Leaving Saturday?” asks Winston.

“Yeah, gotta buy a cactus for my friend’s birthday,” says Styles.

“My dad might be on your flight,” says Winston.

“The 8:50? That’d be sick.”

Winston continues the tales from the attic. “So we had this joke. Meri and I would like to see the girls that you would come back with to the house. That was always what we enjoyed, because we’d be in bed like an old couple. We’d have our spot cream on our faces and we’d be in our pajamas and the door would go off. The stairwell was right outside our door, so we’d wait to see if Harry was coming home alone or with people.”

“I was alone,” notes Styles. “I was scared of Meri.”

“He wasn’t always alone,” corrects Winston, “but it was exciting seeing the array of A-listers that would come up and sleep in the attic. Or he’d come and lounge with us. We’d never discuss business. He would act as if he hadn’t come back from playing to 80,000 people three nights in a row in Rio de Janeiro.”

“Let’s go to the beach,” says Styles, pulling the Range Rover onto a fog-soaked Pacific Coast Highway. Last night was his tequila-fueled birthday party, filled with friends and karaoke and a surprise drop-in from Adele. He’s now officially 23. “And not too hung over,” he notes.

Styles finds a spot at a sushi place up the coast. As he passes through the busy dining room, a businessman turns, recognizing him with a face that says: My kids love this guy! I ask Styles what he hears most from the parents of young fans. “They say, ‘I see your cardboard face every fucking day.’ ” He laughs. “I think they want me to apologize.”

The subject today is relationships. While Styles says he still feels like a newcomer to all that, a handful of love affairs have deeply affected him. The images and stolen moments tumble extravagantly through the new songs: And promises are broken like a stitch is … I got splinters in my knuckles crawling ‘cross the floor/Couldn’t take you home to mother in a skirt that short/But I think that’s what I like about it … I see you gave him my old T-shirt, more of what was once mine … That black notebook, you sense, is filled with this stuff.

“My first proper girlfriend,” he remembers, “used to have one of those laughs. There was also a little bit of mystery with her because she didn’t go to our school. I just worshipped the ground she walked on. And she knew, probably to a fault, a little. That was a tough one. I was 15.

“She used to live an hour and a half away on the train, and I worked in a bakery for three years. I’d finish on Saturdays at 4:30 and it was a 4:42 train, and if I missed it there wasn’t one for another hour or two. So I’d finish and sprint to the train station. Spent 70 percent of my wages on train tickets. Later, I’d remember her perfume. Little things. I smell that perfume all the time. I’ll be in a lift or a reception and say to someone, ‘Alien, right?’ And sometimes they’re impressed and sometimes they’re a little creeped out. ‘Stop smelling me.'”

If Styles hadn’t yet adapted to global social-media attention, he was tested in 2012, when he met Taylor Swift at an awards show. Their second date, a walk in Central Park, was caught by paparazzi. Suddenly the couple were global news. They broke up the next month, reportedly after a rocky Caribbean vacation; the romance was said to have ended with at least one broken heart.

The relationship is a subject he’s famously avoided discussing. “I gotta pee first. This might be a long one,” he says. He rises to head to the bathroom, then adds, “Actually, you can say, ‘He went for a pee and never came back.’ ”

He returns a couple of minutes later. “Thought I’d let you stew for a while,” he says, laughing, then takes a gulp of green juice. He was surprised, he says, when photos from Central Park rocketed around the world. “When I see photos from that day,” he says, “I think: Relationships are hard, at any age. And adding in that you don’t really understand exactly how it works when you’re 18, trying to navigate all that stuff didn’t make it easier. I mean, you’re a little bit awkward to begin with. You’re on a date with someone you really like. It should be that simple, right? It was a learning experience for sure. But at the heart of it – I just wanted it to be a normal date.”

He’s well aware that at least two of Swift’s songs – “Out of the Woods” and “Style” – are considered to be about their romance. (“You’ve got that long hair slicked back, white T-shirt,” she sang in “Style.”) “I mean, I don’t know if they’re about me or not …” he says, attempting gallant discretion, “but the issue is, she’s so good, they’re bloody everywhere.” He smiles. “I write from my experiences; everyone does that. I’m lucky if everything [we went through] helped create those songs. That’s what hits your heart. That’s the stuff that’s hardest to say, and it’s the stuff I talk least about. That’s the part that’s about the two people. I’m never going to tell anybody everything.” (Fans wondered whether “Perfect,” a song Styles co-wrote for One Direction, might have been about Swift: “And if you like cameras flashing every time we go out/And if you’re looking for someone to write your breakup songs about/Baby, I’m perfect.”)

Was he able to tell her that he admired the songs? “Yes and no,” he says after a long pause. “She doesn’t need me to tell her they’re great. They’re great songs … It’s the most amazing unspoken dialogue ever.”

Is there anything he’d want to say to Swift today? “Maybe this is where you write down that I left!” He laughs, and looks off. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “Certain things don’t work out. There’s a lot of things that can be right, and it’s still wrong. In writing songs about stuff like that, I like tipping a hat to the time together. You’re celebrating the fact it was powerful and made you feel something, rather than ‘this didn’t work out, and that’s bad.’ And if you run into that person, maybe it’s awkward, maybe you have to get drunk … but you shared something. Meeting someone new, sharing those experiences, it’s the best shit ever. So thank you.”

He notes a more recent relationship, possibly over now, but significant for the past few years. (Styles has often been spotted with Kendall Jenner, but he won’t confirm that’s who he’s talking about.) “She’s a huge part of the album,” says Styles. “Sometimes you want to tip the hat, and sometimes you just want to give them the whole cap … and hope they know it’s just for them.”

In late February 2016, Styles landed a plum part in Christopher Nolan’s upcoming World War II epic, Dunkirk. In Nolan, Styles found a director equally interested in mystery. “The movie is so ambitious,” he says. “Some of the stuff they’re doing in this movie is insane. And it was hard, man, physically really tough, but I love acting. I love playing someone else. I’d sleep really well at night, then get up and continue drowning.”

When Styles returned to L.A., an idea landed. The idea was: Get out of Dodge. Styles called his manager, Jeffrey Azoff, and explained he wanted to finish the album outside London or L.A., a place where the band could focus and coalesce. Four days after returning from the movie, they were on their way to Port Antonio on Jamaica’s remote north coast. At Geejam, Styles and his entire band were able to live together, turning the studio compound into something like a Caribbean version of Big Pink. They occupied a two-story villa filled with instruments, hung out at the tree-house-like Bush Bar, and had access to the gorgeous studio on-site. Many mornings began with a swim in the deserted cove just down the hill.

Life in Jamaica was 10 percent beach party and 90 percent musical expedition. It was the perfect rite of passage for a musician looking to explode the past and launch a future. The anxiety of what’s next slipped away. Layers of feeling emerged that had never made it past One Direction’s group songwriting sessions, often with pop craftsmen who polished the songs after Styles had left. He didn’t feel stifled in One D, he says, as much as interrupted. “We were touring all the time,” he recalls. “I wrote more as we went, especially on the last two albums.” There are songs from that period he loves, he says, like “Olivia” and “Stockholm Syndrome,” along with the earlier song “Happily.” “But I think it was tough to really delve in and find out who you are as a writer when you’re just kind of dipping your toe each time. We didn’t get the six months to see what kind of shit you can work with. To have time to live with a song, see what you love as a fan, chip at it, hone it and go for that … it’s heaven.”

The more vulnerable the song, he learned, the better. ��The one subject that hits the hardest is love,” he says, “whether it’s platonic, romantic, loving it, gaining it, losing it … it always hits you hardest. I don’t think people want to hear me talk about going to bars, and how great everything is. The champagne popping … who wants to hear about it? I don’t want to hear my favorite artists talk about all the amazing shit they get to do. I want to hear, ‘How did you feel when you were alone in that hotel room, because you chose to be alone?'”

To wind down in Jamaica, Styles and Rowland, the guitarist, began a daily Netflix obsession with sugary romantic comedies. Houseworkers would sometimes leave at night and return the next morning to see Styles blearily removing himself from a long string of rom-coms. He declares himself an expert on Nicholas Sparks, whom he now calls “Nicky Spee.” After almost two months, the band left the island with a bounty of songs and stories. Like the time Styles ended up drunk and wet from the ocean, toasting everybody, wearing a dress he’d traded with someone’s girlfriend. “I don’t remember the toast,” he says, “but I remember the feeling.”

Christmas 2016. Harry Styles was parked outside his childhood home, sitting next to his father. They were listening to his album. After lunch at a pub, they had driven down their old street and landed in front of the family home. Staring out at the house where Styles grew up listening to his father’s copy of The Dark Side of the Moon, there was much to consider. It was a long way he’d traveled in those fast few years since “Isn’t She Lovely.” He’d previously played the new album for his mother, on a stool, in the living room, on cheap speakers. She’d cried hearing “Sign of the Times.” Now he sat with his father – who liked the new song “Carolina” best – both having come full circle.

Styles is moved as he describes how he felt. We’re sitting in Corden’s empty office, talking over a few last subjects before he returns to England. “I think, as a parent, especially with the band stuff, it was such a roller coaster,” he says. “I feel like they were always thinking, ‘OK, this ride could stop at any point and we’re going to have to be there when it does.’ There was something about playing the album and how happy I was that told them, ‘If all I get is to make this music, I’m content. If I’m never on that big ride again, I’m happy and proud of it.’

“I always said, at the very beginning, all I wanted was to be the granddad with the best stories … and the best shelf of artifacts and bits and trinkets.”

Tomorrow night he’ll hop a flight back to England. Rehearsals await. Album-cover choices need to be made. He grabs his black notebook and turns back for a moment before disappearing down the hallway, into the future.

“How am I going to be mysterious,” he asks, only half-joking, “when I’ve been this honest with you?”

#HOW AM I GONNA BE MYSTERIOUS WHEN IVE BEEN THIS HONEST WITH U #thank u rolling stone #delivering us the harry content we deserve #i reread this whenever im down #and u should too #sigh #thanks cameron #and rob #haz #harry styles #rolling stone #harry styles rolling stone

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coll2mitts · 4 years

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#89 Head (1968)

From the minds of Jack Nicholson and Bob Rafelson, is a 110 minute acid trip featuring The Monkees. Their television show had been recently cancelled, and this movie is essentially their former-Disney star “I’m an adult!” moment in an attempt to break free of their preassigned roles and become Serious Artists.

I cannot adequately express the despair I felt when Head literally announced there would be no plot to this movie, and would instead be a series of skits. It makes sense in the context of The Monkees, since they were formed for a television show. Each section of the movie has a different genre, ranging from a traditional Western, a boxing movie, a television commercial, a stage-performed musical number, horror... they are all here, which makes an overall narrative pretty hard to discern, other than The Monkees’ general discontentment with their current position.

It begins similarly to A Hard Day’s Night, where the Monkees are being chased by... we don’t know what yet, but we can assume it is not excited teenage girls. They then launch themselves off of a bridge, trip on LSD, find some mermaids, and hold a kissing contest that only triggered my Covid-spread panic. The movie doesn’t give you much time to breathe before it comes in hot with a football player attacking soldiers, a football stadium cheering for war, and The Monkees playing a live concert with a screaming crowd cut together with scenes of civilians being killed during the Vietnam war.

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Not gonna lie, I didn't think I'd have to address the Vietnam War at all during this project (unfortunately, Meet the Feebles took that assumption away from me rather quickly). To be honest, I was really expecting this more from The Beatles, especially with John Lennon's very famous pivot to anti-war protest songs. In college, I wrote a sociology paper on the Vietnam War's influence on popular culture and the function of the media created, and not once in all my research were The Monkees even seriously cited, other than some coy allusion that “Last Train to Clarksville” might have had something to do with a soldier travelling to an army base. I was so taken aback by the opening scene of this movie, that I literally pulled out my paper and the books I had purchased to write it to see if I had missed something. There was ONE sentence about Mike Nesmith singing a protest song before he joined The Monkees. Granted, if you were alive during the 1960s, to be ignorant of the war in general would have been so incredibly tone-deaf. Had I realized this movie would be political in any way, I would have expected this. In one book, the author had compiled over 750 songs that directly addressed the war. Record sales tripled during the decade, and Woodstock might be the most famous festival we’ve ever held in the US - processing the war through music was very much *a thing*. So, of course, I had to dive into this, because my brain can't just be like, "Well, I guess The Monkees hated the Vietnam War like the majority of the population, I guess.”

There wasn’t much to find, other than this bizarre clip of Davey Jones on an 80s talk show bragging and singing about how he had evaded the draft. Turns out, the writer/director of this picture, Bob Rafelson, really controlled the message of this movie, and he inserted these scenes as commentary on the performative aspect of war, and how television “...makes you inured to the realities of life. Oh yes, it brings it into the living room, but then you don’t have to fucking deal with it. There is no distinction made between the close-up of the young girl responding hysterically to the appearance of The Monkees and to the shot of the assassination at the same time. And then the hysterical girls attack the stage where The Monkees are playing and shred their clothing off. But they’re not The Monkees, they are wooden dummies. They’ll shred anything, as long as it’s the thing to do. Rape the stage, attack the musicians, real or unreal, who cares? And it was just pointing out that there was a sort of a mindlessness to, as The Beatles used to complain all the time, to the appreciation of the music.”

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There’s a lot going on in this statement... I’ll agree that the constant barrage of violence and unrest eventually numbs you to it. Especially now, with a 24-hour news cycle, and twitter just bombarding you with every fucking egregious thing going on in the world at once. A sense of hopelessness overtakes you; The doom-scrolling will only pacify you into not acting, because what the fuck can you do to change anything? There are too many problems, and they’re too large to solve on your own.

The second part of this statement, where teenage girls will do anything “as long as it’s the thing to do” is pretty insulting. I suppose the attitude of teenage girls being easily manipulated to enjoying things was amplified with Beatlemania. Its continued on, where bands like New Kids on the Block, The Backstreet Boys, and One Direction are immediately dismissed as superfluous because teenage girls like them, and teenage girls are shallow because they’re driven by their hormones. What’s unbelievably frustrating about this mindset is it has been disproved time and time again, INCLUDING The Beatles. I know more dudes who rep for them than I do women. Shit, in this dumpsterfire of a year, Harry Styles’ new album has been one of the few positive things that has kept me going, and that came out 10 months ago. With the success of kpop as well, a lot more people are starting to come around to “manufactured content that teenage girls like can be good, actually”.

The Beatles complaining about how their music is secondary to the mania about them is really rich, considering their legacy now. It’s not like they were that attractive or charming... I sat through 2 of their movies and the only person I even mildly connected with was Ringo, because he was a goofy dope. I’m fairly certain teenage girls were buying their records and going to their shows because they liked the music. As a former teenage girl, let me tell you, the illusion of depth and sensitivity is way more attractive than a pretty face.

Teenage girls made The Monkees and The Beatles successful, and for the director, who directly profited off of that success, to make a movie that criticizes them really rubs me the wrong way. Also, it was the fucking 1960s, about as volatile of a decade as you could get *until* now. Maybe teenage girls focused so much on The Monkees and The Beatles because it was one of the few uncomplicated things that could bring them reprise from the violence unfolding around them. But whatever, disparage their money lining your pockets, I guess.

The skits afterward are pretty unremarkable. Micky is in the middle of a desert trying to get happiness out of a Coke machine, only to find it, and the task itself empty. He then blows up the Coke machine with a tank given to him by the Italian army.

The Monkees are given a tour of a manufacturing facility, only to see what they are producing isn’t a quality product, and the workers themselves are either fake, or endangered by the endeavor. There’s a few scenes where they fight against their predetermined personalities in the band, or what their fans might think of their behaviors. They are used in a dandruff shampoo advertisement and vacuumed up and held hostage in a black box. There is an outstanding upbeat musical number performed by Davy (and Toni Basil!) about a boy whose father left him. He lays it all out on the dance floor, only to be criticized by Frank Zappa of all people, for not having a message in his music that will save the youth of America.

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While they are searching for answers on how to escape the box they’re trapped in, or purpose in what they’ve accomplished, they find nothing. Peter tries to enlighten them with a bunch of culty bullshit, but instead Davy loses his shit and starts physically attacking literally everything featured throughout the movie, culminating in The Monkees running from their movie studio and jumping off a bridge to free themselves. They unfortunately are captured and shoved back in the black box, awaiting the next time they will be carted out to market something else for The Teens to buy.

I probably don’t need to tell you that this movie flopped. The studio purposely left The Monkees out of all the promotional material because they thought it might detract from the serious motion picture they were trying to release. The problem with this, however, is if you don’t know anything about The Monkees, this movie is not going to make sense to you. I had to watch several behind-the-scenes clips to get any semblance of an idea what they were trying to achieve. Sure, the Capitalism and Manufactured Entertainment is Bad theme is pretty easy to pick out, but why The Monkees were the ones saying this after being immersed in the middle of it for three years is an important position to understand beforehand. And even if you were a Monkees fan, like my mother was, this basically shits on their entire experience in show business, so it probably doesn’t hit too well with their core demographic, either. I respect what they were trying to do here, but it’s no mystery to me why this movie has almost entirely been lost to time.

I’d like to say this ends my series on rock bands that decided to make musical movies, but next on the list is a little story about a pinball-wizard-that-could, Tommy.

#unwarranted opinion #100 best musical movies of all time rotten tomatoes

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neathtorchlight-blog · 7 years

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Cryptic Dungeon - Forgotten Kingdoms

Review by Digre

I have been listening to Forgotten Kingdoms by Cryptic Dungeon. The artist tells us that he was experimenting with music and had dark ambient in mind when coming up with Cryptic Dungeon. It is supposed to combine dark ambient, some drone, industrial and medieval themes and imagery. This I know because I have read it on the artist facebook page. It is first now or just before writing this I did some research on the artist. I did not know anything about Cryptic Dungeon when I first sealed of my hearing with headphones and pressed play. For the first listen through I thought of it as very sober Dungeon Synth deliberately made bleak and scrawny by using meagre synth sounds bravely kept unclothed by warm reverbs like most ambient music nowadays and with compositions boldly left unfed by rich and highly realistic synthesized orchestral instruments. This way of production and mixing is very effectful and I guess it is hard to make it as genuine and confident as Cryptic Dungeon has done it with this release. The balance is just the right mixture of old styled synth sounds and more modern production. I have listened to his earlier tracks and they have not been as emaciated and undressed as these songs. There is reverb and echoes and all that but not drenched in it. Unusually true to style Dungeon Synth while most records tries to be unique this album seems to be forced not to stand out in a crowd of adventurous dungeon exploring records. It is made like this in a smart way. I love it and I have happily listened to this album over and over again many times for the last two or more weeks.

Aside from Cryptic Dungeon this Nederlander named Y. Crypt has also created and released a side project called Vagor that uses similar ideas as the main act when it comes to melodies and chord progression, the production is considerably rougher and turbulent like dungeon noise, but Vagor comes with something that Cryptic Dungeon does not: A descriptive article that recount in plain text the story that the music are telling us and the image it depicts. I have seen this concept many times since I started indulging myself with this new era of Dungeon Synth. I do like the idea of an artist creating an imaginary world and then composing music about the phenomenons and occurrences drawn from these self made lands of unknown. But then I like it even more when the description is vague and even non existing, letting the listener’s own imagination decrypt the dungeon tales told and this was the case for me when I started listening to this new bandcamp album called Forgotten Kingdoms. Not that there is no descriptions, there are, but because I had it downloaded to my mp3-player and I did not even once look at the display displaying the track titles as the machine was pocketed while I was strolling around or bicycling along the river flowing mighty and wide through this city where I live. And since I have been listening to these tracks while outside just as the spring overtook a winter that overstayed its welcome here in the northern Scandinavia I have pictured this music as a spring album lit by an eagerly rising sun forcing the infant spring leafs to burst out in a cascade of chock green flora accompanied by an ever lasting and impenetrable mist of stubborn pollen.

Especially Bloody March Of The Necromancer makes me think of late spring and early summer. This track is also available as a single track bandcamp album and I think Cryptic Dungeon singles it out as it constitute the overall intention of this act. The melodies builds up to something very weary that seems to wither of and almost die but is then carried up by a pretty primitive percussion that works like crutches to a stumbling tune barely standing by it own. In my mind it is like a soundtrack for something traveling through a weary lonesome summer landscape of deep and thick leaf forests, valleys and cold rivers unknowing about the horrors that await around the next corner.. something like the vignette to the Shining with that car snaking about towards its doom.

And then there is the track that makes me believe I am listening to the Ghostbusters theme song. The first seconds Secret Rites sounds very similar or even exactly the same as Ray Parker Juniors first few chords with just that type of synth sounds used. But this tracks takes another path completely and becomes something rather different. Something that I have very much enjoyed listening to. Most of the tracks have made me picture movie scenes like those of the last millennium now far gone. Not in a Hammer Film Productions way but rather something like Troma Entertainment horrors but without the goofiness. I do not know how to explain it but these tracks have a way of depicting annihilation, inevitable dismay, very somber horror and demise. And then there is the last track, Dawn Of Rebirth, that happily emerges and rises aloft proudly declaring victory, survival and success. Once frozen and dead now green and alive again. Great tunes.

And then I have been listening to this while alone indoors reading song descriptions and looking at cover art. This is not Summer Horror music after all. It is all about a long forgotten kingdoms, real historical battles, like that of Assandun, and also, I dare guess, imaginary ones about necromancers and such. It makes sense when reading the titles but it does not burst the bubble of the imaginary world of Spring Time Terror that I have conjured up. It is just another way of listening to this. The music is gloomy and unlit just as the landscapes, rich of mountains and castles seen on the cover art are.

The album starts of with the track Majestic Call To Arms I - Battle Of Ancients on which the composing is very majestic but with a sound font that resemble that of 90's Sierra Adventure Games like Kings Quest V. I am not sure if this is made with physical and probably expensive Yamaha keyboard synthesizers with multiple pre-established instruments or with a early version of Cubase with built in midi sounds and a sound card from the 90's. The organ playing on Of Fallen Heroes And Mead sounds a bit like drunk and ignorant cheerful while a creepy unrest permeates the entire track. Nothing is really merry or optimistic on this tracklist.

The third track Forgotten Kingdoms starts of as any chill out ambient music but soon one can hear the dungeon synth influences. I am not sure that this is the case or if my mind is playing tricks on me but I can hear weak bright voices talking to each other as if pixies where arguing to each other. This is probably not actually there but somewhere in the sparsely reverbed ambiance I can still hear it.

Echoing Chasms sounds like Ocean Synth and pitched down pan flute with echoes. This track could easily be 10 times longer without me complaining. Secret Rites is still Ghostbusters at first but then goes of like a little goblin sneaking about in a old and murky cellar. I do not think he is supposed to witness that rite, mentioned in the song title, taking place down there in the dull blackness.

I really do hope that Cryptic Dungeon keeps doing music like this and I will come back to this very sorrowful and well made Dungeon Synth album or, as I prefer to categorize it, a splendid and majestic Spring Time Terror album.

#Spring Time Terror #Dungeon Synth #cryptic dungeon #Dark Ambient #fantasy music #necromancer #Ocean Synth

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thedailyhs · 7 years

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Harry Styles' New Direction

A year in the life of the One Direction star as he leaves behind his boy-band past, heads to Jamaica and comes of age

“Honest,” he says, a year later, driving through midcity Los Angeles in a dusty black Range Rover. He’s lived here off and on for the past few years, always returning to London. Styles’ car stereo pumps a mix of country and obscure classic rock. “I didn’t want to write ‘stories,' ” he says. “I wanted to write my stories, things that happened to me. The number-one thing was I wanted to be honest. I hadn’t done that before.” There isn’t a yellow light he doesn’t run as he speaks excitedly about the band he’s put together under the tutelage of producer Jeff Bhasker (The Rolling Stones, Kanye West, “Uptown Funk”). He’s full of stories about the two-month recording session last fall at Geejam, a studio and compound built into a mountainside near Port Antonio, a remote section of Jamaica. Drake and Rihanna have recorded there, and it’s where Styles produced the bulk of his new LP, which is due out May 12th. As we weave through traffic today, the album no one has heard is burning a hole in his iPhone.

It was in a London studio in late 2014 that Styles first brought up the idea of One Direction taking a break. “I didn’t want to exhaust our fan base,” he explains. “If you’re shortsighted, you can think, 'Let’s just keep touring,’ but we all thought too much of the group than to let that happen. You realize you’re exhausted and you don’t want to drain people’s belief in you.”

Still, a solo career was calling. “I wanted to step up. There were songs I wanted to write and record, and not just have it be 'Here’s a demo I wrote.’ Every decision I’ve made since I was 16 was made in a democracy. I felt like it was time to make a decision about the future … and maybe I shouldn’t rely on others.”

Styles pauses, savoring the idea of the unknown. He looks at my digital recorder like a barely invited guest. “More than 'do you keep a mystery alive?’ – it’s not that. I like to separate my personal life and work. It helps, I think, for me to compartmentalize. It’s not about trying to make my career longer, like I’m trying to be this 'mysterious character,’ because I’m not. When I go home, I feel like the same person I was at school. You can’t expect to keep that if you show everything. There’s the work and the personal stuff, and going between the two is my favorite shit. It’s amazing to me.”

“Mind if I play it loud?” asks Bhasker. It’s a rhetorical question. Nasci cranks “Sign of the Times,” the first single, to a seismic level. The song began as a seven-minute voice note on Styles’ phone, and ended up as a sweeping piano ballad, as well as a kind of call to arms. “Most of the stuff that hurts me about what’s going on at the moment is not politics, it’s fundamentals,” Styles says. “Equal rights. For everyone, all races, sexes, everything. … 'Sign of the Times’ came from 'This isn’t the first time we’ve been in a hard time, and it’s not going to be the last time.’ The song is written from a point of view as if a mother was giving birth to a child and there’s a complication. The mother is told, 'The child is fine, but you’re not going to make it.’ The mother has five minutes to tell the child, 'Go forth and conquer.’” The track was a breakthrough for both the artist and the band. “Harry really led the charge with that one, and the rest of the album,” says Bhasker.

“I wish the album could be called Sign of the Times,” Styles declares.

“I don’t know,” says Bhasker. “I mean, it has been used.”

The album is a distinct departure from the dance pop that permeates the airwaves. “A lot of my influences, and the stuff that I love, is older,” he says. “So the thing I didn’t want to do was, I didn’t want to put out my first album and be like, 'He’s tried to re-create the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, Nineties.’ Loads of amazing music was written then, but I’m not saying I wish I lived back then. I wanted to do something that sounds like me. I just keep pushing forward.”

Styles is aware that his largest audience so far has been young – often teenage – women. Asked if he spends pressure-filled evenings worried about proving credibility to an older crowd, Styles grows animated. “Who’s to say that young girls who like pop music – short for popular, right? – have worse musical taste than a 30-year-old hipster guy? That’s not up to you to say. Music is something that’s always changing. There’s no goal posts. Young girls like the Beatles. You gonna tell me they’re not serious? How can you say young girls don’t get it? They’re our future. Our future doctors, lawyers, mothers, presidents, they kind of keep the world going. Teenage-girl fans – they don’t lie. If they like you, they’re there. They don’t act 'too cool.’ They like you, and they tell you. Which is sick.”

This much is clear: The classic role of tortured artist is not one he’ll be playing. “People romanticize places they can’t get to themselves,” he says. “That’s why it’s fascinating when people go dark – when Van Gogh cuts off his ear. You romanticize those people, sometimes out of proportion. It’s the same with music. You want a piece of that darkness, to feel their pain but also to step back into your own [safer] life. I can’t say I had that. I had a really nice upbringing. I feel very lucky. I had a great family and always felt loved. There’s nothing worse than an inauthentic tortured person. 'They took my allowance away, so I did heroin.’ It’s like – that’s not how it works. I don’t even remember what the question was.”

The clerk rings up the snacks. In the most careful, deferential way, the young worker asks the question. “Would you … happen to be … Harry Styles?”

“Yep.”

“Could I get a selfie?” Styles obliges, and leans over the counter. Click. We exit into the Laurel Canyon evening.

“Hey,” shouts a grizzled-looking dude on the bench outside the store. “Do you know who you look like?”

Styles turns, expecting more of the same, but this particular night denizen is on a different track.

“River Phoenix,” the man announces, a little sadly. “You ever heard of him? If he hadn’t have passed, I would have said that was you. Talented guy.”

“Yes, he was,” agrees Styles, who is in many ways the generational opposite of Phoenix. “Yes, he was.”

They share a silent moment, before Styles walks to his car. He hands me the bag filled with English snacks. “This is for you,” he says. “This was my youth …”

His eyes moisten a little, but unlike the young man who wept over an early bout with Internet criticism, a powerful moment in the early One Direction documentary A Year in the Making, Styles tonight knocks back the sentiment. Styles is still close with his father, and served as best man to his mom when she remarried a few years ago. “Since I’ve been 10,” he reflects, “it’s kind of felt like – protect Mom at all costs. … My mom is very strong. She has the greatest heart. [Her house in Cheshire] is where I want to go when I want to spend some time.”

In his early teens, Styles joined some school friends as the singer in a mostly-covers band, White Eskimo. “We wrote a couple of songs,” he remembers. “One was called 'Gone in a Week.’ It was about luggage. 'I’ll be gone in a week or two/Trying to find myself someplace new/I don’t need any jackets or shoes/The only luggage I need is you.’” He laughs. “I was like, 'Sick.’”

We’re in Television City, Hollywood. Winston, 35, the Emmy-winning executive producer of The Late Late Show With James Corden, abandons his desk and retreats to a nearby sofa to discuss his good friend. More than a friend, Styles became an unlikely family member – after he became perhaps the world’s most surprising houseguest.

Styles parked his mattress in the Winstons’ attic. “Two weeks later and he hadn’t bought his house yet,” continues Winston. “It wasn’t going through. Then he said, 'I’m going to stay until Christmas, if you don’t mind.’ Then Christmas came, and …”

Styles jauntily appears at the Late Late office. He’s clearly a regular visitor, and he and Winston have a brotherly shorthand.

“Leaving Saturday?” asks Winston.

“Yeah, gotta buy a cactus for my friend’s birthday,” says Styles.

“My dad might be on your flight,” says Winston.

“The 8:50? That’d be sick.”

“I was alone,” notes Styles. “I was scared of Meri.”

Styles finds a spot at a sushi place up the coast. As he passes through the busy dining room, a businessman turns, recognizing him with a face that says: My kids love this guy! I ask Styles what he hears most from the parents of young fans. “They say, 'I see your cardboard face every fucking day.' ” He laughs. “I think they want me to apologize.”

The subject today is relationships. While Styles says he still feels like a newcomer to all that, a handful of love affairs have deeply affected him. The images and stolen moments tumble extravagantly through the new songs: And promises are broken like a stitch is … I got splinters in my knuckles crawling 'cross the floor/Couldn’t take you home to mother in a skirt that short/But I think that’s what I like about it … I see you gave him my old T-shirt, more of what was once mine … That black notebook, you sense, is filled with this stuff.

"She used to live an hour and a half away on the train, and I worked in a bakery for three years. I’d finish on Saturdays at 4:30 and it was a 4:42 train, and if I missed it there wasn’t one for another hour or two. So I’d finish and sprint to the train station. Spent 70 percent of my wages on train tickets. Later, I’d remember her perfume. Little things. I smell that perfume all the time. I’ll be in a lift or a reception and say to someone, 'Alien, right?’ And sometimes they’re impressed and sometimes they’re a little creeped out. 'Stop smelling me.’”

Is there anything he’d want to say to Swift today? “Maybe this is where you write down that I left!” He laughs, and looks off. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “Certain things don’t work out. There’s a lot of things that can be right, and it’s still wrong. In writing songs about stuff like that, I like tipping a hat to the time together. You’re celebrating the fact it was powerful and made you feel something, rather than 'this didn’t work out, and that’s bad.’ And if you run into that person, maybe it’s awkward, maybe you have to get drunk … but you shared something. Meeting someone new, sharing those experiences, it’s the best shit ever. So thank you.”

The more vulnerable the song, he learned, the better. “The one subject that hits the hardest is love,” he says, “whether it’s platonic, romantic, loving it, gaining it, losing it … it always hits you hardest. I don’t think people want to hear me talk about going to bars, and how great everything is. The champagne popping … who wants to hear about it? I don’t want to hear my favorite artists talk about all the amazing shit they get to do. I want to hear, 'How did you feel when you were alone in that hotel room, because you chose to be alone?’”

Styles is moved as he describes how he felt. We’re sitting in Corden’s empty office, talking over a few last subjects before he returns to England. “I think, as a parent, especially with the band stuff, it was such a roller coaster,” he says. “I feel like they were always thinking, 'OK, this ride could stop at any point and we’re going to have to be there when it does.’ There was something about playing the album and how happy I was that told them, 'If all I get is to make this music, I’m content. If I’m never on that big ride again, I’m happy and proud of it.’

"I always said, at the very beginning, all I wanted was to be the granddad with the best stories … and the best shelf of artifacts and bits and trinkets.”

“How am I going to be mysterious,” he asks, only half-joking, “when I’ve been this honest with you?”

- Rolling Stone Magazine

#harry styles #18 april 2017 #prss #rolling stone magazine

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Harry Styles’ New Direction A year in the life of the One Direction star as he leaves behind his boy-band past, heads to Jamaica and comes of age By Cameron Crowe

“Honest,” he says, a year later, driving through midcity Los Angeles in a dusty black Range Rover. He’s lived here off and on for the past few years, always returning to London. Styles’ car stereo pumps a mix of country and obscure classic rock. “I didn’t want to write ‘stories,‘ ” he says. “I wanted to write my stories, things that happened to me. The number-one thing was I wanted to be honest. I hadn’t done that before.” There isn’t a yellow light he doesn’t run as he speaks excitedly about the band he’s put together under the tutelage of producer Jeff Bhasker (The Rolling Stones, Kanye West, “Uptown Funk”). He’s full of stories about the two-month recording session last fall at Geejam, a studio and compound built into a mountainside near Port Antonio, a remote section of Jamaica. Drake and Rihanna have recorded there, and it’s where Styles produced the bulk of his new LP, which is due out May 12th. As we weave through traffic today, the album no one has heard is burning a hole in his iPhone.