#maybe they can travel together occasionally but they fare better alone

[astrology-india]

Taurus Compatibility - The Best and Worst Match

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Taurus Compatibility - The Best and Worst Match

If you are lucky enough to have a Taurus in your life, then you already know what I am about to tell you.

Smart, friendly, and down to earth, the Taurus is a likely partner-in-conversation for just about anything from serious life advice to humorous banter.

Those born under the sign of Taurus are known throughout the zodiac as being trustworthy and dependable.

They come through in the clutch. Add in some friendliness and warmth for good seasoning and you got yourself a bull.

Ruled by Venus, the planet of love, it is not unheard of for the Taurus to partake in sensuality, even hedonism.

However, the bull seems to keep it in check, being well-grounded, practical, and focused on achieving their goals.

As a fixed sign, the Taurus is driven and determined.

They also have a reputation for being stubborn and even quick to temper, but let’s be clear here, you did not hear that from me. The Taurus is usually hardworking and committed. From love to career, they seem to know what they want and are fueled by stars to go and get it.

Below is everything you need to know about which zodiac signs are best and least suited for Taurus compatibility based on sun signs alone.

For the most accurate description regarding compatibility, it is important to understand your complete natal chart.

The Best Taurus Compatibility Matches

Taurus Compatibility is the best with their fellow earth signs who all value hard work, goals, and staying at home together.

The Taurus can be a winning combo with two of the sensitive and intelligent water signs as we will see below.

Taurus and Capricorn

The combination of Taurus and Capricorn is the power-couple of the zodiac.

Both hardworking, intelligent, and friendly signs, these two in love could take over the world if they desired to.

If the bull wanted a run for their money concerning stubbornness, Capricorn the goat can deliver.

This is a good thing, though. Both the Taurus and the Capricorn understand that the whole “stubborn” thing is an unfair critique anyway.

They both know that it is their devotion and commitment that people mistake the stubbornness for.

And this devotion? Well, it is for their friends, loved ones, family, careers, and their goals.

In my opinion, things that are well-worth being stubborn for and Capricorn/Taurus compatibility is excellent because these two share the same values.

The Capricorn is a bit more driven than the Taurus, who does not complain about taking it easy and indulging occasionally. The Capricorn digs all of that too.

So, when the more dominant and driven goat tires themselves out in the endless pursuit of achieving their goals, the sensual Taurus will be right there with dinner on the stove, the candles lit, and a good movie on deck.

Taurus and Virgo

The Taurus is sweet, and the Virgo is sensitive, no two sun signs could be more nurturing of each other.

Both signs are practical and hardworking and these two likely share the same priorities: loyalty to their partner, family, career, and staying at home.

Taurus compatibility with Virgo works so well because of some of the contrast of the two signs and the balance that they feed each other.

The Taurus is fixed and grounded. The bull is self-assured and proud. On the other hand, Virgo is a mutable sign who is known for being critical and sometimes goes off the deep end with worry.

In this harmoniously balanced relationship, the bull shows the over-analytical Virgo how to stay grounded and the Virgo keeps the Taurus in check when they go off into over-indulgence.

The Virgo knows how to get things done and will help the Taurus to focus and make their dreams into a reality.

In the bedroom, the Taurus will be much more open, as a sensual and physical sun sign. The Virgo is much more subdued.

This sun sign relationship is built on loyalty, so this is a good yin and yang balance if both parties share that deep connection.

Taurus and Cancer

What happens when two possessive, yet devoted sun signs meet and fall in love? They give each other fully to one another.

This could be seen rather remarkably in the Taurus/Cancer bond.

These two are domesticated, stable, and forward-looking.

They are alike in pretty much every way with only one real big difference: the Taurus is an earth sign, and the Cancer is a water sign.

What this means in broad terms is that while the Taurus lives through analyzing and rationalizing, the Cancer exists mostly through their emotions and intuition.

The Taurus thinks of every possible outcome to a decision while the Cancer goes off of feeling. This is also how the two primarily communicate as well.

If the above leads to any disagreements, it will be the many things that they agree on that will keep this couple together and the Cancer/Taurus compatibility going strong- mainly, staying at home.

The Taurus and Cancer are the two most domesticated signs of the zodiac.

These two signs are extremely loyal and seek security. Both the Taurus and the Cancer are hardworking and goal-oriented.

This perfect alignment of values will leave this couple with little to squabble about, which is a good thing because both signs have hot tempers.

Taurus and Pisces

If the Taurus has been wondering if there is any other sign out there that appreciates sensuality as much as they do, they need not look any further than Pisces- the most sensual of the zodiac.

The tough bull and the sensitive fish, who would have thought?

Just because the Pisces wears their feelings on their sleeve 24/7 and the stoic Taurus does not, really does not mean a thing.

The Taurus is pretty sensitive too and has a rich emotional life, even if they do not fully understand it.

Pisces is the ideal sun sign to help the Taurus get in touch with that side of themselves.

Both signs are intelligent homebodies who like to consume the finer things in life from the arts, cuisine, nature, music, books, and film.

Both the Taurus and Pisces love good conversation and humor.

The Pisces imagination will entertain and intrigue the Taurus to no end and in the bedroom Pisces intuition and Taurus sensuality together are dynamic.

All of this entirely depends on the specific Taurus and Pisces, of course. There is a chance that the two signs can over-indulge if not kept in check.

If both signs have it relatively together and are focused on their goals, then this is a beautiful, magical, almost physic relationship.

Least Taurus Compatible Matches

Some signs do not fare well with the Taurus romantically.

Taurus compatibility works the best with sun signs that share the same values. Some, like the sun signs below, have values that run counter to the Taurus’.

Taurus and Aquarius

Have you ever seen somebody kick over another person’s sandcastle at the beach? Maybe you have not but have seen a Taurus and Aquarius relationship. It is basically the same thing.

To better put this in perspective, imagine that the sandcastle is the Taurus’ need for comfort, stability, and security, and the foot that kicks it is everything about what the Aquarius represents.

The misunderstood Aquarius marches to the beat of their own drummer, and one could say that their objective in this life is to challenge traditions.

This means stability as we know it, something the Taurus looks for throughout their entire lives.

The Aquarius is off-beat and always playing with expansive and abstract ideas and has an alchemic way of bringing them into life.

The practical Taurus does not understand any of this at all and would much prefer to be with a more level-headed and down to earth person.

The Aquarius will have little interest in the Taurus anyway, as they see the bull as too materialistic and rigid.

Nothing about the Taurus will excite the Aquarius and vice-versa.

Taurus compatibility with Aquarius is not good. Both signs are extraordinary in their own right, but for a romantic relationship, they will do far better with a sun sign who shares their same values.

Taurus and Gemini

Taurus compatibility with Gemini is weak because the two signs have little in common.

In every aspect of their lives, The Taurus looks for stability like a heat-seeking missile. This is especially the case with their romantic involvement.

The Gemini is a free sign, not only because they are mutable, but the Gemini is particularly known to be flighty.

Maybe not in an ADD sort of way, but they do have this remarkable ability to jump from one thing to the next, often making decisions and taking actions at the drop of a dime.

The Taurus is much too grounded and cautious to understand the Gemini’s unpredictable ways.

In a sense, the double-sided and mutable Gemini (who is nicknamed “the twins”) may also have difficulty understanding why they do some of what they do as well.

Everything from activities to the conversation will go this way with the pair, leaving the Taurus desperately looking for some sense of routine and normalcy.

This is sure to bring out the stubbornness of the bull and the Gemini will think the Taurus takes everything too seriously.

Taurus and Sagittarius

Just because Taurus is ruled by the planet of love, Venus does not mean that their love is well-suited for everyone.

Taurus compatibility with Sagittarius is not good for many reasons, most pronounced is their difference in values.

The fire sign of Sagittarius is explosive and daring, a complete extrovert and social butterfly.

Meanwhile, the more reserved Taurus tends to lean towards being an introvert.

This should not be a total dealbreaker, however, the ruling planet of Sagittarius is Jupiter, which represents travel and exploration.

Taurus is one of the most domesticated sun signs and Sagittarius natives would likely work for the airlines if they do not already.

The Sagittarius is all about freedom and at the end of the day, the Taurus would much rather just stay at home with their partner.

Taurus compatibility with Sagittarius is highly doubtful as both seem to be here on earth worth completely different missions and both signs are pretty steadfast about making them into a reality.

Taurus and Aries

Remember the sandcastle analogy from earlier? Let’s use that again here.

The sandcastle still represents the Taurus’ values and this time the foot that kicks it represents the Aries.

Unlike the Aquarius in the earlier scenario, who has their reason for kicking the sandcastle, the Aries kicks it just to kick it. Aries, the aggressive young ram, thrives on conflict for conflict’s sake. The Taurus is hardworking and carefully constructs a comfortable, peaceful, and stable life for themselves.

Aries/Taurus compatibility is a big negative. If this relationship even starts, to begin with, it will end pretty quickly in one of three ways:

1) The Taurus ignores the Aries’s constant challenges to fight them, in which case the Aries leaves to go find someone else that will fight them.

2) The Taurus thinks the Aries is a bully, gets too stressed out, and then leaves.

3) The Aries pushes the Taurus just enough to bring out the bull’s famously bad, yet well-checked temper, and a fight that will end all fights ensues.

This locking of horns will likely be so bad that there cannot be any reconciliation ahead.

The Taurus Man

The Taurus man is a stoic in every sense of the word. Well, at least they want you to believe that.

Tough on the outside, the bull is a nature lover as a native of Venus. He is sweet and charming to those who know him.

The Taurus man is sensual and physically expressive, yet appearances would have you thinking that he was more reserved.

This is possibly true with his day-to-day decision making, but when he is in love, he is going to show it selflessly and with tons of affection.

The Taurus man is intelligent and communicative, he chooses his words wisely- he says what he means and means what he says.

He is hardworking and goal-oriented. Chances are this man who is successful and seeks a mate with a similar drive. Finding a partner who shares his values is a priority for him.

The Taurus man is a homebody. A force to be reckoned with at his 9-5, he cannot wait to get home and indulge in some good food, romantic company, and an evening in with his partner.

The Taurus, only matched by the Cancer, is the most domesticated of the sun signs.

The Taurus man is the perfect catch: an ambitious go-getter and a selfless and sensual lover at home.

Taurus Man Relationship Compatibility

The Taurus man works hard for his life of success, comfort, and peace and needs a partner who values the same things as him. He is loyal and devoted and seeks someone who is in it with them for the long haul.

Taurus man relationship compatibility works the greatest with Capricorn, Virgo, Cancer, and Pisces.

Taurus Man Sexual Compatibility

The Taurus man is physically expressive. While sex is physical, it is also much more than that to the Taurus man, who does not just make love in bed- he actually makes love in bed.

The best sexual partners for the Taurus man are Capricorn, Virgo, Cancer, and Pisces.

The Taurus Woman

The Taurus woman is the definition of a powerful woman. She is as strong as a bull, but as a native of Venus, she is as feminine as they come.

She is an artist at heart and drawn to things spiritual. If you told me that you know a Taurus woman from yoga class, I would not be surprised.

She is practical, intelligent, and communicative. While known for expressing her love physically, she needs stimulating conversation, preferably of the smart and humorous kind.

As a fixed sign, she is likely confident. The Taurus woman knows who she is and is looking for a partner who is the same.

The female bull is self-reliant and independent, so having a partner for her is a plus and not a necessity. She would much rather be alone than with someone insensitive, boring, or otherwise fake.

When in a relationship, she is devoted. Known to be a loyal lover, the Taurus woman seeks a partner who shares her values but also someone who does not bore her to death.

She appreciates genuine, interesting, and stable people in her life and to win her heart you will likely need to be patient and show and prove that you are a special catch.

Taurus Woman Relationship Compatibility

Taurus women are confident, independent, and self-reliant. She is tough yet sensual and full of love. When she is with a partner, she is fully invested. Highly devoted, the Taurus woman is looking for something solid and long term. Her compatibility is best with Capricorn, Virgo, Cancer, and Pisces.

Taurus Woman Sexual Compatibility

The Taurus woman is a physically expressive and powerfully sensual lover.

While she might come off as reserved, she lets her guard down in the bedroom, but only when in the company of a trusted companion who she is committed to.

The Taurus woman’s best sexual matches are Capricorn, Virgo, Cancer, and Pisces.

Final Thoughts

The intelligent and friendly earth sign of Taurus craves stability, comfort, and peace. If a sun sign shares these values, their differences will likely balance each other out in beneficial ways.

The Taurus in love is devoted; stubborn, yet selfless. They are trustworthy and dependable and in it for the long run.

Taurus compatibility is good with other domesticated homebodies who like to partake in sensuality at home: winning and dining, good books, and movies, with some stimulating conversation in the mix.

Some sun signs not only have different values than the Taurus, but their values actively go against what the Taurus works so diligently at building up for themselves, their sandcastle.

For this reason, Taurus compatibility is poor with Aquarius, Gemini, Sagittarius, and Aries.

Conversely, Taurus makes an excellent partner for sun signs Capricorn, Virgo, Cancer, and Pisces.

All of these signs prefer to stay at home and gravitate towards intellectually stimulating conversations and activities.

Some of these signs are hardworking and goal-oriented, and the others can be as well, depending on other aspects of their natal chart and their overall character.

#compatibility #Taurus man #Taurus woman

[needtherapy]

open always petal by petal (ch 1)

Song Lan knows his only passenger, Cao Huan, is more secrets than truths, but he's still the best passenger Song Lan has ever had: paid up front, self-sufficient, and silent.

It shouldn't matter that Cao Huan plays the guqin like his heart is broken.

It shouldn't matter that his smiles light up the darkest corners of Fuxue's passageways.

It shouldn't matter that he makes Song Lan curious, curious in a way he hasn't felt in years.

It's just an ordinary transport, a regular fare, a mostly-honest way to make a living. All they have to do is get from Sichuan Station to Caiyi Port. The galaxy may be a dangerous place, but Song Lan is very good at his job, and this should be an easy two-week trip.

The rest doesn't matter. It doesn't.

READ ON AO3

Notes: Rated E for Explicit. Title from e.e. cummings' poem "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond". Thanks to @cirilien​, @coslyons​, @treemaidengeek​ and tucuxi (AO3) for the beta reads!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

⋆ Day 0 ⋆

The papers are fakes, Song Lan thinks, but damn good ones. It’s really only the feel of the paper—a bit too clean, a bit too smooth—that tips him off. The ID badge is probably fake too.

He examines the man standing in front of him. He’s handsome in a patrician sort of way, if a bit too thin, and nearly as tall as Song Lan himself, dressed in graceful Eastern Sector robes that rustle the way only real silk does. They’re a far cry from Song Lan’s utilitarian jacket and comfortable shirts and pants in shades of constant black, only a small step up from the uniform he used to wear.

Song Lan wonders why this obviously wealthy man would need forged travel docs. He doesn’t really care, of course. Everyone has their secrets. But he doesn’t need trouble with the Goldlighters. It’s already tricky enough to be unaffiliated without drawing the attention of the galaxy’s most powerful economic cultivation guild.

With a sigh, Song Lan fishes the comm out of a pocket and holds it to the tiny neural node on the side of his head.

[Why the fake name?] the comm speaker asks in a cheerful, melodic voice that still twinges painfully in his chest. It’s been five years. He should really get the damn thing re-coded.

Instead of being offended, the man—supposedly named Cao Huan—tilts a wry, weary smile at him.

“I had hoped to be anonymous a little longer,” he says, his elegant accent denoting excessive amounts of privilege and education. “If you require my real credentials, I can produce them.”

Song Lan shrugs and shakes his head. As long as the man is legit, he can call himself whatever he wants, but now Song Lan has another question. Frowning, he lifts the comm again.

[Why not just travel on a Goldlighter transport? You’re headed for Caiyi. It’s a major port. You know it’ll take two weeks to travel through all four sectors in my ship? The trip might be more dangerous than on a sanctioned vessel,] Xingchen’s voice asks.

Song Lan is under no illusions about his typical fares. There’s usually a good reason they want to travel without questions, and usually a good reason they choose Fuxue. He might be unaffiliated, but he’s not cheap. The galaxy is a dangerous place, and he’s very good at his job. In ten years, he’s only lost one person. It was, however, the only one who mattered.

“I am returning to my family after...some time away. I am in no hurry,” Cao Huan answers, with an edge that Song Lan takes to mean the topic is closed.

Well, he’s happy to take the man’s money; he paid extra to be the only passenger. Song Lan shrugs again and motions for Cao Huan to follow him on a very short tour: kitchen, guest bedrooms, sonic lavs, the foolishly indulgent bath, infirmary, bridge, engineering, cargo bay, plus half a dozen corridors that serve as storage, computer terminals, short-term passenger seating, and whatever else Song Lan needs them to be. He’s even strung up hammocks in emergencies.

[Make yourself at home,] he says with a nod and quick, slanted smile.

“Thank you Captain Song,” the man says with a wide, genuine smile that starts in the corner of his mouth and spreads, opening like a flower across his face. It surprises Song Lan in a way he can’t quite articulate, as though neither of them expected today to hold any need for smiles. “I have been told you are the best pilot, and I look forward to the journey.”

Song Lan finishes prepping Fuxue with supplies for the two-week flight, plus extras, because it’s always better to plan for the worst. He checks to make sure his one luxury—six skeins of outrageously expensive qiviut yarn—is carefully stowed in waterproof cases. Having warm socks and something to do with his hands in the long dark expanse of space is worth any price. Cao Huan busies himself with loading his own gear, waving Song Lan away when he offers to help.

“Commander Song! Commander Song Lan!”

Song Lan turns at the familiar voice calling a half-forgotten title, but it takes him a minute to recall the person: Ouyang Ju. They had served together some ten years ago in the war that brought down the Wen High Chancellor. Fat lot of good that had done.

“Man, it is you! Haven’t seen you in ages,” Ouyang grins, slapping Song Lan on the back. “How’s it going?”

Song Lan tries not to flinch. He has never understood the need people have to touch each other when they’re talking. It’s annoying. He smiles and tips his head, the universal motion for a polite and disengaged fine, and hopes he won’t have to elaborate. It’s not that he doesn’t like using the comm. He would just rather not use it.

Alright, maybe it’s that he doesn’t like using it.

The man’s face twists with sudden, embarrassed recollection, and Song Lan knows what’s coming next.

“Sorry to hear about your partner and...everything,” the older man says with an apologetic grimace. “He was a great guy.”

[He was,] Song Lan acknowledges, giving in to the blasted voice box. [Thanks.]

“Hey, I’m XO on the Goldlight Ren,” Ouyang nods at the huge transport vessel resting in the nearby docking bay, just visible through wide banks of windows designed, Song Lan assumes, to show off the might and power of the ships that travel here. Nothing like Fuxue, who might be ninety meters if he squints just right, can be flown by a single person, and only requires a landing pad.

“Anything you ever need, you tell me, okay? I owe you.” Without waiting for a response, Ouyang strides away, whistling a fairly dirty bar song.

Song Lan watches him go, wishing it was that easy, wishing he could reduce the war to favors performed, a series of tit-for-tat exchanges that balance to zero instead of a perpetually-red loss column.

Wishes are pointless. Only the road ahead matters.

Song Lan sees his new passenger idly poking through a bag, head dipped away, back turned, and something about his posture rings a distant alarm bell in Song Lan’s mind. He has flown the route from Sichuan Base to Caiyi Port hundreds of times in his life. It should feel exactly the same as every other trip. And yet this time, he senses trouble brewing, and he does not like it.

⋆ Day 3 ⋆

Other than the unexpected music, it’s almost like flying alone. Cao Huan seems to have a sixth sense for knowing where Song Lan will be and avoiding him. He only occasionally catches glimpses of the tall man, white robes swirling behind him as he disappears through doorways or around corners.

It suits Song Lan just fine, and he laughs to himself about his initial concern. Cao Huan is the best passenger Song Lan has ever had: paid up front, self-sufficient, and silent. Song Lan finishes his first sock less than two days out of port, a record.

The only place he consistently runs into his passenger is in the kitchen. After the third day, it occurs to Song Lan that, as strange as it seems, it must be on purpose. Song Lan gets the definite impression that Cao Huan waits for him to arrive before he eats, as though it’s some ceremony he wishes to observe.

There’s no good reason for it, but Song Lan starts to eat his meals at the narrow kitchen table too. After all, there’s no reason not to, either. He just doesn’t usually eat in the kitchen. He’s grateful to discover that conversation is not the reason Cao Huan prefers company; meals continue to be quiet, peaceful affairs.

“Captain Song?”

Cao Huan’s voice startles Song Lan into dropping the knife he’s using to stir his...whatever this goop is.

“My apologies, but...will you join me for tea tomorrow morning? It is not as enjoyable to drink tea by myself.”

Without meaning to, Song Lan looks at the cabinet that contains the “tea” and “coffee,” thinking, it’s never enjoyable to drink that swill, and Cao Huan laughs.

It’s only a laugh on the barest technicality, a soft huff of air, but it changes things so profoundly, Song Lan has trouble staying on his feet. Suddenly, Cao Huan is a person, not a passenger, not a potential problem. The word no forms in his head even as he feels himself nodding.

Cao Huan smiles and inclines his chin, pleased, and Song Lan finds himself smiling back. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not usually so soft-hearted. Xingchen was the nice one, he reminds himself, and look how that turned out. The cruelty is the only way he can snap himself out of the whispering camaraderie, a pointless train of thought, and back into his role as captain of a ship, nothing more.

[Captain, your attention is required.]

As if to punctuate the computer’s notification, an alarm sounds—unexpected, as this part of space should be smooth and easy sailing. Song Lan grimaces, shrugging apologetically.

“I’m coming,” he signs to the computer’s security camera, before running back to the bridge.

It turns out to be nothing major, only a debris field. Either a small ship had a catastrophe here or a large ship dumped trash. Neither option is particularly heartening. Bad enough if ships are carelessly leaving obstructions on a primary transit route, worse if a ship has been attacked and destroyed here where it should be safe. He knows the Joint Senate is doing its best, and Hanguang-jun, the new chairman, is by far the best leader the four sectors have had in decades, but it’s hard to protect everyone.

There’s no signs of life anywhere after three scans, and Song Lan steers them out of the mess before he resumes course and autopilot.

He doesn’t go back to the kitchen, though.

It isn’t wise, he tells himself, to think of passengers as anything but temporary. Even if they seem nice, even if they’re friendly, they always reach their destination and move on. That’s what he likes about flying transport.

Like clockwork, at 8 pm the music starts. The first night on the ship, Song Lan had thought he was going crazy, hearing the eerie twang of an instrument he didn’t think still existed outside of private art collections.

But no, his passenger had been seated in the mostly-empty cargo bay, eyes closed, playing the guqin. An actual wooden guqin. The music had echoed through the hold, wrapping its notes around Song Lan and reverberating in his chest. He had listened with a mix of disbelief and reverence to the beautiful melody flowing from the fingers of the obviously skilled musician. He listened, in fact, until Cao Huan lifted his hands off the strings and sighed, a long, plaintive sound of grief that piqued Song Lan’s curiosity more than was healthy, and he’d hurried away before Cao Huan noticed him.

The next night had been the same, the music winding into access shafts, around the bridge, even through engineering.

Which Song Lan knows, because he tried all of those places to escape it.

Tonight, though, he gives up. If he is going to be treated to an impromptu concert by a master musician every night, he may as well enjoy it. He knits on the catwalk over the cargo hold and listens, wondering if the song has words, wondering what it means to Cao Huan, wondering how long you had to practice to make the guqin sound like an ocean of sorrow.

⋆ Day 4 ⋆

Evidently, Cao Huan had not been referring to Fuxue’s stores of tea.

He had his own.

Song Lan tells himself to stop being surprised that a man who carries a guqin and can afford a private transport would have a jar of aged white tea that smells like honey and the summer sun. He sits at the table across from Cao Huan and watches him gracefully pour tea, holding back his draping sleeve with one hand.

Cao Huan notices Song Lan’s raised eyebrows.

“You must think me overly indulgent,” he says, pouring his own cup. “I am not particular about many things, but I do enjoy good tea. I am fortunate that it is something my...my family can provide.”

Oh, Song Lan thinks, his family must be tea merchants, which does explain quite a bit, and he feels a little guilty for judging the man on appearances. He wonders if it’s flash-cloned or actually soil-grown, and he peers into the cup, considering the color and shape of the leaves he can see, as though they will give him an answer.

“It is soil-grown,” Cao Huan answers Song Lan’s curious thought, and smiles when Song Lan looks startled. “It is the obvious question. Unless you were seeking your fate in the leaves?”

Song Lan snorts, and Cao Huan laughs again, again that soft exhale that feels more intimate than raucous laughter. It highlights faint lines around his eyes and softens his usually-tranquil angular features with a hint of playful teasing.

“Perhaps you do not believe in fate? Or perhaps you do not believe tea can tell the future. It is considered a noble art, Captain Song. Could so many fortune-telling market grannies be wrong?”

Song Lan laughs, a sadly rusty sound, he thinks with an internal wince, and shakes his head. The man looks pleased.

“Captain Song, may I ask a nosy question?”

Sometimes when people say things like that, they mean I am going to ask a nosy question whether you like it or not, but Cao Huan sounds sincere. Song Lan considers. With a sigh, he finds the comm.

[You may ask. I can’t guarantee that I can answer.]

The man’s mouth twitches in an almost smile. “That is fair. It is only...I noticed you signed to the camera yesterday. Do you…” he pauses, seeming to reevaluate his question, which is good, because Song Lan has frozen.

He forces himself to relax. Hand sign languages are no longer illegal, but he still can’t stop the fluttering fear from pooling in his gut.

“Does the computer understand your hand signs?” Cao Huan finishes, and Song Lan practices breathing normally.

[Yes. It’s easier to sign than find the comm sometimes, especially if I’m in a hurry,] he says through the little speaker, only a little defiantly. He won’t let this man shame him.

“Would you prefer to speak this way?” Cao Huan asks, lifting his hands and signing as he speaks.

Song Lan just stares at him.

And stares.

And stares until Cao Huan’s eyebrows raise. “If you would rather not…”

“No, I do prefer it,” Song Lan signs hurriedly, not wanting him to withdraw the offer. “It’s just...unusual to find someone who knows hand signs these days.”

The High Chancellor had been a paranoid and suspicious man, and he had outlawed the use of hand signs decades ago, fearing them to be the language of bandits and assassins. He wasn’t entirely wrong; hunters and thieves did use the signs, but so did countless others. His replacement, who preferred to be called Xiandu, wasn’t much better. All in all, almost thirty years passed before the current Joint Senate legalized them again after Xiandu’s death three years ago. In so many places around the four sectors, the sign languages that correlated to the spoken languages have been lost entirely.

Song Lan had learned the sign language after Xingchen died five years ago, after he was left for dead, after he decided he was done with the future. His teacher was a wizened old woman on an unaffiliated space station, Rogue Sky, and she was most likely one of the High Chancellor’s feared bandits. Song Lan hadn’t cared then and he didn’t care now. All he knew was that she’d refused to let him wallow in misery, no matter how much he felt he’d earned it.

Song Lan still takes her snowflake cakes whenever he’s near Qinghe space. It’s the least he can do.

Cao Huan nods in acknowledgement, still signing as he talks. Even though it’s unnecessary, Song Lan finds he likes watching, the words and motions blending together to make something wholly different.

“I have always loved languages. This one is particularly beautiful and unique.” He grins suddenly, eyes twinkling with mischief, and the expression turns his face brilliantly luminous. “Plus, it was an appealing novelty to learn something forbidden.”

Song Lan’s first reaction to the man’s captivating smile is an unwelcome surprise. Instinctively, he covers his embarrassment—which he hopes has gone unnoticed—with something he’s more familiar with.

“I did not have the luxury of enjoying the novelty,” his fingers cut angrily through the air. “I was taught illegally on an unaffiliated station by a former bandit, but it was better than never speaking again.”

Swiftly he stands and goes back to his room to berate himself. He isn’t sure which is worse, yelling at his passenger or feeling a knee-buckling surge of desire for him. He has no business doing either.

Song Lan flops on his bed and stares at the ceiling, at the sword that hangs above his head. Shuanghua, Xingchen’s pride and joy, the sword he brought with him when he joined Song Lan’s crew, the sword that couldn’t save him in the end. Couldn’t save either of them. The guilt throbs in his gut, as familiar as the vibrations of Fuxue’s heart, and he sinks into it. This is an emotion he understands.

[Captain, do you need assistance?] his computer asks, and Song Lan wants to laugh. It seems that even Fuxue thinks he’s being a moody child.

He shakes his head and signs to the camera. “What would you do if I did? I’m the captain and the crew.”

The computer is silent, the question apparently having stumped the AI.

[Zichen, do you want to talk about it?]

“No,” his hands say emphatically. He’s not an expert, but he’s pretty sure it’s not going to help to get a psych eval from a computer that’s using his dead partner’s voice.

“Captain Song?”

And now Cao Huan is on the other side of the door. Why can’t everyone just let him sulk in peace?

“Captain Song, I profoundly apologize. It was a terrible, insensitive thing I said, and I am so sorry. It is not an excuse but...I have not been around...people much lately. Evidently I am still quite bad at it. I will not disturb you…”

Song Lan yanks open the door.

“It’s nothing,” he signs slowly, calmly. “I overreacted.” Song Lan smiles ruefully. “I’m not around people much either. Thank you for the tea.”

Cao Huan blinks in surprise, and his face shifts through a series of expressions Song Lan doesn’t recognize before landing on careful neutrality.

“You’re welcome. I...I would be happy to share tea with you every day. If you wish.”

He looks like he’s considering saying something else, but he doesn’t, just nods his head once and goes. Song Lan doesn’t exactly watch him walk down the passageway, one fist resting on the small of his back, but he doesn’t not watch him either.

⋆ Day 5 ⋆

Song Lan is amused to discover that Cao Huan is insatiably curious about everything on Fuxue. It’s not hard to believe he’s been isolated for a while. He is unfailingly polite, and still mostly avoids Song Lan, but occasionally, Song Lan finds him in the oddest places: staring at the engines, examining at the computer core, meditating on the catwalk, sorting through supplies in the infirmary. Song Lan wonders if he’s bored.

He finds Cao Huan on the bridge one day, running his lithe musician’s fingers over the flight panel, murmuring something to himself. Song Lan knows as soon as Cao Huan is aware of his presence. He doesn’t startle, exactly, but he stiffens and steps back slightly. His face, when he turns to Song Lan, though, is tranquil and uncomplicated.

“My pardon, Captain,” he nods, and steps to the side as though he intends to move past Song Lan, but for once, Song Lan is curious.

“Were you talking to Fuxue?” he asks before Cao Huan looks away.

Cao Huan’s neck flushes, and he shrugs. “I have heard these Jian-class AIs have distinctive personalities, as it were. I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

Song Lan doesn’t understand what he means, but Cao Huan is still blushing, the tips of his ears turning a distracting shade of pink, and it makes him want to know.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and Cao Huan sighs.

“I was introducing myself,” he explains. “It seemed courteous.”

Song Lan can’t help his smile. He wonders if Cao Huan introduced himself to Fuxue with his real name.

“Yes, Fuxue is somewhat unique,” he agrees. “My...my partner was a gifted tech, and he gave her more autonomy than is customary since we flew alone so often.”

Cao Huan nods. “So I gathered. She tells me about him sometimes. Is her voice…” he pauses, noticing the look of surprise on Song Lan’s face. “Is that strange?”

Fuxue talks to Song Lan, and of course, she used to talk to Xingchen—one of the reasons, Song Lan suspects, that his ship is so unusual. Talking to Xingchen for extended periods of time would make anyone a bit odd. But as far as he knows, the ship has never spoken to any other passenger, much less talked to them about Xingchen. He can’t decide why Fuxue would start now, whether it’s a bug in the programming or something about Cao Huan specifically.

“Yes,” Song Lan acknowledges. “She still manages to surprise me sometimes.” He smiles up at the camera in the corner of the room and adds, “Don’t make trouble, my love.”

“I believe she likes the music,” Cao Huan says, stepping around Song Lan and moving into the passageway. “I apologize again for intruding on your bridge.” He smiles, a minute flicker, and Song Lan catches his sleeve impulsively, probably foolishly.

“You are welcome on the bridge any time,” he signs swiftly, before Cao Huan can leave. “Whether I am here or not.”

Cao Huan considers for a moment and nods, his smile a little wider, a little more genuine, and Song Lan doesn’t regret his words at all.

⋆ Day 7 ⋆

“How did you learn this?” Cao Huan asks one day, touching the toe of the sock Song Lan is knitting.

They are sitting in the two bridge seats, and Song Lan is working through a heel turn, shaping the rows to reinforce the curve. He finishes the section before he sets down the sock to answer.

“I learned when I was a boy. I grew up with scrappers, and there was a lot of downtime.”

Cao Huan is silent, rubbing the soft wool between his fingers, and Song Lan wonders why he bothered to ask.

“Would you like to learn?” Song Lan asks, and Cao Huan shakes his head slowly.

“Yes, but I am not certain I will ever...I do not know what my future holds. There may be no point in learning.”

He sounds so bleak and disappointed, dozens of questions pop in and out of Song Lan’s head, and he firmly shuts them behind a door. He isn’t going to intrude on this man’s private life.

“There is always value in learning something new,” he signs instead, and Cao Huan smiles ruefully.

“You sound like my brother,” he says, then snaps his mouth closed and hides the expressiveness of his face behind the neutral mask Song Lan is beginning to recognize, even if he’s still not certain what it means.

“Mm,” he agrees, one of the few sounds he can still make. To his surprise, Cao Huan laughs.

“Now you truly do sound like him. He is not a man of many words, but he is very eloquent with noncommittal sounds,” Cao Huan explains when Song Lan looks puzzled.

“You’re close?” Song Lan asks, and the shuttered expression returns.

Still, the man answers after a pause. “Yes, we were, but...he is gone now, living his own life. I am proud of him, but...it makes going home seem...different.”

Every word is reluctantly spoken, as though giving shape to them makes them dangerous. Song Lan vows not to ask any other questions, but Cao Huan keeps talking, and he can’t very well tell him to stop, either.

“Home used to mean people, but...they are grown or changed or…” his eyes close in obvious pain, and Song Lan wants to tell him to stop or distract him with a starboard nebula, but there’s nothing, just this palpable misery.

“Or gone,” he finishes. “Home is only a place now. It should be enough but…”

Song Lan understands this much at least.

“It’s too quiet.” He finishes Cao Huan’s sentence, and he means that home has always been Fuxue, but it no longer hums with love and laughter and Xingchen. It is the same place it was five years ago, but...it isn’t.

Abruptly, Cao Huan leans forward and squeezes Song Lan’s knee, his face softening in sympathy. It’s only a brief touch, but Song Lan’s body reacts like the brush of fingers is a line of electricity, both sharp and crushing, nothing like he expected, not that he could ever have expected this particular cataclysm. Has it been so long, he wonders, since someone touched him with kindness?

He stands, covering his sudden need to escape by hunting through one of the storage bins for a bigger set of knitting needles and a chunkier-gauge yarn. He sets them on Cao Huan’s lap.

“You may as well learn,” he signs with an easy smile. “We still have a week of travel left.”

Cao Huan laughs in disbelief when Song Lan shows him how to cast the yarn onto the needle, but he turns out to be a quick study, which Song Lan should have expected, given his dexterity with the guqin. Song Lan admits to himself that he likes the way the man’s face lights with the satisfaction of meeting a challenge, even more the way he brandishes a square of fairly smooth rows with such pride.

The quiet stretches out like a lazy cat, broken by the sound of clicking needles, and it settles serenely over Song Lan. Usually on transports, he is busy every waking moment, herding children, answering questions, sometimes even preventing bloodshed. He could get used to this uneventful kind of trip.

As if the gods have heard his thoughts, a piercing blue alarm sounds. Not an environmental emergency. Blue is an enemy attack.

Song Lan jams his needles into the yarn and tosses the whole bundle into the corner before turning to the screens, grabbing the yoke with one hand and snapping the comm headset onto his neural node with the other.

Where? he asks Fuxue through their mental link, and Xingchen’s voice relays the coordinates through the overhead speakers: 403 225 687.

He enlarges the image. Junk pirates. A mini-fleet of five. It could be worse, it could be Red Robe mercs or Goldlighters or soldiers of any major faction, but he isn’t looking forward to a run and gun. He scours the sector for a nearby...anything. There’s an asteroid field and two tiny stations, one in either direction, all so much further than is particularly helpful. He makes a decision and changes course, doubling back on the pirates and surging past them.

[Cao Huan, we have pirates,] he says via the comm. [We’re going to try to outrun them first.] He doesn’t bother explaining what the other option is.

“Give me tactical control,” Cao Huan says, calm and insistent, and even though he has no reason to think this man has ever even flown a ship before, Song Lan flips on the secondary pilot display and unlocks the manual gun controls.

[Fuxue is adapted for neural node. You’ll have to shoot manually, but it might at least scare them off,] he explains.

Cao Huan grins. “Or I might surprise you, Captain Song.”

He does, of course. Song Lan is busy avoiding the pirates’ attacks, so he can’t watch as carefully as he suspects he'd like to, but his new co-pilot seems to be racing through calculating targeting coordinates like he’s half computer. Interestingly, he isn’t aiming to destroy, only damage, and he knocks out the first two ships’ navigational cores with single, identical, virtually impossible shots.

Fuxue is easily faster than one of the ships, and Cao Huan clips its starboard wing, only dislodging the thruster, before they pull away. It’s enough to send the forty-meter ship spinning out of control in the opposite direction.

The last two though...they’re a problem. The smaller of the two has an expert pilot and gunner, and Fuxue takes several hits. One explodes against the side of the lifeboat bay, others destroy sensor arrays and scatter pieces of shielding into space. They’re going to have to do something drastic or they aren’t going to survive this.

[Rolleram?] he asks Cao Huan, not entirely sure if he’ll understand, but he nods once and waits for Song Lan to turn.

Song Lan rolls Fuxue in an arc and flies directly at the larger ship, avoiding a few shots before dodging around the ship on its right side, swooping down, using the ship as a blind. With a hard bank, he brings Fuxue up on the other side of the big pirate ship. The smaller ship is right in front of them, a perfect shot.

[Now!] he yells, but Cao Huan has already fired the phaser cannons, and without even looking, Song Lan knows he’s calculated Fuxue’s path and the pirate’s trajectory perfectly.

[Target disabled,] Fuxue confirms. [Nice shot, XO.]

Cao Huan’s mouth tips in the corner. “Thank you, Fuxue,” he says.

Song Lan shakes his head at them both. Since when did the passenger become his executive officer, and who thanks a ship’s AI?

But there’s no time to celebrate. The last ship, the largest ship, is less agile than Fuxue, but more heavily armed and is throwing everything at them in a last ditch effort. With a jarring lurch, Fuxue shudders, and Song Lan grimaces.

[Port wing…]

[Yes I know,] he snaps. He only barely has enough rudder to pivot Fuxue, pure luck more than anything. They won’t survive one more impact like that.

“Wei Drop?” Cao Huan suggests, and Song Lan snorts.

[Play dead?] No one who has ever seen the Wei Drop is fooled by it twice. But even as he derides the idea, he realizes it might work. It’s going to have to. Cao Huan is a good enough shot, and they don’t have a lot of choices left.

[Fine, but if this doesn’t work, you owe me a ship,] he says, killing Fuxue’s engine, shutting down all the systems, and letting his ship slowly start to drift oh-so-subtly in a circle.

It works. He can’t believe it works, but the pirates stop shooting, probably reluctant to break their new salvage any more than necessary, and coast toward Fuxue.

When Fuxue has made a full rotation, when Song Lan can almost see the attacking crew through the shielded fore windows, he looks at Cao Huan, who nods.

It happens so fast, the two of them working in unison to flip on all the power, stabilize Fuxue, take aim, and fire twice. At the last second, the pirate ship banks, trying to escape the shot, but they’re too close, far too close, and instead of disabling the wing or navigation, or whatever Cao Huan was aiming for, the ship explodes in a blinding blast of nuclear white light.

The last thing Song Lan thinks, the last thing he has time to think before the shockwave hits them, is Xingchen is going to be so mad about his ship.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #lan xichen #song lan #lanlan #space au #in which there is knitting and space battles #tea and music #and both of these wounded men get to heal a little #Kristina writes tiny stories #this one is medium sized

[regrettablewritings]

Can I ask for some DOMESTIC headcanons with Jaskier, please?

Ask and you shall receive~

If they get married, who proposes?: Jaskier never really saw himself as the type to settle down, having spent plenty of his life living freely and unbound to any woman (or man). He was perfectly content with the idea of roaming the land for the rest of his days: Loving, laying, and leaving as warranted, and with as many lovers as he could bear. Until he realized that he wasn’t content with that. And he would never be content with that kind of lifestyle — or at all, really — if it didn’t include you in it in come way. Preferably as his and his alone. Though the bard would be tempted to ask for your hand in some extravagant and showy way, reality ensues in several different ways: For one, the two of you are often traveling. This makes the act of doing anything showy a bit difficult, never mind a proposal. For another, the most showy places where he could possibly cause a big splash tend to be banquets he gets invited to as entertainment. Specifically, banquets in celebration of some higher-ranking nobility, usually their engagements or birth announcements of some kind. Needless to say, very taboo to suddenly take the attention off them. And thirdly, as much as he wants the whole continent to learn of his love for you, Jaskier knows you’d hate that sort of thing. He may be a peacock, demanding attention, but you’re not: You like to keep things simple and flowing naturally. It’s easy for many to forget it, but Jaskier isn’t as selfish or oblivious to the needs of others as he tends to come off as. He would never dream of doing anything that might humiliate you regardless of it having anything to do with whether or not you wanted to marry him. It isn’t the majestic or lavish proposal he would’ve ever wanted to give anyone, much less you, but he makes do with the opportunity he’s offered: In a field in the countryside, his legs and feet aching after walking for hours, with the closest witnesses being a giddy child trying to keep her silence at a distance, and her only somewhat amused paternal figure who’s mostly just surprised you even said yes.

What’s the wedding like? Who attends?: In spite of his noble lineage, the guest list for a notoriously horny viscount-turned-bard is rather small, with an equally minor affair. There is no grand cathedral or high quality fabrics or even a feast worthy of the nobility. And as disappointed as he is that he cannot provide you a lavish affair as you so deserve, he is at least able to find relief that there is at least still a you. What there is is a small, quaint little chapel, the dress you already had with the additional accessory of a flower crown Ciri made you, and a guest list that initially was only meant to include Geralt but at some point also included Yennefer, much to Jaskier’s absolute dread. As stated before, there isn’t a feast, and Jaskier could think of a far better post-wedding meal than whatever fare even the nicest pub in town would provide. A tiny part of him regrets the actions that caused him to leave his title behind because it’s robbed you of experiencing the fineries he knows you are owed. But then again, if he hadn’t become a bard, then he wouldn’t have met you. And if he hadn’t met you, he wouldn’t be here, sitting in a loud, messy tavern, with you holding his hand beside him as you sheepishly giggle at the barmaid dispense upon you “her wisdom” from years of marriage. It’s not ideal, in the most superficial or materialistic sense, no. But in the end, he’s satisfied: There couldn’t be a more memorable way for the two of you to start your lives together, not even if he were still a high-standing viscount.

How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?: I can’t see Jaskier being especially eager to have children. Though, given his track record, he probably already has a few kids scurrying around. It’s unlikely that the overeager lover would have remembered to utilize whatever counted as a contraceptive for the period, though, so there are still chances you’ll wind up pregnant. In which case, you have a boy: Charming and artful like his father, but grounded enough like you to not get his head caught in the clouds enough to fall off a cliff. Aside from his good looks and cheery disposition, his skills in music and field studies make him a golden child in the eyes of many, causing Geralt and Yennefer to wonder how anyone so smart and likable could possibly be of Jaskier’s blood.

Do they have any pets?: Jaskier doesn’t really care to have a pet but if you ask or even bring home a smallish pet or two like a cat or a lap dog, he won’t be against it.

Who’s the stricter parent?: You are, to the shock of absolutely nobody. Though, you wouldn’t call it being strict: You prefer to call it “setting boundaries to assure your kid survives into adulthood”, which Jaskier finds pretty rich considering the two of you spent a good few years boundless as, well, technical vagabonds. He’s more the sort to encourage your child’s indulgences and also more likely to get the both of them into some minor form of trouble. Or, at the very least, sneak him sweets before dinner or bedtime.

Who kills the bugs in the house?: It starts off with you: In spite of all that time living on the road and occasionally spending the night at less than favorable or sanitary inns, Jaskier never became accustomed to the presence of insects. “Besides,” he tries to reason, “you were always the one penning things about bugs.” “Yes,” you agreed. “Drawing. That’s not the same!” And if the fool had even read your field guides more thoroughly, he might’ve noticed that the amount of bugs you took note of paled in comparison to your notes on birds and even fantastical creatures. Mainly because you despised looking at and being near bugs. They frightened you! His guess is maybe you would try to capture them and release them outdoors -- but that’s only true to a point. You can do that with a lady bug, certainly. Maybe even, on occasion, a cricket. But once the bug hits a certain size and can fly? The household is filled with the sounds of you two screaming and yelling at one another, with Jaskier being about as helpful as a twig for a paddle. Sure, he talks a big game about being there for “morale support”. But the reality is that he’s hiding behind a wall that happens to be behind your quivering form as you attempt to approach the nightmare insect that had crawled into your home. In the end, sad as it is to say, the one who kills the bugs is actually Geralt whenever he happens to be in the area. Because as dominant in the relationship as you are, it’s still a relationship with Jaskier: That means that not only are you only dominant by so much, but also that Geralt is the one wearing the trousers in a relationship he’s not even involved in.

How do they celebrate holidays?: It doesn’t matter if the home you’ve settled down in is as large as an estate fit for a viscount, or as small as a little cottage by the seaside: Jaskier will try to make your home a central partying point for local events and holidays. He’ll spare no expense trying to piece together a grand meal (or at least the materials that might make one) or finding whatever materials may be necessary for a god’s feast day. But what he mostly looks forward to is the performing: No matter what the holiday or feast day is in celebration of, Jaskier will find a way to wedge a song or two in. And no matter how awful the lyrics may actually be, all attendees will listen to it if they want to keep eating.

Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?: Jaskier. The man loves the feeling of you and always has a hand on you during the day. This doesn’t change just because he’s asleep: No matter what position the two of you fall asleep in, you will inevitably wake up with him cuddled up next to you, arms wrapped about you as though you were anchoring him to this world. You’re not exactly an early riser yourself, but when you do finally give in and recognize you need to get up at some point, your poor husband whines and you can feel his hold on you tighten. Not nearly enough to hurt, of course, but enough for you to recognize that he really and truly doesn’t want you to go. And you can try and argue that he can get up now all you want, it’s not going to change the fact that you yourself are quite warm in this position . . . Or that the way he stares at you with those blue puppy eyes is unfortunately quite endearing . . . . . . Ah, Hell. What’s a few more minutes? You can practically feel him smirking as you climb back into bed and resume your cuddling position. Normally you’d be annoyed by this brand of satisfaction, given that Jaskier can be a bit of a brat. But when it comes to moments like this, you don’t mind too terribly. It’s technically a win-win situation anyway.

Who’s the better cook?: You are. Given his previous life as a viscount, Jaskier has experience with finer qualities of food -- well, eating it, that is. He never had to actually learn how to prep food or fend for himself until he took to the road as a bard. And it’s arguable if he ever even properly learned to even after the fact. For the most part, he’d gotten by on the kindness of strangers, or by whatever he could scrounge up at whatever pub he managed to step a foot in. Or at the household of whoever’s mother he managed to bed. You, on the other hand, have more experience learning to cook for yourself, even if it’s by using the bare minimum. But settling down in an actual brick-and-mortar home means better chances of acquiring spices and seasonings! Really, though, Jaskier just loves that it was made with love. Because that’s the best ingredient of them all!

Thank you for your patience!

#jaskier x reader #jaskier imagines #jaskier imagine #the witcher imagine #the witcher imagines #regrettablewritings #character ship meme #character ship headcanons #y’all im dying: on the app the gif keeps getting censored #b/c it’s considered ‘sensitive content’ #staff be like: This pro*na blog gets a pass but lord almighty a flamboyant twink?! clutch the pearls!!

[seeroftodayandtomorrow]

A Musical Affair

Chapter 10

Read on AO3

It was a good thing he had asked Lady St. James for her help, Blaine decided, despite the awkwardness on his side that had persisted for a good while of their otherwise enjoyable and productive meeting. She had been moved into society so recently that she remembered all the rules, and was free-spirited enough to be willing to bend them on occasion.

"I am a married woman," she said, "that means I am an acceptable chaperone for any unmarried young lady we will want to attend. It will be respectable enough at least for anyone you might want to invite."

After a minute or so, Blaine just left the whole thing to her, merely nodding and offering the occasional remark, silently impressed by how quickly she was grasping the essence of his plan, even if he didn't have the courage to name it.

"Your—former—estate is quite close to the town Mr. and Mrs. Evans moved to. We will invite them. It will be nice to see them again."

Blaine nodded gladly. He remembered he had gotten along quite well with Mr. Evans.

"Now," Rachel continued, looking up from the notes she had made. "You will want to invite Kurt."

Blaine nodded sheepishly. Inviting Kurt—possibly spending time with Kurt, in an environment where he would feel safe—was his main objective for the house party, in addition to helping Sebastian. Not that he'd admit that.

"You will have to give him a reason to be there, except for you," Rachel said bluntly.

Blaine was hurt by that, but he knew she was right. Kurt would never leave the city, possibly missing any paid performances, just to spend time with him.

"We could make it a musical party," he suggested hesitantly. "Sebastian enjoys music as well. We could find a way for Kurt to earn some money, some way he would accept.  Maybe....we could teach Sebastian how to dance. Can Kurt...can he play the piano?"

"Not as well as you," she answered. "But if you are the dance teacher, you can't very well provide the music as well. It might suffice. We could also rehearse for a little concert we could give at the end of the week, for the local gentry and the tenants. It would serve to make the new Earl of Dalton known to them."

"We could pay him to sing," Blaine said, excited. "Well. Sebastian could." And Sebastian would. Kurt's fee would be a mere trifle to him, and Blaine knew he had more or less free hand when it meant he could accompany Sebastian to Dalton.

In the end, they wrote invitations to the most consistent of Lady St. James's guests, who they also thought could serve some purpose at Dalton.  Those were, in addition to Mr. and Mrs. Evans, whom they invited just for the pleasure of their company, Miss Pierce, who was a very good dancer, and her house guest and constant companion Miss Lopez. The two were inseparable, and Miss Lopez had a sharp tongue that fit Sebastian's. They might match or clash horribly, there was no way to tell—but Blaine decided it would do Sebastian some good to meet someone who gave as good as she got.

That, they decided, would have to suffice, as Miss Cohen-Chang's protective parents would never let her go to the country on her own, and Mr Puckerman's presence would disturb their dynamic too much.

That left Kurt. Blaine didn't quite know how to invite him, since they would make it a business thing, but Lady St. James wrote a short note, to be copied by Sebastian or his secretary, requesting Mr. Hummel's services as pianist and singer for a small house party and concert, for the fee of twenty pounds. Another invitation to Blaine himself, to show to his grandmother, and they were done for the day.

He had to count it as success, Blaine decided, that Kurt had deigned to accept sharing a carriage with him. Kurt had agreed to come to Dalton, though he had quickly deduced that the whole thing had been Blaine and Rachel's idea.  He had not been too happy about that, but Blaine thought (well, hoped, really), that it had nothing to do with Kurt not wanting to see him, but rather the fact that Kurt had Principles, with capital P, that would usually not allow him to mix business with pleasure.

Blaine's grandmother, as predicted, had been torn between not wanting Blaine to go with such disreputable company, to the estate that should have been his, and realizing that the disreputable company was too rich and important to slight. Blaine's mother had barely managed to conceal her delight with Blaine's luck in making such friends, and also her own good fortune in visiting several balls and parties on her own.

The only flaw in his current situation, Blaine thought guiltily, was that Lady St. James was to travel with them in the carriage, at least until it was time to change to the post. It was just it was so cozy in the carriage, with the curtains drawn closed, Kurt sitting across him on the bench, his long legs occasionally brushing his own. He longed to change his seat to beside Kurt, under some pretext or none, and pull him into his arms. If it wasn't for Lady St. James, they would have complete privacy for two hours at least, and after their too-long separation, that was something Blaine wished for very much.

They talked little as the carriage made its way through town to the St. James's house, and suddenly Blaine was afraid.

They had never talked about...about what they were. He had no idea what Kurt felt for him, if anything. He had no idea what Kurt wanted from him, if—his thoughts were interrupted when Kurt's long legs tangled with his. At the same moment, he realized they had passed Rachel's townhouse without stopping.

"What-" he said as he looked to Kurt and saw his grin that could be called nothing less than mischievous.

"I thought it would be nice to have some time alone," Kurt said. "So I arranged for Rachel to have urgent things to talk about with Miss Lopez and Miss Pierce."

Blaine couldn't help it then—he stumbled over to Kurt's side just as the carriage hit a hole in the road, so he landed almost in Kurt's lap. He took just the time to arrange himself a little more comfortable, and then finally, finally kissed Kurt with all the pent-up longing of the last few weeks.

He had no idea how much time had passed or where they were on their journey when they finally stopped kissing. At some point, he had loosened Kurt's cravat in order to have better access to his neck, and Kurt had pushed his hands under Blaine's shirt to clutch at the naked skin of his back, so his shirt was pulled partway out of his breeches.

Kurt pulled away from him. "No more of that," he said. "I'd like to get myself back together before we stop for lunch and to change to the post. It must be time for that soon."

Blaine nodded reluctantly and tried to dress as best he could in the close confinements of the carriage. His shirt was crumpled, he found, but fortunately, nobody expected of travelers to look impeccable, and Sebastian was sure to loan him a valet. He snuck a glance at Kurt and was surprised to see him smiling at him.

"You now," Kurt said, "I cannot approve of your scheming to get me to come to Dalton with you....but I'm glad you did."

"In my defense, you are really there to do a job. We all are, more or less. But—I won't deny a big part of the idea was to get to be with you, where we'll be safe."

"Safe? It will be such a small group, much harder to hide -"

"Sebastian—Lord Dalton—he's like us. In that regard. He's very open about it. I had to teach him about caution."

"You taught someone about caution."

"Well, it's not like I dragged to somewhere into an alley. I can be cautious. Anyway, he—he won't mind. And he won't tell. Well, and Lady St. James knows anyway, so that only leaves the others, and the servants. But if, for example, our rooms where adjacent which I'm sure I could arrange..."

"You are even more deviant than I expected." It sounded like a rebuke, but Kurt was smiling.  "So if, say, you were to visit me in my room for a nightcap, and then happened to...stay a little longer than planned...."

"As long as I took care to be back in my own bed before sunrise, nobody would be the wiser."

They looked at each other and smiled, but in a few moments, Blaine was serious again. "We can have this, Kurt. Will you let us have it?"

Before Kurt could answer, the carriage came to a halt, and a look out of the little window proved it was time to them to break for lunch, and afterwards change to the post.

Lunch was simple fare, and there was no opportunity to continue talking, because shortly after them, the ladies arrived and sat with them. Afterwards, in the post, all of them squeezed together in the carriage to avoid having to sit with strangers. They did have a good time, but for Blaine at least, the unique pleasure this journey had brought was over for now. Still, he did have a smile fixed on his face that came from the knowledge that Kurt wanted to be with him.

When they finally arrived at Dalton, they were as tired and malcontent as any traveler, but their short ride to the house in a carriage sent by Sebastian that was much better sprung than the post, and the prospect of a good dinner soon made them smile again. Although, if Blaine was honest, he was especially looking forward to that point some time after dinner, when everyone would retire. That point might not come until late—even in the country, Sebastian would probably not keep country hours—but however late it would be, and even if they were too tired for anything else, he would sleep in Kurt's arms tonight.

It was strange, standing in front of the house he had loved so much as a child, with the knowledge it was not his anymore and would never be his again. For a moment, he had the distinct feeling he should be the one welcoming his guests – but then he looked at the guests and again, relished the freedom he would never have as an earl. A short moment of awkwardness arose when the butler opened the door and it was his own butler. He remembered Sebastian saying he had not replaced any of the staff—but somehow, he had not thought so far as to realize that would mean he knew them all.

"Figgins," he said, still startled, and the butler allowed himself a rare smile.

"Master Blaine. Mr. Anderson, I mean. Please come in. His lordship awaits you."

Sebastian, when he arrived a moment later, was at his most correct, Blaine felt. His smile was more stiff than welcoming, his posture so upright it seemed unnatural, his speech stilted. Blaine hoped dearly that that would change, or else his first house party would go down in history as the most dull affair ever given.

Fortunately, there was Miss Pierce. In her unique way, she asked Sebastian a lot of questions that were intrusive, but asked too innocently to be considered offensive. Sebastian was bemused at first, but by the time they were called to dinner, he had given up any attempt at formality. When, over dessert, he and Miss Lopez began insulting each other with enthusiasm, Blaine felt one of the things he'd have to teach Sebastian was to find a middle ground.

First, though, there was another thing he had to talk about. As soon as the ladies retreated after dinner and Kurt went to the restroom, he approached Sebastian to ask him for adjacent rooms for himself and Kurt. Sebastian, however, started talking first. "Well, what delightful people you have brought me, brother. Especially that Mr. Hummel. He is very attractive, if a bit taciturn. But to be honest, it's not conversation I want from him."

#fic: a musical affair #klaine fanfiction

[kirachama]

fake it til you make it (zen x female reader)

a commission for @princess-annna

notes: i love fake dating AUs. LOL. this probably my first time extensively writing zen too. >__< he’s referred to by his real name here for setting reasons. also please note that even tho i tend to try to keep reader characters gender neutral, i the character is female here. :o 

anyway, please enjoy! 

You’ve never lied to your mother before.

Okay, maybe a few times, but it was just little stuff. Like, did you clean your room? Yes. Did you do your homework? Of course. Did you eat the last slice of cake? Most certainly not. The little white lies you’ve told her over the years weren’t so bad and resulted with little consequence. Maybe that’s why you thought things would be fine when you told her that you’d finally found a boyfriend.

You hadn’t meant to lie, really, you hadn’t, it just kind of came out. For months, she’d called you every week to see how you were faring on your own and somehow, it’d turn into a discussion of your love life. According to her, you’re at the age where it only seems natural to be seeing someone, and while the idea has crossed your mind, your priorities are elsewhere. Your mother, on the other hand, seems rather obsessed with your love life, with each weekly conversation ending in you fending off her constant questions about whether or not you’re seeing someone. When she finally suggested that you go on a blind date with the son of one of her friends, something inside you just snapped and the lie just tumbled right out of your mouth.

“Actually, Mom, I’m seeing someone now.”

You thought, with that one sentence, she’d finally just drop the subject and leave you alone.

But she didn’t.

“Oh! I’d love to meet him! Why don’t you both come over for dinner next week?”

You managed to wiggle out of that one by telling her that both you and your nonexistent boyfriend were busy. But it was only a temporary solution.

If it could even be called that.

You’d traded questions of ‘why aren’t you seeing anyone’ for ‘when am I going to meet him?’ And with each passing week, it felt like she was getting more and more desperate to meet this person who, unbeknownst to her, didn’t exist. You could have just come clean, or at least told her that things didn’t work out between you and your imaginary boyfriend, but you couldn’t bare the thought of disappointing her. Even though she’s being annoyingly persistent, you can’t just ignore her excitement.

With that, the obvious answer is to just find someone to play the part for your mother.

There’s no doubt you’ll have to probably come clean eventually, but you’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now, you have to focus on finding someone to play your fake boyfriend.

You can’t just bring home anyone, though. Asking someone you grew up with is out of the question. You have a couple male friends from college that you could ask, but honestly, you’d rather not. You can’t even imagine fake dating most of them. That just leaves your coworkers at the theater. Some of them are nice enough, but if you’re going to ask one of them, there’s only one real choice.

Hyun Ryu.

Okay. Maybe there are other options, but none exude the ‘perfect boyfriend’ aura that Hyun gives off. He’s kind, he’s outgoing and not to mention good looking. Heck, if you could, you’d date him for real. That is if you had the courage. Okay, maybe asking him to be your fake boyfriend takes just as much courage, but it’s not for real so if he says no it doesn’t hurt as much.

Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

When the time comes to ask, anxiety bubbles up inside of you, nearly ready to burst by the time rehearsal ends and Hyun comes over to you with an easy smile on his face.

“You… said you wanted to talk to me?” he asks.

“Yeah, uh…” you trail off and start fidgeting. This is way more nerve-wracking than it needs to be. “Will… will you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

Hyun stares blankly at you for a moment before he responds, “...Pretend?”

You nod and then explain in a frenzied voice, “See… I kind of told my mother that I was dating someone so she’d stop trying to play matchmaker for me and she asked to meet them but… I’m… kind of single at the moment.” You throw your hands together in front of you and bow your head. “Please! If you do it, I’ll buy you dinner for a week!”

He doesn’t answer and slowly you raise your head, hoping to gauge what he might say to you from his facial expression. He looks a bit skeptical and so you bow your head again. You’re not above begging if you have to.

“Please!” you exclaim. “There’s no one else I can ask!”

Hyun hums thoughtfully as he considers your offer.

“Dinner for a month!”

You look back up at him with hopeful eyes. Hyun holds your gaze for a moment, before he starts to chuckle. “Okay, I'll help you.”

Your jaw drops. “R-really?”

Hyun shoots you a dazzling grin that makes your heart race, “Of course! How much of a jerk would I be if I didn't help out someone in need?”

You stare at him for a moment before bowing your head deeply, “Thank you so much, Hyun! I-If you want I can treat you to dinner tonight!”

His smile widens. “Sounds good to me. I have to get to know my new ‘girlfriend,’ don't I?”

You can’t help but blush a little at his response.

Even though you know that it doesn’t mean anything.

-

“Are you ready?” you ask Hyun as you stare at the door of your parent’s house.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he responds. His voice is relaxed which serves to calm you down a little. The two of you have spent the past few weeks getting to know each other: hanging out occasionally and even going on little ‘dates.’ You’ve seen him so much that you could practically call him your boyfriend.

Even though he’s actually not.

You take a deep breath and raise a hand to knock on the door. After what feels like seconds later it flies open with your mother on the other side, a wide grin spread across her face. No doubt she’s been waiting eagerly by the door, expecting your arrival. With how excited she’s been to meet your ‘boyfriend’ you’re actually surprised that she wasn’t camping outside waiting for the two of you.

“Hello!” Hyun greets her with that movie star smile you know all too well. “It’s nice to finally meet you!”

Your mother’s eyes widen in astonishment. A tiny smile plays at your lips as she introduces herself, making no effort to hide the fact that she’s absolutely star-struck by Hyun. It’s only natural, you suppose, he’s probably the most charming man you know.

She ushers the both of you into the dining room where a lavish dinner awaits you. Wide-eyed, you stare at the the table. Normally, when you come home to visit, she makes a lot so that you can take some home to eat, but this… this is way more than the norm.

You mother must realize your surprise because she explains, “I might have gotten a little carried away…”

“M-maybe just a little…” Your eyes travel over the various dishes on the table. You recognize some of your favorites along with some things your mother is particularly proud of making. “Is Dad here?”

“No… unfortunately, he’s on a business trip.”

“Oh…”

“It’s alright, dear!” your mother proclaims. “I know it’s a lot but you can just take home the leftovers! You too, Hyun! I heard you like to eat healthy, so I made sure to make some nutritious things as well!”

“That’s very kind of you!” Hyun grins at her again as he pulls out a chair and ushers you to sit. Even though the two of you aren’t actually dating, Hyun has been insistent on treating you like his actual girlfriend: holding the door for you, paying for meals, pulling out a chair for you. Hell, he was a better boyfriend to you than any of your previous boyfriends ever were. Sometimes you really do forget that you’re not actually dating.

Once everyone is settled in their seats, your mother begins her interrogation, asking question after question about Hyun. Some things, like how some of his close friends call him ‘Zen,’ are things you already know from your time getting to know him, and others, like his cat allergy, are new to you.

“So,” your mother starts, obviously segueing into a new topic, “what is it that you like about my daughter?”

You gulp. The two of you had discussed this topic: Hyun had asked what he should say should your mother ask, but at the time your mind had gone blank, so you just told him to answer honestly. Surely there had to be something he liked about you, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have agreed to help you out in the first place.

“She’s kind, friendly, and hardworking,” Hyun answers, listing of some generic positive traits. “Even though she works mostly backstage, she’s always willing to stand in and help any of the actors out.” He turns to you and gives you a smile. “You even memorize some of the scripts, don’t you?”

Your face flushes a little as you nod. You didn’t think he noticed. Even though you’re just a stagehand, you figured that it’d be best to look at the scripts too since you never know when someone will get sick or have an emergency.

Pleased with Hyun’s answer, your mom nods with a smile. “Do you think I’ll ever get to see my child play the leading role?”

“Mom!” you exclaim. Sure, you’ve played with the thought of auditioning for a few roles, but only minor ones. You don’t think you’re ready to tackle any big ones yet. She shoots you a quick glance before eyeing Hyun expectantly.

He laughs easily and answers, “I think so! She definitely has the potential!”

Then he winks at you. Feeling your face heat up, you turn away. You spot the old antique clock your mom has in the dining room and notice that it’s nearly ten at night. It still isn’t too late, but you and Hyun did travel a couple hours by train to get here. If you want to make sure you both get back home in a timely manner it’d be best to leave soon.

You wait for a lull in your mother and Hyun’s conversation before you clear your throat, “Mom, thank you so much for dinner, but it’s getting kind of late…”

She blinks at you before looking over at the clock. “Oh my, I didn’t realize…”

“Yeah… we should get going soon.”

“But I haven’t even served you both dessert yet.”

“Dessert?”

She nods and smiles at you, “Yes, since you were coming to visit, I bought a cake from your favorite bakery.”

You wince. You’ve always loved cake from that place and it’s probably the number one thing you miss about home. Maybe you could stand to stay just a bit longer, but… You turn toward Hyun for some guidance and he gives you a reassuring grin. Meaning it’s okay to stay for cake. “...okay, I guess we can stay a little longer.”

Your mother beams at you and rushes into the kitchen. A moment later she emerges, cake in hand. You nearly choke at the sight of it. Your mom really went all out for Hyun’s visit because what sits in her hands right now is one of that bakery’s most famous and expensive cakes. You have to call about a week in advance to be able to get a whole one. It makes you feel kind of bad that this is all just a ruse.

“Wow, that looks amazing!” Hyun marvels at the cake.

“Doesn’t it?” your mother agrees, sounding somewhat proudly. “Would you like a big slice or a little slice, Hyun?”

“Just a small slice for me.”

Then your mother turns to you.

“A… small slice too.”

She eyes you skeptically. It’s definitely unlike you to ask for a small piece of cake, and if it weren’t for the guilt eating away at you, you’d definitely take a larger one. Your mother cuts the cake and hands both you and Hyun a slice. You can tell that yours is definitely bigger, but you remain silent, glad that your mother knows you so well. She cuts a piece for herself and sits back down.

You slowly take a bite of cake. It’s sweet but not too sweet. The layer of whipped icing in the middle has bits of fruit interwoven into it, giving the cake a little bit of a bite. You sigh softly as you go for another bite. The cake is absolutely delicious, and yet, there’s a part of you that’s having a hard time enjoying it completely.

Before you know it, Hyun is calling your name, bringing you back into whatever conversation he and your mother were having. You look at the clock again and find that somehow, yet another hour has passed. It’s still not too late to catch a train back, but it’ll be pretty late by the time you get home.

“Oh my gosh, Mom, we didn’t mean to stay this late...” you start to apologize. Not only will you get home late, but at this point it might have been a bit of an inconvenience to your mother. She tends to get to bed rather early, so she’s probably very tired now.

“It’s alright,” she assures you with a smile. “I don’t know where the time went! Hyun is so easy to talk to! No wonder you like him so much!”

She’s right but that’s not the point right now. “Mom, we gotta go, we gotta catch the train so we can-”

“Train?” Your mother’s eyes widen and your stomach drops. That cannot be a good sign. “The trains stop running at 11.”

“I… thought the trains ran until at least midnight.”

“Maybe in the city, but they stop running at 11 out here.”

“Really?” They must have changed it recently because you swear you remember them working up until midnight when you were younger.

“Really.” She pauses before adding, “You both can stay here for the night since you won’t be able to take the train home.”

Your shoulders slump. Luckily, both you and Hyun are off tomorrow, but you’d really been hoping to get home as quickly as possible. You look at the clock again and sure enough it still reads 11PM. If you’d known you would have opted to take the cake home.

“Thank you for the offer but I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Hyun says, holding his hands up. “I can stay at a hotel for the night or something.”

Your mother shakes her head. “Absolutely not. What kind of mother would I be if I let my precious daughter’s boyfriend spend the night at a hotel if I have room for him here?”

“We didn’t bring a change of clothes!” you say, trying to help build some kind of argument.

“You have some here still and Hyun can borrow some of your father’s clothes.” She stands up and starts to head toward the hallway. “I’ll go get things ready for you, would you mind cleaning up the table, dear?”

You open your mouth to try and protest some more but your mother merely turns and heads into the hallway before you can even get a word in. You glance over at Hyun and he smiles at you, albeit a tad nervously. The both of you do as your mother requested and clear of the table. You pack up all the leftover food and since you’ve got no choice to stay now, you also swipe an extra slice of cake.

Just as you’re polishing that extra piece off, your mother returns with a small bundle of clothes in her arms. She hands them to Hyun and says, “Feel free to change in the bathroom. It’s the first room to the left down the hall.”

“Okay, thank you, ma’am.” Hyun takes the clothes from her and heads to the bathroom.

Then your mom turns to you and gives you an approving look. “He’s a nice boy.”

Suddenly you feel a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod in agreement.

“I think your dad would like him too.”

You nod again.

“I’m glad you were able to find him. I was starting to get worried that you’d never find someone.”

You’re not quite sure what to say. ‘Finding someone’ wasn’t really a concern of yours. Sure, it would be nice to have a boyfriend, but it’s not a necessity like your mom seems to think. You were just fine focusing on your work for the time being.

Hyun emerges from the hallway before you can say anything and gives you both a smile. “How do I look?”

It’s kind of strange seeing him in your dad’s old pajamas, but somehow he actually looks kind of good in them. Now that you think about it, you’ve noticed Hyun looks good in practically everything he wears.

“You look like you’re ready for bed!” your mom chirps happily. “Now let me show you to your room.”

She heads down the hallway, and you follow after, figuring you might as well get ready for bed too. There’s another room that used to belong to your younger sister, but she’s away at college for the time being so it’s empty and you figure Hyun will be sleeping there.

Until your mother stops at your door.

“Here we are!”

“Mom, this is my room,” you deadpan at her.

“And?”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit strange for us to be sharing a room?” Hyun says, sounding a little nervous himself.

“You both have been dating a bit, haven’t you? Young couples such as yourself surely sleep together all the time, right?”

This is not the time for your mother to be adjusting to a more modern train of thought. If your father were here, he wouldn’t be having any of this either. He might have even made sure the both of you didn’t miss the train.

“What about my sister’s room?” you ask.

“The bed’s been put away and we’ve been using it as storage….”

“Ma’am, I’m fine with sleeping on the couch…” Hyun suggests.

“Absolutely not,” your mother nearly snaps at him. “No guest of mine will be sleeping on the couch.”

The look on her face makes it clear that nothing either of you say will be able to sway her. Realizing that you both have given in she opens the door and motions for you both to go in. Once you do, she gives you an odd smile that sends chills down your spine. “Have a good night you two!”

She leaves you with the hope that she was not implying that you guys might do something more than just sleep on the same bed. Even if he were your real boyfriend you wouldn’t do that. Not in your parent’s house!

Probably, anyway.

You turn toward Hyun and give him an awkward grin. “Ahaha… S..sorry about that.”

“I could probably go sleep on the couch once she falls asleep?” he offers, but you shake your head.

“She wakes up insanely early, if she sees you on the couch she’s gonna raise hell.”

“Oh…” He pauses. “I can sleep on the floor then.”

“No, I’ll sleep on the floor, you’re doing me a favor by doing this after all.”

“I can’t let a lady sleep on the floor,” Hyun says firmly.

“So you’re okay with actually sharing a bed?”

He opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes out. You think you’ve got him there. Hyun stares at you thoughtfully, as if he’s trying to still think of something when you hear a soft buzzing from his pocket. He reaches in and pulls out his phone. For a moment he stares at it and then looks back at you. “Excuse me a second.”

Then he ducks out of the room. It didn’t sound like a phone call, but a message instead. It would have been fine to respond in the room…. Unless maybe it was another girl? Or someone like that? You know he isn’t actually dating anyone. Besides who else but another girl would message him this late? The thought of it makes you feel a little uncomfortable, but you try to shake the feeling off. There’s no need to feel like this. Now when you’re only a fake girlfriend.

You make use of the time that Hyun is attending to his phone outside to change into the cutest pajamas you can find. A few minutes later Hyun returns, his expression a mixture of tired and annoyed. He sighs and sits down at the edge of the bed.

“What’s up?” you ask, though part of you is unsure if you want to hear the answer. Especially if it’s about a girl.

“My friends,” he groans. “They were hounding me about our date tonight.”

Oh. His friends. A sense of relief washes over you knowing that it wasn’t a girl. “Would you really call it a date?”

“I guess not, I was talking with your mom more than you.”

“I hope her interrogation wasn’t too rough.”

“Nope, I came well prepared,” he laughs. “It was interesting to find out what you were like as a kid.”

“I’m not sure if it’s fair though,” you grumble, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him. He catches it and holds onto it. “I don’t know anything about your childhood.”

“A man has to keep an air of mystery to keep a lady intrigued, you know,” he responds.

“Oh yes, there’s nothing anyone loves more than a mysterious man,” you retort sarcastically, trying not to laugh.

Hyun winks at you before he rises from the bed and moves over to the floor.

“You’re really serious about sleeping on the floor?” you ask.

“Yep.”

“What if I just sleep on the floor on the other side of the bed?”

“I’ll just carry you back into the bed.”

“What, like a princess.”

“Yep, I make a pretty good prince, you know.”

You cock an eyebrow at him, though you know he’s right. Recently there was a production at the theatre where he played a prince and, as expected, he received rave reviews for the performance. Your gaze slides down to his arms. It’s no secret that Hyun is pretty ripped. He almost goes out of his way to show off his muscles at work. “Fine. Have it your way, ”

Begrudgingly, you stand up and reach into your closet grabbing a few spare pillows and blankets for Hyun to sleep with. Then you head over to where he is and help build him a makeshift bed before hopping back onto your bed. You nestle beneath the covers and tell him, “Feel free to tell me if you want to switch.”

“I won’t, but okay.”

You grumble about his chivalry being problematic at times like this. Honestly, though, it is one of his charming points. Not a lot of guys act like that any more. In fact, there really aren’t a lot of guys that are great boyfriend material like Hyun. You’ve always known that, but after tonight and the past few weeks of boyfriend practice and preparation have really solidified that fact. He really deserves every award and more for this.

“Hey, Hyun?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry you had to do this.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t mind. It was actually kind of fun.”

Part of you doesn’t like the sound of that answer. He must mean that it was fun because it was just like picking up another role. It was just a part to play. “But…”

“But what?”

“But…” you hesitate. “I feel bad.”

“For deceiving your mom?”

“...yeah.” Your mom went all out, making a crazy nice dinner and even getting a really fancy dessert for this. You didn’t think she’d put that much effort into just meeting your boyfriend. “And I feel bad that you had to act being a boyfriend. You’re a great guy Hyun, you deserve to be a real boyfriend not a fake one.”

Hyun is quiet for a minute before he says in a joking voice. “Are you saying you want me to be your real boyfriend?”

You shoot up, your face turning red. Sure you’ve thought about the possibility, but that is absolutely definitely not what you were trying to say. “What? No!”

Hyun ignores you and continues on, “Because if you were, I wouldn’t mind.”

“What?” you whirl toward him and he’s sitting up and looking at you with a smile on his face. “What did you just say?”

“I said I’d like to be your actual boyfriend.”

You gape at Hyun, having difficulty processing what he’s just said. Real boyfriend? Why? Logically, you don’t see why not, you’ve gotten to know each other and you enjoyed your time together with him and if he’s asking he must have enjoyed spending time with you even though it was just getting ready for pretending to be your boyfriend. “A-are you serious?”

He nods and moves closer to you with a smile. Hyun takes one of your hands and gazes into your eyes as he asks, “Of course I am.” Hyun’s hands tightens around yours and your heart nearly skips a beat. He adds, in a soft voice, “So what do you say?”

Your fingers squeeze around his, “I guess it looks like you’ve been promoted from fake boyfriend to real boyfriend.”

Hyun grins. “So you know what what means?”

“What?”

“I can do this…” He stands up and leans toward you, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“...I think you missed.”

He laughs, “Just let me try again then…”

Hyun shifts down and captures your lips in a sweet and earnest kiss.

#mystic messenger fanfic #mysme zen #hyun ryu #zen x reader #mystic messenger #niku fic #i'm sorry about the bad title #i'm very bad at titles lolol #i couldn't think of anything better. ;; #god it feels like forever since i last posted something...

[rabbitfootrambles-blog]

PRIVATE LIFE OF THE RABBIT

Chapter One: Kingston Road to Bexhill and back. 

1.

One late December night I got in from a long day at the office to find Peggy and her mother squatting on the sofa. They each gripped a sketchpad and pencil and drew furiously. A dead hare was laid out on the table in front of them, legs askew. What with no cooker and the dead hare that table never was much used for social dining. On the plus side, the house on Kingston Road did provide us with two ample floors on which to starve. Such japes were funded by my improbable job in senior management.

I was addicted to Peggy. She was a wide-hipped brunette with pouty red lips and a wicked witch’s cackle. Her unpaid occupation as a performance artist involved gleeful pursuits such as staging wolf impressions in Hoxton galleries, and tying her hair to oak trees while chain-smoking. I can’t imagine a more glamorous way to bankrupt yourself. 

We met on a train in 2002. It only took one afternoon of drinking dry martinis in the National Film Theatre bar to get me hooked. I clocked by the third glass that Peggy was the devil in disguise. Still I crawled back for more. 

In the years which followed we watched silent movies together. We went to launch parties and got wildly drunk for free. We travelled across London on Route-master buses, and never paid the fare. We circulated with confidence, and spilled wine on her landlady’s Maria Callas LPs. And in October 2005 we pulled ourselves of the floor of a Dalston warehouse, and moved to this Oxford madhouse. 

One Saturday morning we were planted on the sofa, trying to warm our hands up on a couple of ice cubes, when Peggy said suddenly, “why don’t you come and play Brian’s cabaret?” I hadn’t played music for a decade. How could a bungling hound such as I dream of spoiling the show? 

But I didn’t realise was that this was not any old cabaret. No, no, no.

THIS was an ART cabaret. 

And so, as yet unnamed, the Original Rabbit Foot Spasm Band came springing out of Peggy’s womb.

2.

One hour later I cruised across town and knocked on the door of the Reverend Tommy Costello.Standing at just under six-feet-eight, he had developed a hunchback while squatting through 24-years of life. His house, off the Iffley road in East Oxford, exacerbated the problem. 

Wildly squinting jazz tourists may still seek it out. Number 87 sits squashed among a bundle of terraces as though, while thinking only of his lunch, a builder sought to balance a slither of cucumber between two fat slabs of bread. 

Tom achieved nonchalance over such problems through a daily dosset box of paperbacks and weed, but life had not always been this relaxed. I was impressed to discover how, on moving out of a previous rented house in Durham, he clawed his deposit from a landlord by lying on his chest and trimming the back lawn with a pair of nail scissors. In front of the landlord. Such ingenuity extended to music. 

On the day I met him I learnt that Tom had constructed a banjo out of a biscuit tin and some sticks. And that he played a mean ukulele. His model was bright red. He may have acquired it from Poundland. If I was to make this cabaret intact I needed an accompanist. 

A few knocks later, a crack appeared. The door stopped at the bolt, checking I was not from Thames Valley Police. Reassured, the door opened. Tom ducked several feet beneath the jamb and re-emerged into the outside world. His head floated just beneath the sill of the upstairs window. 

Tom, the hot ukulele man. Hair like a yeti and a lawless beard to match. He wore the same Aran jumper every day as it was the only item of clothing he could find long enough to fit him. As a result, he continually looked as though he had just returned from a fishing trip on the North Sea. Corduroy trousers were another perennial part of his attire. Ever fashion conscious, he refused to speak with anyone who wore jeans. Furthermore, I have nothing but respect for a man who disowned his childhood best friend because they sent him a request to join Facebook.  

“Tommy,” I exhaled, introducing my fag-end to its new friends on the doorstep, “how would you like to come and play ukulele in a cabaret?”

He looked reluctant. And I didn’t even tell him it was an art cabaret.   

Annie, his significant other, marched in from work at about five o’clock that evening to find us hanging off the living room floor. Their previous housemate had recently fled, escaping with his rent money and all the crockery and glasses. So we had spent all afternoon listen to the Memphis Jug Band, and drinking red wine out of jam-jars. This continued long into the night. 

I broke the news that the cabaret was to be help at the De La Warr Pavilion, on the seafront at Bexhill-on-Sea. The average age of the punters would be about 87, so if we fucked it up there was a high chance they wouldn’t remember. The Pavilion was built in 1935 which, as Spike Milligan once quipped, meant it was opened “just in time to be bombed.” 

“Tommy-Wommy,” Annie pressed, rolling a stick of the mighty mezz, “it’s quite the opportunity. Stuart can wear yellow and you can wear a red dress and high heels. You’ll be as a tall as a staircase.” 

“I don’t know babe,” he puffed back, “Bexhill is far, far away. Besides, I don’t like heels and I’m worried my strings will break.”

“Then play string-less ukulele. It could be a new thing.”

“It would,” I butted-in, “look…magnificent.”

Annie took a pensive drag. “You could cause a riot with your string-less ukulele, and then everyone could hold hands and sing “I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside.” 

And so it was that she convinced Tom to play the cabaret.  I’ve pondered why it is always women who are so keen to kick-start these projects. And I’ve concluded it’s because they can’t wait to get us out of the house.    

3. 

Drinking wine out of jam jars is a staple feature in hipster bars nowadays. In my head I hear dishwashers clanging in the backrooms of Rivington Street pseudo-dives, at a rate of two hundred jam jars per hour. The folks down Shoreditch can’t eat jam fast enough to keep up with the demand. For us, buying new wine glasses was off the cards for practical reasons – we had blown all our money on records. Jazz, blues, country and gospel. Maybe a little Hawaiian music when it took our fancy. 

Records sound best when they’ve been lived in. Modern record producers claim they can digitally reproduce the sound of crackle. But it’s not the same crackle you get after repeatedly spinning a Jelly Roll Morton 10” LP across the room so your partner in crime can read what’s on the label - “damn, I knew this one would sound better after we dropped the fag ash on it.” Did you ever try to spill fag ash on an MP3? It’s impossible. 

You can have fun with old records too. If it was up to me, schoolchildren would use them as frisbees. I’d put it in the national curriculum – playtime with Parlophone.  And they double as dummies. When my daughter was six months old she took a copy of the Parnassie Sessions with Tommy Ladnier on trumpet and Mezz Mezzrow on clarinet out of its sleeve, and put it in her mouth. I tell you she didn’t cry once all the time she was sucking that record. And it has sounded better ever since. 

78s are the monarch of records. If you’ve ever carried a box of 78s across town your shoulders will feel the weight. They’re so heavy that once I had to stop on my way to the record player to have a nap. By the time the needle hit the disc, I had arms as strong as a bricklayer’s. If you see my biceps all blown up it doesn’t mean I’ve been to the gym – it means I’ve been buying 78s on eBay.

4.

Over the following weeks rehearsals, of a sort, ensued. The first revelation that came from these rehearsals is that I can’t make any sounds approaching a tune while playing a banjo, let alone one that has been made out of biscuit tin. 

My technique, and I didn’t learn this from reading an instruction manual, was to throttle it around the next with my left hand while my right hand banged downwards, in the manner of someone trying to bash mud off their tent after a damp weekend at Glastonbury. Tom had also developed his own method for playing the ukulele. I call it the Costello method. His original intention was to launch into flamboyant solos constructed from quick-witted runs of notes, with each note sounding out like a sexual conquest.  The reality was that between is, I’ll put this nicely, it was difficult to pin us down to anyone particular genre. 

Our aim was jazz, of course. Naturally it’s difficult to replicate the sounds of a full jazz band using only a banjo and ukulele but we had other tricks. Tom would occasionally put his uke down and blow harmonica which, in its upper register, sometimes gave out a sound approaching that of a clarinet, and sometimes that of a cat who had been trodden on. I bent a metal coat hanger into the shape of the letter “O” and sellotaped a green plastic kazoo halfway around it. Whenever we felt a trumpet solo coming on I would use my left shoulder to lift the coat hanger up a few inches until I gripped the kazoo in my mouth. Hence, with the addition of slapping our shoes on the ground in imitation of a drummer, and some imagination, we considered ourselves Oxford’s equivalent of the Original Memphis Five.  Meanwhile Amy rolled another spliff.  

5.

No-one who likes this music ever asked me how I got “into jazz,” but almost everyone else does. I started buying jazz records when I was about 12 because I didn’t want to listen to the same music as my class mates. I refer to them as the Clearasil crew - a crew time has stuffed into vitrines alongside the music of Bros, fluorescent socks, and the art of long-distance spitting. 

Yet when I think of them we are still all sat in a frozen portacabin, furthering out ambitions to fail GCSE maths by locking Mrs Rubberlips in the stationary cupboard. These were the conditions under which I began to dream of New Orleans. 

I pined for an age of black and white. Where the folks were better dressed. When they knew how to dance. And when, as I later discovered, they would have had the decency to keep the stationary cupboard permanently under lock and key. So my musical career started with Hollywood musicals. Fred and Ginger. Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler. Judy Garland. But it was Louis Armstrong who ensnared me. 

The epiphany came in Bath, June 1986. St Louis Blues hit like a bomb blast. My foundations never recovered. There were two records in particular we used to copy at these rehearsals. The first was “Big Butter and Egg Man”, originally recorded by Louis Armstrong in 1926. I’m getting tired of working all day / I want somebody who wants me to play. I read it was written in dedication to a producer of dairy products who used to frequent the Sunset Café in Chicago. I like to think there really was an enormous bellied businessman sat there, puffing at a cigar and rolling his eyes at goods he knew money couldn’t buy. 

The second was a tune called “Glad Rag Doll”, which we never got the hang of on account of it being in Eb and Tom’s hands being too big to get his fingers around the strings. 

We got the chords out of a book entitled Its Easy To Play Jazz. As the Pogues’ Spider Stacey once said of learning the tin whistle, “it looked easy. I very soon realised my mistake. It isn’t easy at all.”

I use the word “rehearsal” loosely, but we had good intentions. And there was one original I had written, “White Youth In Crisis” which I had demoed with of all people the bass player from the Jesus and Mary Chain. It was a curious choice. But having failed to memorise any of the others it was this one we took with us when the morning of the cabaret dawned.   

6.

In the intervening weeks Peggy fine-tuned her performance. Her preparations included watching Japanese pornography on a laptop acquired with an arts council grant. On the eve of the cabaret she packed a suitcase with props and made her way to the venue. The journey was made in a coach, hired exclusively for use by performance artists. It probably turned into a pumpkin the moment they stepped off. 

Alas there was no room for me and Tom so we made the trip in his off-white Ford Fiesta. He confided, as we hit the road, that the car cost £150. However, he aimed to make half of that back when he sold it for scrap. From the way it jolted down the motorway to Bexhill, I think that day was fast approaching. Annie reclined in the back with the banjo and ukulele. 

“Babe,” Tom noted as we reversed onto the M23, “I wish you wouldn’t roll them so fat when I am trying to drive.” 

On arrival we found preparations in full swing. A box of Becks lager lit up our dressing room. Next to it was some seaweed in a plastic bag. It appeared that someone had gone for a swim. We found Peggy rehearsing with two other performers in a gazebo which overlooked the English Channel. By the time the audience began to arrive the tension was audible.

7.

I’d never been to a cabaret. Whatever I was expecting wasn’t this. The curtain rose at half-past seven to reveal the organiser’s son, dressed as a fox. He introduced the acts which followed. First of all, three women stood on stools, wearing wigs made from bin liners. They gargled water for approximately 15 minutes. A handful of spectators, sat around cabaret tables, applauded modestly, as though watching someone else’s children at a primary school play.  Next, kneeling in the orchestra pit in a kimono, Peggy sang Cole Porter’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” to the tune of Cole Porter’s “Night and Day,” in a voice which would have broken Judy Garland’s tonsils. 

Our turn in the spotlight came halfway through the second act. Tom began by strumming D, F# minor, G, and then a chord which I don’t think anyone has invented a name for yet. I leaned into the microphone.  “Mother,” I hollered,” I’ve lost all ambition.”

“Tell it like it is brother Stuart,” offered Tom. I then threw in what might loosely be described as a dance move. 

No-one clapped. 

Backstage they urged that we were among the best acts of the night. Peggy said that my outstretched arms had thrown a shadow on the black curtain behind us in such a way that I resembled someone in the process of being crucified. 

Meanwhile Annie overheard a member of the bar staff comment that the cabaret was the worst thing they had seen in 20 years of working at the venue.  

When we got back to Oxford I had a surprise. Peggy’s mother had moved in.

8. 

Peggy didn’t have much in the way of possessions, having once thrown away everything she owned. But what she had kept was revealing.

On the rocking chair upstairs were a wolf skin and head she acquired while driving through the Arizona desert. On the desk she kept a foetus in a jar. There was one book, on the the three wise men (and gang I clearly hadn’t been asked to join).

Finally there were a few clothes, her laptop and one DVD, entitled The Beast. As a result of this sparse ensemble I calculate it took her and her mother five minutes to pack the lot into the boot of their two-seat convertible and return to Scotland. It was Holy Innocent’s Day, 28 December. 

On their way out, they’d trampled a Christmas tree into the carpet - so at least they left the place looking festive.

“I’m not surprised she left you,” Tom gestured later, “I couldn’t live in a house with no kitchen.

“It’s the rats I feel sorry for.” 

The remaining 10 months of the tenancy dragged out. From here-on it was just me and a Bessie Smith record.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

#rabbitfootspasmband #jazzwriting #autobiography #skiffle #jazz #jazzliterature #owningup #revisited #mezzmezzrow

[atthevogue]

At the Vogue: A preview of coming attractions.

At the Vogue is a (very) occasional movie blog about watching some of the films that showed at The Vogue Theater in Louisville, Kentucky between 1977 and 1998. It’s written by me.

The Vogue was a one-screen neighborhood theater at 3728 Lexington Avenue in the St. Matthews neighborhood of Louisville, a few miles from where I grew up. It’s gone now, but the art deco neon signage is still there. It’s a Paper Source now, from the looks of Google Street View. 

The Vogue meant a lot to me, and to my family generally. It was where my parents took me to see Pathfinder when I was 10 years old, a Norwegian movie about a young boy who is separated from his family in the depths of a snowy Northern winter, and is forced to fend off brutal, oafish invaders using only his wits and crudely weaponized contraptions of his own design. If this plot sounds similar to that of another movie from that era, it did to me at the time, too -- I threw a hissy fit about being taken to see this weird, foreign-language impostor instead of Home Alone, like every other normal 10-year-old in 1989. I got over it pretty quickly, though. I haven’t seen Pathfinder in almost thirty years, but it gave me a taste for subtitles that’s stayed with me. (That is, of course, one of the movies I’m going to re-watch here, maybe even with my parents.)

The Vogue was, along with a few libraries, bookshops and record stores in town, a retreat from the suburban landscape I grew up surrounded by -- not just for me, but for my parents, too, who enjoyed (and still enjoy) watching movies together, and occasionally had date nights there. St. Matthews is closer into the core city than where I grew up, though even now, it isn’t particularly cosmopolitan. Most Louisvillians still know it as a place where there are not one but two malls, sitting across from one another on a six-lane highway. 

From 1939, when it opened, the Vogue showed regular first-run fare, and somehow survived the postwar incursions of TV and suburbanization that killed off most neighborhood movie houses, in Louisville and everywhere else.

In May 1977, the theater was purchased by a Montreal-born teacher named Marty Sussman, who launched the new repertory format. Sussman mixed in old Hollywood and foreign movies with current independent cinema (and, much to the chagrin of their neighbors, an occasional arty X-rated features like Last Tango in Paris). 

For twenty years, the Vogue was about the only place in town to see foreign and art movies, until the Baxter Avenue Filmworks opened in late 1996. (Incidentally, Sussman was one of the new theater’s co-founders, long after his involvement with The Vogue had ended.) “Baxter Avenue,” as everyone knew it, was in a dumpy strip mall on the fringes of the city’s most fashionable neighborhood, but they had six screens with stadium seating, and a huge parking lot. It siphoned off a lot of the Vogue’s business, along with the advent of home video. Wild and Woolly, Louisville’s first specialty video rental shop, opened down the street from Baxter Avenue in 1997. Aside from a great shop like Wild and Woolly, though, even the crappiest Hollywood Video in the crappiest strip mall in the crappiest suburb had at least a handful of foreign and independent movies in stock (and most likely, a handful of movie-obsessed teenage nerds maintaining that stock). Like a lot of movie enthusiasts of my generation, I first saw Kurosawa and Fellini on VHS, not at a theater. 

I loved the Vogue, but I didn’t use it as much as I’d like to remember. Though it was only a ten-minute bus ride from my high school, it never occurred to me to regularly head down after classes on a Thursday afternoon and see whatever was playing. This may have had to do with the fact that I was still underage, and most of what showed at the Vogue was rated R -- I always forget how much bullshit you have to put up with as a teenager, at least in regard to what you can and can’t go do, and one thing you really couldn’t easily do was go see R-rated movies. In fact, most of the movies that ended up at The Vogue in the mid-’90s were a little too adult in orientation for a teenager, and not just in terms of their parental ratings -- I’m not sure even the most open-minded 16-year-old could work up much enthusiasm for Bill Paxton in Traveller, or Gena Rowlands in Unhook the Stars, to randomly name two features playing in the afternoons during one particular week of my junior year. So instead, I saved my time, money and effort for the Hollywood Video in the Westport Road Shopping Center.

The Vogue didn’t survive long after Baxter Avenue opened. For most of those final two years, the owners made the bizarre decision to go all in on The Full Monty, which they showed four or five times a day, every day, for most of 1997 and ‘98. I suppose the idea was that regular daily screenings somehow endear the theater to whatever nascent, mindlessly loyal cult the movie was cultivating. There was not, as we now know, a cult around The Full Monty, and even if there had been, four daily screenings is a little bit much for even the most devoted fan. 

The Vogue closed suddenly in September 1998. One of the last movies they showed was Darren Aronofsky’s Pi. I remember this because me and my buddy Jimbo made plans to see it on afternoon during our freshman year of college, and showed up to find the theater had suddenly and permanently closed a day or two earlier. The queasiness I felt in the pit of stomach that afternoon is one I would feel again and again throughout my adult life, whenever favorite local businesses closed for good. That was the first time I really remember registering it as a new sensation, though: Oh. This place isn’t coming back.

Incidentally, I’ve still never seen Pi.

For the purposes of this blog, I’m going to focus on movies that played there between 1977 to when the theater closed in 1998, with a particular emphasis on the late 1980s and the ‘90s. For the most part, those years mark the first part of my moviegoing life, if we start from the year I saw the 1985 re-releases of E.T. and Return of the Jedi at the Village 8 Cinemas when I was five years old. Most of these movies I wouldn’t have had much interest in seeing before I was 14 or 15 (and probably not for a few years after, in many cases). 

All of this has been made possible by one very exciting technological development. Sometime in the past few years, the entire run of the Louisville Courier-Journal was digitized and is now available, fully searchable by date and keyword, to anyone willing or able to pay a small monthly fee to newspapers.com.

This has radically changed my relationship to my own past. It’s become possible to re-read articles I remembered from twenty or even thirty years ago, and investigate my personal history with a thoroughness that would have been much more difficult even five years ago -- finding names of teachers or peers, checking the dates for concerts I went to, re-reading columnists like Jeffrey Lee Puckett, who was (and still is) the C-J’s pop music critic. 

For more own viewing purposes, I began slowly assembling a list of movies that played at the Vogue, as a way of creating a counterbalance to the algorithmic recommendations that came my way from Netflix and Hulu. Like most people, I’ve primarily used those services to watch movies since the demise of the video store, and I’ve been increasingly disappointed at how poor the selection is, particularly with older movies. I’ve always been a list-maker, and any tool that helps me make better lists is appreciated. I can trust the programmers of the Vogue’s calendar through the ‘80s and ‘90s as much as anyone or anything.

I’ve been struck by how most of the movies shown at The Vogue have fallen out of fashion. Many of the movies that played in the 1980s and ‘90s are the type that are most easily forgotten: no cults, no major influence on younger filmmakers, harder to find, no real shot at a revival or rediscovery. Most are rentable from Amazon or iTunes, though a few of the most arcane ones have turned up on YouTube, or can be checked out on DVD (or even VHS!) from the library. I’m going to focus on movies that, for whatever reason, aren’t remembered with the same fondness as, say, Blood Simple or Reservoir Dogs, two movies that later played at the Vogue.

Like any blog, it is begun with the very best of intentions, with an eye on updating it faithfully, at least for a while. (A big part of it is that I miss writing shorter, informal pieces for a small audience -- something Tumblr has been great for.) The subject matter is close to inexhaustible. I don’t have an exact number, but that twenty-plus year timeframe represents over 1,000 weeks, during any one of which there were between two and five movies showing daily at the Vogue. So that’s well over 3,000 movies. Even if I manage to write two of these a month -- very unlikely, given my track record -- it’ll be decades before I run out of material. 

The Vogue was special. I feel a little bit of guilt about not utilizing it more when I had the chance, but I’m looking forward to visiting it again here.

[eurotraveltales-blog]

Day 2: Madrid

Today was much more eventful than yesterday, and it was also cooler out, which was perfect because we spent all day outside.

Apriet wants me to start by saying that the palace we walked by yesterday continually disappointed us when we tried to revisit it today. More on this later.

The morning started off a little rough. I couldn’t fall asleep at all between 3:30 and 6:00 because that time is equivalent to early evening on the west coast, which is when I am the most awake. FYI - every country we’re going to visit on this trip is 9 hours ahead of PST except for Greece, which is 10 hours ahead. Anyway, I finally fell asleep around 6:00 but my alarm went off at 9:00 because we had wanted to get up and see the changing of the guards at the palace, which happens at 11:00. Instead of actually getting up and getting ready though, I started researching to get as much information as I could about the Eurail pass, since that was a pretty pressing issue. We’re supposed to be leaving Madrid for Barcelona in 2 days, so we needed to pull something together real fast. I found out that buying the tickets online was still a better option than buying them in person at Chamartin station because Eurail was having a summer sale promotion and all passes were 37% off. In addition, buying the passes in person in Chamartin ran the risk of being 20% more expensive than the standard non-sale price, and I also read that there was only a limited selection of passes available at physical Eurail aid stations as opposed to the full selection online.

To ship the passes to Spain would take 4 business days, so at the latest, it would arrive on the 23rd, which is the day we’re supposed to leave Barcelona for Lyon, France. We were pushing it, but it was our best bet. We decided we just wouldn’t leave Barcelona until the passes arrived, since there was guaranteed delivery either on or by the 23rd. The other frustrating thing was that the earliest option for the activation date of our passes was the 24th, which means that not only are we not able to use the pass to get to Barcelona, but we also can’t use the pass to get to Lyon. We’ll have to bite the bullet and purchase point-to-point tickets for those two trips. But at least we’ll have the pass for the rest of the travel days between cities/countries! We just have to hope that the point-to-point tickets aren’t exorbitantly priced. Also in terms of transportation, we still have to figure out the ferry from Santorini to Athens, which will be the last leg of our trip, since we are flying back to the US out of Athens. Sigh... what even is a vacation. Work never ends, no?

After calling the hostel in Barcelona to confirm that we can have packages shipped there and to confirm the address, we scrambled to buy our passes to ensure they would arrive in Barcelona before we leave. Needless to say, we not only missed the free breakfast provided by the hostel (now we know it closes at 10:00!), but we also missed the changing of the guards at the palace. Perhaps tomorrow?

Enough about transportation woes! We still had a good day, and I was glad we didn’t have to find a way to Chamartin anymore, since that would’ve taken up a healthy portion of the afternoon. We set our sights on the Basilica de San Miguel, a large Catholic church built in 1745. On the way there, we stopped in a market called Dia, and it had a lot of Spanish-specific snacks, and it even had personal hygiene products, so we browsed for a little while. Apriet bought sunscreen and deodorant, and I kind of wanted some fruit or a Spanish-specific snack, but nothing was really striking my fancy. The cathedral was definitely the oldest building I had ever set foot in. It was open to visitors, and as you’ll see in the pictures to follow - very, very historic and full of Catholic symbols, figures, paintings, and statues. The architecture and stained glass windows were astounding to see in person. Pictures don’t even capture the spectacular beauty of the place.

After leaving the cathedral, we walked around for a good bit trying to find a quick bite to eat. We were both pretty hungry at this point, having missed breakfast. We stumbled upon a little café called Café y Te, and the waitress only spoke Spanish so it was a little intimidating, but we got through it with only the occasional awkward moment - in other words, a day in the life. I had a Spanish omelette, and Apriet had a chicken flatbread sandwich. The Spanish omelette was similar to what Americans would consider a quiche, only denser. There was potato mixed in with the egg. It was pretty tasty! Also included in the meal was toast with freshly pureed tomatoes, and bread with Iberian ham. Iberian ham is sharp and flavorful, but a little tough to rip apart and chew. The tomatoes, much like the eggs from Sobrino de Botin yesterday, tasted significantly more flavorful and fresh compared to American tomatoes. I don’t know what it is - do Europeans just grow food better? Or maybe they prepare it differently. Or all of the above. The meal also came with both freshly squeezed orange juice and a cup of espresso, both of which I downed like there was no tomorrow. The juice came straight out of an orange, and even THAT was better than freshly-squeezed orange juice from America, further solidifying my theory that Europeans are just plain better at growing food than are Americans. The espresso was fantastic, and very much needed, given my aforementioned lack of sleep.

Ah, yes. Now we begin the long-awaited palace story.

We both felt much better after the meal, and made our way down to The Royal Palace, or Palacio Real. The line to tour the palace was about a mile long, so we just walked around the courtyard taking pictures, deciding to return later. There was a lookout area carved out of a high fence that allowed you to see out into the Spanish countryside. Let me also mention now that there was a sign by the visitor entrance of the palace that gave information about visitation hours, days, months, etc. and admission prices. At first, we thought it said the palace would be open free of charge from 16:00 to 18:00 on Monday to Thursday, so we decided to explore the Sabatini gardens, which are the palace gardens, until it was time to return for the free tour.

The gardens were fantastic. The weather was perfect - warm and sunny with a crisp breeze. There was an accordionist playing Pachabel’s Canon and Khodorkovsky’s Por Ti VoLare, which turns out to be a very popular song among European street performers. There were fountains, neatly trimmed shrubs, and hibiscus plants all over the garden. The garden air was filled with the scent of the hibiscus flowers carried by the breeze, and it was a smell I wanted to capture forever. Maybe one day that’ll be a thing. We continued walking through the gardens, and when some British dude came up and asked if he could serenade us, we sorta ran away and found a bench to nap on. It was a great bench, because it was half in the shade (my preference) and half in the sun (Apriet’s preference). At 15:30, we made our way back to the palace for the free tour, only to find out that the sign actually said that it was only free from 16:00 to 18:00 from October to March, and that for April to September, it was free from 18:00 to 20:00. Since we were there anyway though, we decided to just try to pay a reduced student-under-25 fare (5 euros vs. the standard 10 euros) to get in. Neither of us had our college IDs, but we figured they wouldn’t ask. They did. We had even gone through palace security and everything, but we ended up just leaving when we found out we couldn’t get in.

Next up, El Retiro Parque - hands down my favorite part of the day. This park is huuuuge, and it was all the way on the other side of Madrid, so we definitely got our exercise today - we ended up walking a total of 12.5 miles in total today. We also passed by a bunch of little tiendas (shops) on the way to the park. One of the first things I saw in the park was a water spigot, which was a pretty big deal because my water bottle was running low, and drinking fountains are not really a thing in Spain, let alone hydration stations. If you want water, you have to buy a bottle, and that’s no fun. I try to avoid drinking tap water, especially since Apriet had tried the tap water at the hostel and said it tasted a little chlorine-y so I was thrilled to discover the spigot water tasted perfectly fine. It was funny though because you had to slam on the button with the palm of your hand to make the water come out, as opposed to just pushing down on it. A very sweet older gentleman showed me the trick after I had finished awkwardly pressing down on the button with unnecessary force. After that, it was kind of funny to watch other people struggle with the same issue. We found a nice shady spot in the park and sat for a bit, then I decided to explore the park a little while Apriet laid down and tried to take a nap. She didn’t get very far because some random dude came up and tried to talk to her, and plus there were ants all over the ground. Conversely, I had a wonderful time walking through the park - there were trees, flowers, and birds everywhere, and a million different intersecting paths to choose from. The paths were covered in a thin layer of fine white sand/dirt, and the softness that met my feet with each step made for an extremely relaxing walk. I also came upon a little creek with a small waterfall, a fenced off area with a soccer field and tennis courts, and a small black cat even graced me with her presence. After meeting back up with Apriet, we decided to head back to the other side of the city, but not before stopping at one of the tiendas and purchasing a couple of scarves.

It was about 19:00 by the time we got back to the other side of the city, and since we were already near, we decided to give the palace another try, since we were certain we had read the sign correctly this time. Wrong. There was a sentence saying that the doors would close an hour before closing time, which was at 20:00. Demonstrates the importance of reading ALL the text on a sign, I suppose. But at the same time, signs like that are made to throw people off. Why not just say that they’re open from 18:00 to 19:00 if they’re essentially closed to additional visitors after 19:00?

Discouraged, we sat down near an accordionist and listened to him play his very limited repertoire, by which I mean he played the same song five times in a row. We people-watched until we couldn’t handle hearing the song one more time, and made our way to dinner at a restaurant/bar called el minibar. We ordered a couple of tapas - croquetas and some kind of goat cheese thing that turned out to be VERY good with bread. The croquetas were also hella delicious.

Like yesterday, we called it after dinner and returned to the hostels like the homebodies we are. Now hopefully I can sleep a little better than last night. Tomorrow is our last full day in Madrid - we’ll see what it brings.