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suddencolds · 3 months

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The Worst Timing | [3/?]

part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again 🙇‍♀️). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

It’s fine, until it isn’t.

—

Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe.

His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes.

Tomorrow, he’ll be away for most of the afternoon—with the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his family—and Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieve’s friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They won’t see each other for the entire day—at least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening.

Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, who’d told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.

All he has to do, now, is just see it through.

—

Yves wakes up coughing.

He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like they’re weighing him down, like it’d be a considerable inconvenience to move them—he isn’t sure if he’d be able to sit up properly.

He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether he’s running a fever. It’s no use—his hand is warm and clammy. He can’t tell.

Fuck. This is not good.

One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters he’d bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one he’d drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.

“Hhehh’YISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHH’iIDTSSHh-iiEW!”

The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. It’s not warm enough in the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket he’s under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasn’t been moving enough to get warm. He’s not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.

The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wear—he hadn’t packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isn’t especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as it’s one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.

But when he sits up—or, rather, when he attempts to sit up—he feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest.

He definitely has a fever, even if there’s no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.

One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.

For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.

Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that he’s keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now.

Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if he’s going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallway—at the very least, he’ll be a little quieter out there.

Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.

“Drink,” Vincent says. “It’s uncapped.”

Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterday—the water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.

Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to do—something. Yves doesn’t know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. “I didn’t mbean to wake you.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. He looks… upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.

He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.

Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. It’s strange, how good it feels to be touched—he knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincent’s fingers to his skin—when he’s spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyone—is strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.

Vincent pulls away, too soon. “You’re—”

“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.

“Feverish,” Vincent clarifies, with a frown. “Did you already know that?”

“I had a hunch,” Yves answers, honestly.

Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. “It’s fide. I’ll take something for it,” Yves says. “You should go back to sleep.”

“We slept early,” Vincent says. “I’m not tired.”

“What time is it?”

Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”

“That’s still early enough that you should be asleep.” Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and there’s a prickle in his nose again. “Sorry. I can be quieter.”

His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stifles—or, rather, attempts to stifle—the sneeze into the fabric.

“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”

It’s still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. It’s a good thing they’re not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. “Was it like this last night?”

“What?”

“Were you unable to sleep last night?”

It’s not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worries—that Vincent knows precisely how little sleep he’s gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last night—or worse, that Yves was the one who kept him up—which is why he’s asking this question now.

But if he knew, wouldn’t he have said something about it yesterday?

“I slept fine,” Yves says.

There’s a cold breeze coming in from somewhere—from the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he can’t say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincent’s expression—the way Vincent’s eyes linger on him a little too long—that he doesn’t do it well enough.

“You should really have taken the bed,” Vincent says, with a sigh. “It’s warmer.”

“It’s warm here too,” Yves says. There probably wouldn’t even be a problem if he weren’t feverish—it’s just the relative temperature difference that’s making him shiver. “Are you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?”

“If you stop giving me reasons to be worried,” Vincent says plainly, “Then I will.”

Yves sighs. He’s cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesn’t want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu he’s managed to pick up this time. “This is not the first time I’ve been under the weather,” he says. “I—” he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. “hHeh-!-hHEHh‘nGKTTSHH-iiIEw!”

“Bless you.”

“—I kdow what I’m doing, snf. I don't even feel that—hh… hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!” The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. “—that udwell,” he finishes, sniffling, though that’s not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.

“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.

“Yes,” Yves says. “You can trust me on this.”

Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.

“What do you need?” he says, instead.

Yves blinks at him. It’s not the question he expects Vincent to ask.

“Nothidg,” he says, honestly. “Seriously. It’s just a cold. I’ll take somethidg for it when I wake up.”

“Cold medicine?” To Yves’s nod, Vincent says, “I can get it for you, if you want.”

“No need. I’ll probably just — hhEhh-! HhEHh’IITShh-iiEW! Ugh… I’ll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.”

Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that he’s probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.

“You should sleep, seriously,” Yves says, insistent. “Maybe you’ll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be okay.”

Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, softly.

Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like they’re slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.

The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes it’s quiet enough to not be disruptive. It’s hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but he’s determined to try.

The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like it’s been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.

Two more days. He just has to make it through. He’ll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairs—the kind that’s supposed to smother all the symptoms—and then he’ll be good as new, he’s sure.

Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. He’ll be less disruptive if he’s asleep. It’s just getting there that’s the problem. He’s exhausted—that fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awake—but every time he finds himself drifting off, he’s jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.

In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and they’d say that Yves has his life reasonably put together—being the eldest of three does that to you. He’d spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean on—the kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations he’d gotten regularly thrown into—and for the most part, it’d worked.

He’d learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come up—something that feels frustrating and insurmountable—it doesn’t really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.

Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about her—that he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that it’d take its toll on her. That she’d take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.

It’s hard not to miss her, now, when he’s alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just having someone he didn’t have to hide from.

Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent would’ve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent aren’t actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that they’ve been getting along well, as of late—he might even consider them friends.

But then again, hasn’t Vincent agreed to do all of this—lying to Yves’s friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the next—because it’s easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?

It’s a lie that they’re telling, but it’s a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event they’re attending, there’s nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that weren’t the case?

It’s going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. She’s not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.

The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.

—

When Yves falls asleep, it’s the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenes—him at Aimee and Genevieve’s wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings he’d been to in the past all superimposed into one.

When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, it’s to a pounding headache and what he’s certain must be a fever. He can’t seem to stop shivering. It’s already bright out—the curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.

He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesn’t remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, she’d send him straight home—he’s in no state to attend a wedding, and he’s not sure if he’s in any state to pretend that’s not the case.

He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though there’s no one here to witness—

“hhEhh-’iZZSSHH’Iew!” The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. “Hh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-’IDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHH’iDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! H‘IIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! Ugh…” The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.

There’s a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. It’s strangely thoughtful—a part of him is a little worried that Vincent’s only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligation—but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

It’s exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.

He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and he’s always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. It’s supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and then—if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow—take another before the wedding starts.

It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.

Then he shoots off a quick text—

Y: thanks for the cold meds :)

Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)

Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh

Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:

V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon

V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch

Yves blinks. That’s a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincent’s plans with Genevieve’s friends aren’t until dinner time, so it makes sense that he’s out doing something else.

His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.

Y: jealous! have fun!

His phone buzzes not long later with Vincent’s response.

V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep

V: Do you want me to bring anything back?

Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever 😦, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance

Victoire has sent him, vincent told me you’re sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message ✌️

Then he sends back to Vincent:

Y: i’m good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that, which means that he’s probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much later—when all of this is over.

He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.

—

The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silence—he’s never been good at stifling—and does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.

It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. He’s happy to be back—here, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. He’s really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone who’s influenced him so fundamentally get married.

They’re all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. It’s not quite as formal as what he’s planning to wear tomorrow—the shoes are the only item he’s planning to rewear—but he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.

It’s not unusually cold out—this would probably be considered temperate weather here, in March—but the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.

The cold medicine helps, too—it keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. He’s congested—his sinuses hurt a little, like everything’s a little waterlogged—but at least he isn’t sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; he’s tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.

“Dude, you sound awful,” Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.

“Thadks,” Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. “You always kdow just how to flatter me.”

Leon looks him over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re good for tomorrow?”

Yves doesn’t know. “Let’s hope so,” he says. “I don’t have any contingedcy plans for if I’m not.”

“I’m sure Aimee would understand if you told her.”

“I’m sure she would.” Yves looks over to where Aimee’s standing—she’s in the middle of a conversation with Yves’s parents and some of the adults on Genevieve’s side of the family. He’s too far to make out what she’s talking about, but she looks happy—she’s gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.

Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. “How was ludch with Vincent?”

“I like him,” Leon says, brightening at the question. “He’s surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.”

“Just because he’s funny?”

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” Leon says, grinning. “But you work with him, right? If he’s a nice person while he’s looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, he’s probably a great person when he’s doing anything else.”

“Yves! Leon!” someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees it’s Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dad’s side of the family. “Pictures!”

“Coming,” Leon shouts back.

Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.

—

When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. He’s always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincent—all things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gathering—warm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.

He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.

“Hey,” he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. “Do you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?”

She smiles up at him. “You can sit here,” she says.

He takes a seat on the steps—a few feet away from her, because he doesn’t want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesn’t know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimee—through the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimee’s entire disposition seems to change around her—but he’s exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations he’s had with her in person on one hand.

“So,” he says. “How are you feelidg before the big day?”

“Do you want the good answer, or the honest answer?”

“The honest one,” Yves says. “hit me with it.”

For a moment, Genevieve doesn’t say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.

“I’m terrified,” she says.

“You think somethidg might go wrong?” Yves asks, surprised. “You guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s more like—this is probably going to be one of the most important things I’ve ever done,” she says. “You know, when something is really important to you, so it’s just that much more crucial that you don’t mess it up?”

“You’re the bride,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh… HEH’IIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when you’re supposed to be saying your vows. I wod’t forgive you if you do that, by the way.”

She laughs. “God, no. I’d never do that. It’s just—there’s all this perceived… I don’t know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like you’re just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.”

“I’m guessing you’re ndot a fan of, like, pottery,” Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. “Or sculpting.”

“I haven’t tried either of those things,” she says. “Though I would probably be bad at them.”

Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.

“I think you don’t have to be so concerned about what it’s supposed to be,” he says. “You can give yourself permission to just—live it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,” he says. “You’ll have a ring on your left hand. That’s good enough to offset any—well, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.”

“I guess,” Genevieve says.

“It’d be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,” Yves says, turning to face her. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,” he says. “Because however the moment crystallizes, it’ll be you.”

“Did you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?” Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than before—she’s sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.

Yves grins at her. “I have a younger brother and a younger sister,” he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesn’t really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. “It’s exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.”

Genevieve laughs. “It must be lively,” she says. “Your whole family is very accommodating.”

“They’re certaidly a handful,” Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. “I love them to death. And I’ll be happy to have you as part of them.”

She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. “Thanks for this.”

“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”

They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.

“How did you kdow it was her?” he asks—a sudden, impulsive question.

As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.

“There was never any doubt,” she says.

When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.

“Like, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myself—in Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely different—she would always be there.” Yves understands that—back when he’d been dating Erika, he’d felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person he’d ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didn’t involve her.

“Those kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,” Genevieve says. “I’d look over her halfway through morning coffee, or I’d watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or I’d watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.”

“That you wanted to be with her?”

“That I was happy.” Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. “I’m really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago I’m not sure if I could’ve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that way—like they’d guard your happiness under any circumstance—is really something special.”

“You were the one who proposed to her,” he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after it’d happened, remembers how he’d excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. She’d sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.

“I was,” Genevieve says. She smiles. “I knew that if I gave up this chance I’d be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.”

—

When he gets back from dinner at last, it’s late.

The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body aches—spending the evening outside in the cold probably didn’t help with that—and even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he can’t stop himself from shivering.

He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzy—he finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.

His head really hurts. It’s the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.

Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He must’ve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.

“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.

“Great,” Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. “How was dinner with Genevieve’s friends?”

“They were very nice,” Vincent says.

“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”

“I felt less like I was being evaluated,” Vincent says, with a smile. “But if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.”

Yves laughs. “I’mb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldn’t hear any disapproval from them.” He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he can’t quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Lots of things. Life in France,” he says. “Life in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.”

“Do you believe in mbarriage?”

Vincent looks at him. “I think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,” he says. Then, after a moment: “It worked out for my parents.”

“The busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?”

Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. “They weren’t in love when they got married,” he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.”

“What about you?” Yves asks. “Do you think you’ll fall in love someday?”

“Is that really something I’d choose?” Vincent says. “It either happens or it doesn’t.”

“Sure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.”

“If I found something worth pursuing, I’d go after it,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “That’s very like you.” he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, he’ll even be in Vincent’s life for long enough to know.

His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.

“hHEh… HeHh’IIDZSCH-yyiEW!” The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. “Hh… hehh-HEh-HhehHh’IIzSSCH-iEEw! Hh…. HEHh’DJSCCHh-IEew!”

The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tender—he raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.

“You sound worse than you did last night,” Vincent says, with a frown.

Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when he’s like this by someone who’s usually so well put together. “I’b a little prone to losidg my voice when I’m sick,” he admits. “It’s pretty incodvedient.”

“I’m probably not making it any better by talking to you,” Vincent says. That might be true—Yves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, it’s because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usual—but Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they haven’t talked all day.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: “How are you feeling?”

“Good as new,” Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: “Good enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesn’t start until three, but I’ll probably be up earlier to see if there’s anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “If anything comes up, I can help.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”

“I can handle it on my own. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I— hHHEh’IDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! I’mb really fine. I swear.”

“Yves—”

“I’ve done this before,” he insists, which is true, too—he’s certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. “It doesn’t have to be your problem.”

For a moment, there’s something there, to Vincent’s expression—a flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then it’s gone. When he blinks, Vincent’s expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if he’d imagined it.

“Okay,” he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. “You should sleep soon, if you’re able to.” A pause. The rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.” Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that he’s messed things up, somehow, though he’s not entirely sure how.

But what can he say? He just—he just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesn’t it?

“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.

[ Part 4 ]

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #this chapter turned out to be kind of personal to me in some ways?#i am so sorry if it feels uneventful 😭#i have done so much googling on so many things that did not make it in (and a few that made it in only peripherally)#work is killing me and i am stressed out of my mind so i am posting this before i get swept away and am unable to edit for a week #next chapter will be the wedding for real!#and i will be mean for real when i get to writing it 🙇‍♀️#yvverse #my fic #thank you to anyone who has left nice tags/comments on previous parts :') it's hard to express the full extent of my gratitude but #thank you for making my life a little happier

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petermorwood · 1 year

Photo

Just out of the oven - a new recipe for a herb loaf which smells great, but is too hot to taste just yet.

Patience, patience... :->

The original recipe comes from one of @dduane‘s collection of comb-bound community cookbooks, being modified for use in Food & Cooking of the Middle Kingdoms.

This is the first time making it, and - Middle Kingdoms again - there are already a few substitutions to move further away from the Italian-influenced original. I’m sure there’ll be other changes before it finally goes onto the website, so treat the following recipe as a First Draft...

Ingredients:

1 cup warm water (110 degrees F/45 degrees C)

1 Tbsp white sugar

1 (1/4 ounce) package active dry yeast

3 cups bread flour

1/4 cup grated hard cheese (DD used Parmesan, though mature Cheddar or white Stilton would also work)

2 Tbsps oil (DD used pumpkin seed oil) ETA: thanks to me putting it away and not saying where, she couldn’t find it and used olive oil for this loaf

1 tsp salt

1/2 Tbsp each dried herbes de provence, thyme, chilli flakes, savory, tarragon

1/2 tsp garlic powder

1/2 tsp onion powder

Method:

Mix the warm water, sugar, and yeast together in a large bowl and wait until the mixture is foamy, about 5 minutes.

Stir 1 cup flour, all the cheese, oil, salt, herbs, garlic and onion powders into the yeast mixture, then gradually mix in the remaining flour until incorporated; the dough will be stiff.

Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface until smooth and silky, which should take 5 to 10 minutes (DD used a Kenwood stand mixer with dough hook, and kneading took 7 minutes at slow speed).

Place the dough into an oiled bowl and turn until the entire surface is coated, then cover with a damp dish towel and let it rise until doubled in volume, about 1 hour.

Punch the dough down to release excess air; shape into a loaf and place into a greased 5- x 9-inch loaf pan (DD rolled the dough into a sausage shape and put it on a baking sheet) then let it rise until doubled in volume, about 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).

Beat an egg and brush this wash onto the loaf, sprinkle on some herbs and Maldon salt, slash 3 or 4 times with a sharp knife or breadmaker’s lame and transfer at once to the oven.

Bake for 45-50 minutes until golden brown.

When done, remove from the pan or baking sheet and let cool on a wire rack for at least 15 minutes before slicing. (We’ve put ours in a bread bag and are leaving it overnight to let the crust soften a little; right now it’s so hard and brittle that slicing will cause a messy blizzard of fragments.)

#food and drink #breadmaking #herb loaf #food and cooking of the middle kingdoms

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leclsrc · 1 year

Note

This req is gonna sound weird but do yk that scene in friends where ross is hugging rachel by the legs? on his knees? could i have a charles drabble w/ that? ty!

the final frame – cl16

You and Charles move in together, among other things.

auds here... this req is from before christmas hahaha. i do not watch friends so i scoured the internet for this ‘scene’, i hope i was right and i hope i did this req justice! this is the last one for now and i’ll hopefully reopen them fr in a minute. title from this

The night’s colder than you anticipated, a cool draft sending goosebumps up your forearm as you inspect the fillet of salmon in the oven. You step forward, off where you’d been leaning on the island, to heave the window shut—the act usually requires all your strength—but Charles bounds into you from behind, pressing insistent, laughing kisses onto your neck.

“C,” you say, giggling yourself, a hand coming up to stroke at the nape of his neck. “Stop, there are people in the next room.”

He bites on your jaw a little and you laugh. “Next room, babe. Like, right in the next—just two metres—!”

Laughing still, he finally lets up and effortlessly shuts the window himself. He pecks another kiss, just on the tip of your nose, murmurs I love you and lets it settle into the herb-smelling air. “Are you tipsy?” You ask, teasing. He winks.

“No—really, though,” you press a little, lacing your hands together. “You’re fine?”

“Totally.” He smiles. “Bit nervous.”

“I was, too,” you start, squeezing his hand, “until I remembered these are literally just our friends. And they’re stupid, and they’ll probably love us even if we announced we murdered someone.”

He nods and smiles, slots your mouths together. When he pulls away, he murmurs, “I love you. You look beautiful.”

Really, you’re just in a two-year-old dress from a flea market in Provence, and your hair is dry and ratty and tied into a bun, but you appreciate the compliment. He’s being genuine, eyes gliding over you with ease as he presses yet another kiss to your cheek; you loop your arms around his neck, smiling up at him. This is so foolish, you think, to be so idiotically in love like this, but it’s Charles, and it makes so much sense.

“You’re glowing, really.” He doesn’t give, still spouting compliments like a broken fountain.

“You suck.” You’ve never been good at accepting compliments, which seems ironic because you’re with a man who loves words, loves to tell you how much you mean to him, muffled by skin or said through a mic or in French or Italian. You tug him closer. “Should we go?”

He pauses, exhales. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Your friend group has gathered here, at Charles’ place, under the pretense that you’re trying to finish the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine Charles had purchased from France, but really, it’s for you both to announce your moving in together. Little milestones like these have always been celebrated by your group, and this is no different; tonight, Max has even volunteered to fix the clock that permanently reads 12:38 on Charles’ flat’s mantle.

You lead the way from the kitchen into the living room, where everyone is engaged in some kind of chatter or activity. Lily’s legs are draped over Alex’s lap and she’s coaching him through a Rubik’s cube. Lando is busy telling a joke to Carlos and Isa. And Max is three feet off the ground fiddling with a clock, turning deviously to ask: “Where have you two been?”

“Shagging,” you reply with nonchalance.

“Your hair’s still perfect,” Lily says disapprovingly. “Don’t lie!”

You roll your eyes, stifling a smile as you lean into Charles’ arm that’s wrapped itself around your shoulders. In the future, you’ll tell yourself you should’ve noticed his clammy hand pressed against your arm, or turned and noticed his blank stare, his too-nervous gait. So many signs, you’ll think, and you ignored them all because you felt so damn happy. “Okay, I’m lying. The truth is…”

You turn to him, brows raising. “…you wanna go?”

“I wan—do you?”

“Sure, if you—”

“Just tell us!” Lando yells impatiently, sitting straighter, abandoning the joke in favor of this. “Tell us. Now!”

“Okay, um, we—well, a few months ago we decided we kind of. No, we definitely wanted to live together. And, to save you all the sexy details of getting leases and looking around Monaco for flats—we got one just two weeks ago. So this is—what it is, is it’s, uh, really a dinner to celebrate saying bye-bye to Charles’ flat. Okay? Right. Okay.”

You pause. The room erupts in whoops and cheers—many utterances of the word finally! float across the room. Immediately Isa and Lily are standing, demanding to see pictures of the new place, directions they can input into their cars and phones so they know exactly how to get there. Carlos, Lando, and Alex all cheer, offer alcohol as housewarming gifts. Max nearly drops the clock.

And this is it, you think, the rest of your life’s been decided. With this group, and your Charles, and the flat that will be yours by tomorrow morning.

—

Your house doesn’t feel much like home.

You know it’s an unfair statement, that it’s only really been two, three months of living together. But something has shifted, something you cannot name no matter how hard you try to. It’s just as cold tonight as it was the night you were in Charles’ old place announcing this one, but everything feels different now.

The move had started excitedly, with you sending near daily updates to the group chat with Isa and Lily, of paint swatches and ship-ins from IKEA. They sent flowers, came over to inspect the place, and so did everyone else—Max returned the now repaired clock, nailed it onto a spot on the wall the entire group agreed on. Slowly, bit by bit, the place began to feel like it was yours.

But the nights without Charles grew long, and the days with him at work or at the gym or at a media affair—some of which he’d easily denied in favor of you before—grew more frequent. The flat, big and wide and lofty in an affluent neighborhood, felt bigger when he was gone. You were alone, a stranger in your own house, without him.

You can’t pinpoint anything.

You can’t pinpoint the when, the how, the why, the if. To you, everything is vague, and that’s the worst part: how can you fix something you can barely understand? You haven’t shared a cup of coffee in ages, and the most you see of him is half his foot departing the front door in the morning. It could be work, it could be the preparing for the season, but in six years of being together nothing’s felt quite like this. You wonder if it’s deliberate.

But your texts to Isa and Lily stay the same. Cream or eggshell? Cerulean or slate? And when they ask about Charles, you ignore the bite of guilt and lie instead. C and I just had brunch, he said eggshell, but the truth is, you’re the one settling on eggshell. You’d asked him ‘cream or eggshell’ three weeks ago and he said he’d think about it but he didn’t come home until four, and he hasn’t answered it.

He gets in on Saturday night earlier than usual, eyes dark with exhaustion. He’s wearing a suit, and you don’t know why. You can’t place half the places he’s been lately. His texts are choppy, standoffish. Here. Leaving soon. I’ll see you? “Hi, baby,” he croaks when he sees you nursing wine at the kitchen counter.

“C,” you say quietly. “Hi. When did you get in?”

“Just now, I was driven.”

“Oh.” You pause. “Want a glass?” You raise the bottle.

He seems to hesitate, stopping in his tracks a bit before nodding defeatedly and pacing toward you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheekbone, then finally your lips. You relish this, because you haven’t had it in so long. This intimacy, this affection, this kiss that isn’t pressed onto you while you’re asleep and he comes home with apologies flowing from his lips.

You pull away, pour him a glass of red. “Isn’t it crazy to think we have a home now?”

His smile flickers a little, and you notice. You try not to sound nosy when you pry. “C,” you say, the lump rising in your throat. Here you are, celebrating one of the happiest chapters of your life, but Charles won’t even meet your eyes. This is it. After months of not knowing, you think, you have to know. Now. “Are you okay?”

The wine is only half-poured. He sighs shakily, shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He sounds so, so far away.

“You’re scaring me,” you say, laughing. But you sound more nervous than amused. He sounds nervous, too.

“Baby,” he says suddenly, like a dam in his mind has broken and everything is spilling out, all the damage, all of it, and it’s washing onto you like a massive wash of water. “Baby, I—I fucked up.”

You cannot withstand the wave. Your eyebrows knit together. “Tell me,” you insist. Even more surprisingly, he crumples to his knees, hugs your thighs and leans against you. You press, anyway. “Talk to me, C. Please.”

“You can’t fix this,” he says resolutely, “you abso—you can’t.”

“I will,” you say. “I love you.”

“I slept with someone else.” This is a great, big, terrible feeling. You really can’t fix this. You’re back to being clueless. Your heart stops, and so does your breath, heavy and heaving. Words are dry when they try to leave your throat, leap off your tongue. Your hand, threaded into Charles’ hair, pauses. You feel him crying, but you feel nothing else.

“You what,” you ask. It’s so dry, everything is desert dry. A whisper, a breath, a murmur in the cold kitchen.

“I’m sorry.”

“C,” you say, and you can’t even cry yet. You’re stunned, struck with dizzy disbelief. “Was it—when, like, last season…?”

His silence answers you, and you stumble backwards, out of his grasp. You shake your head, like you’re trying to quell the tears, the lump in your throat, the nerves in your stomach that threaten to bubble over.

“Don’t say this year.” You shake your head, over and over, shaking and shaking, like it will rid you of the conversation you’re currently having. You think of the paperwork, of the nearly dropped clock, of signing the lease, of eggshell and flowers, of housewarming gifts yet to be unwrapped.

Tearily, you muster, “Don’t tell me, C. Don’t fucking do this to me, please. Don’t.”

“I barely even know her,” he says. “Once. It happened once. It meant nothing.” Your soul crushes, shot and wilted.

“No, it meant everything,” you say angrily. You’re angry now. Angry and sad, and furious and boiling with rage. You’re everything. You’re a house fire, right here in the flat.

And you stand, feet bare on the tile, thinking about how you’ll have to live with this forever, branded like an ugly stamp. You loved and he did not. Get out, you say. Get out and don’t come back, I don’t care. Don’t fucking come back. You shove him weakly, but he gets the message, ushers himself to the coat rack. You’re not even yelling. You’re just breathing heavy, shaking your head, like you’re denying this ever happened.

You only cry when he’s left, loud, exruciating sobs. He wrestles himself outside still apologizing, saying he’ll be back tomorrow. You’re torn between hoping he will be and hoping you never see him again, crumpled to the hardwood of your brand new house, knees weak, heart weaker. You don’t get up until morning.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

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fuctacles · 3 months

Text

in love and war finale

Spicy Six Challenge by @thefreakandthehair, part 1 here, part 2 here, you know the drill

T | 2466 | pre-relationship | they are confused gay rookies in the 80s | sick-fic I guess?

“Why aren’t you in bed? Or the couch at least?!’

“He has a point.”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“Well I’ll let you know I moved the phone and I’m sitting in an armchair wrapped in a blanket.”

“Who are you talking to?!”

Steve is glad for Dustin’s irrational fear of his viruses, because it’s the only thing stopping him from ripping the phone out of his hand, maybe pushing him back to bed too.

“Tell him I said hi.”

“Eddie says hi.”

Dustin starts hyperventilating.

Thankfully his mom came to the rescue with a steaming cup of tomato soup.

“It’s great you boys are keeping your spirits up but you shouldn’t be sitting on the floor, Steven. Maybe we could move an armchair for you?”

And thus with their leave, Steve had a cozy station next to the phone, piled with blankets and pillows. Not dissimilar to Eddie’s on the other end, whom he called as soon as the Henderson’s left.

“So, you were saying?”

“You know this stays between us? This is the most intimate Eddie Munson knowledge that you’re not to share with anyone else.”

Steve laughs. Just hearing him joke was helping his body recover and he feared he'll be ready to go back to work soon.

“Tell me your dirty secrets, Munson.”

“So, this dungeon I’m working on is a cursed tomb of an overthrown mayor…”

Steve likes a good story. Everyone does. He was never that much into fantasy, but the fact that one of his favorite people came up with it made it a thousand times more interesting.

“Ah, I guess it’s my turn for the kid’s visit.” Eddie interrupts himself about fifteen minutes in. “Do you also feel like you’re on a deathbed, visited by your grandchildren in hopes they'll be in the will? He’s getting the dice anyway...”

Steve snorts.

“Now that you mention it…”

“Are you guys still on the phone?!” Dustin’s voice is so loud Steve hears it clear as day on his end.

“Yeah, sorry babe, I’ll call you back.”

The line goes silent.

And Steve knows he’s joking with the pet names, teasing in the silly way that he does but the more he hears him in his ear, the more he realizes he wants it, wants to try. He hopes Eddie wants it too.

His cold lets off faster than Eddie’s and he’s anxiety-cleaning as soon as he feels the strength to do so. He cleans the pj’s and sheets at boiling temperature so instead of sweat and sickness they smell like ‘provencal dreams’ which he thinks means lavender. The pills and syrups scattered on the coffee table get into the medicine basket. The armchair though, stays by the telephone. He’s waiting for Eddie to wake up and call him (so he can call back not to put the enormous phone bill on him) like he’s been doing for the past two days. Being sick together was almost as bonding as fighting evil.

When the phone rings he runs to reach it and is almost embarrassed to do so, so he takes a second to breathe before picking up.

“Hello?”

“You don’t have to call me back.”

“Ah, sorry, the reception is shit, I can barely hear you. Let me call you back in a second.” He grins to himself when he hears Eddie’s resigned sigh. He dials the number from the emergency list above his phone immediately.

“Hi,” he says, smiling like a fool.

“Well, someone sounds chipper today”

“Yeah, I think I'm good to leave the house, finally. Also, this guy I like keeps me company in my misery.”

“Oh? He sounds like a nice dude.”

“He is,” Steve smiles, sitting down and pulling his legs up onto the seat. “He cares about his friends, saves the world sometimes, and hosts this dorky game for a bunch of nerds on the weekends. A true samaritan.”

“You think so?” Eddie sounds quiet on the other side.

“Yeah. That's how I see it, at least.” He frowns, fingers twirling the cord anxiously, worried he stepped over a line. That’d suck because he had planned to step over some more today.

“Thanks. I think you’re a nice guy too.”

It was the simplest compliment he’d ever gotten, but it made something in his chest tighten.

“Yeah?”

“Duh. You jump into demonic waters head first and ferry around a bunch of ungrateful kids.”

Steve snorts.

“That I do.” And then, before the conversation gets even further away from him, he adds, “Hey, listen. Since I’m feeling better, I’ll probably be back at work tomorrow.”

Eddie made a disappointed grunt on the other side.

“So I was wondering if I could visit you today? Maybe take over Dustin’s soup delivery?”

Eddie makes a sound that he’s unable to interpret.

“If you don’t feel up to it, it’s okay-”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

So Steve presses his lips together and waits.

Eddie sighs.

“I’m feeling better, I guess you can visit if you don’t mind a sick person mess.”

“I just cleaned up mine today, no worries.”

“Yeah, okay. But about… the other thing…”

He trails off and Steve is one step away from biting his nails off. Or the phone cord in half.

“You’re still sick and thinking about it, I-”

“Steve! Let. Me. Speak.”

He makes a noise of agreement into the receiver.

“Like, I think I need to see you. Because I know you are hot, objectively. But do I think you are hot? Does my dick think you’re hot?”

“Eddie-”

“I’m speaking.”

Steve bites his lips with a smile. He can feel himself blush.

“So I have some things to verify. Come over, Wayne’s not home.”

Steve can’t help it, he bursts into hysteric giggles over Eddie’s attempt at a seductive voice with his clogged nose.

“Hey, now-”

“No, no, I’d love to. Should I bring protection? Like a face mask?” He manages between giggles.

“Oh, you little-!”

He doesn’t remember the last time he had so much fun flirting. He curbs his amusement to manageable levels and looks at the clock.

“I’ll call Ms Claudia if she has any special deliveries for us today. I could pick them up and be at yours in an hour, maybe two.”

“Sounds great.”

“Want me to pick up something?”

“I’d kill for a can of coke.”

“Got it. I’ll bring a movie we could watch too.”

Eddie hums his approval.

“Something light that my sick brain can process, please. I’ve had enough fever dreams about war and Russians. Never again letting Wayne pick the movie when I’m sick.”

Steve snorts.

“Okay, noted. See you soon?”

“See you soon, Steve-o.”

Claudia isn’t thrilled by his plan to visit Eddie, but a mother’s disapproval hasn’t stopped him before and certainly wasn’t going to now. He accepts the jars of soup, kisses her on both cheeks, and lets her tuck him up for the short walk from the door to his car.

The drive is shorter than he expects, even with the partially shoveled roads. He feels completely unprepared for whatever might happen at his destination but he pushes on because the uncertainty might make him sick again.

A tiny note on the inside of the window tells him the door is unlocked so with little hesitance, he pushes in. He knocks on the door, looking around.

“Eddie?”

“Over here!”

His voice sounds way better in real life than it did over the phone and Steve locks the door and unties his shoes to follow it. Eddie is sitting on his bed, wrapped in at least two blankets, and there are books and notebooks surrounding him.

“Welcome, welcome!” he grins at him, which lights up his face prettily despite the unmistakable traces of battling the flu. His nose is red and dry from constantly wiping it, his face pale and his lips chapped. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes and the little hair peeking from under a blanket hood looks greasy.

Steve wants to give him a hot bath, wash and condition his hair, and moisturize his whole body, which is a weird thought to have about a romantic interest, even for him.

“Did you bring the goods?”

Steve holds up the plastic bag in his hand, making the jars inside clink. If only Ms. Henderson could see the sparkle in Eddie’s eyes at the sight of her soup, and how he brushes his hands together happily.

“Let’s go to the kitchen, then.”

Steve shakes his head.

“You can stay here, I can do it.”

But Eddie is already up, shaking his curls back at him.

“And burn our new trailer to the ground? No thanks. The stove is a bitch and only the chosen ones can operate it without injuries. I’ll show you how to work it.”

Steve is listening to him, but he’s also very fixated on the bat pattern of his pajama bottoms and the fluffy green socks he’s wearing. One of the blankets he kept on flows behind like a cape.

“Okay, but I’m doing it,” he insists, following behind and just a tiny bit unmoored by the conversation. He was expecting something less… Normal. More awkwardness, confessions, and hurt feelings. That’s what he’s been preparing for.

“Of course, my shiny knight, of course,” Eddie assures him, reaching for a pot. “Will this be big enough?” he asks, eyeing the jars Steve’s putting on the counter.

“Think so.” He shrugs, eyeing the pot and opening the jars.

“Okay, come here.” Eddie motions him closer and Steve obliges, standing right next to him and the heat he’s radiating. He smells a bit sweaty, which is understandable, but he can smell the minty toothpaste on his breath, meaning he brushed his teeth before Steve’s arrival. He tried not to think about the implications of it.

“Okay, so never try to light the right top burner…”

He listens closely to all the instructions and shoos Eddie away as soon as possible to operate the stove under his watchful eye from one of the kitchen chairs. He goes through three matches to get the fire going under the pot but he gets the soup on the burner without much more damage.

“Do I get the Chosen One title yet?” he asks as he idly stirs the soup.

Eddie snorts.

“Don’t get cocky before finishing, dear Steven.”

“Fine,” he huffs.

The silence settles between them and he doesn’t know where to go from there. But he told himself before coming that he’d wait patiently for Eddie’s answer and simply bask in his presence without pushing. Maybe turn up his charm if it feels right but that’s all.

“What have you been doing stuck at home?” he asks, the need to break the silence overwhelming.

Eddie hums, his eyes unfocused on the heating soup.

“Read Hobbit for the eleventy-first time, polished the postponed campaign, and planned for the next one already. Though, with these little bastards, it was probably a waste of my time. Rewatched a couple of movies?” he adds, voice tilting like it’s a question. When Steve hums in interest, he continues. “Paid extra attention to the actors. Turns out, Harrison Ford? Kinda hot.”

Steve snorts, taken aback, and when he turns, Eddie’s grinning at him sheepishly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I might be into dudes, after all.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.” He smacks his lips obnoxiously and sucks in a breath. “You know, last time I tried to ask someone out, she said she was not interested at all, in anyone, and skipped town.”

Steve whines sympathetically.

“Shit, man. I’ve never chased a girl out of town.”

“It did numbers on my self-esteem, I’ll tell you that.”

“I promise to stay in town if you ask me out.”

“Would that make me the guy?”

Steve cocked his head and studied Eddie for a while. He never thought about the dynamics of a same-sex relationship. Would he like to be ‘the girl’? Wooed and treated gently, gifted with flowers? Kissed on the neck, and spooned to sleep? He felt his cheeks grow hot at the imagery.

Unfortunately, Eddie noticed and his smile grew.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

Steve shrugs, turning back to the soup.

“Aww, you’d like to be my princess, pampered with gifts and kisses?”

Steve made a point of focusing on his task and hiding his face.

“So what?” He bristled. “What if I do? Would it be… Is that bad?”

“What? No! Why would it be bad?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t know why but something in his gut keeps telling him it is.

“Why would wanting to be cared for, be bad?”

“Uh, well…” Steve focuses his stinging eyes on the soup. He’ll have to turn it off soon and won’t have any excuses not to look at Eddie.

There’s a shuffle behind him and soon a warm body presses against his back, hugging him from behind. Eddie’s still wrapped in a blanket so they make a slightly awkward bundle against the stove.

“Besides, Princess Stevie sounds waaay better than King Steve,” Eddie presents his final argument and Steve lets out a surprised snort.

“You’re such a fucking weirdo, I swear.”

“Well, it worked on you, sooo…”

“And I still have no idea how,” he sighs dramatically. He squeezes the arms around him gently and turns off the stove before nudging Eddie away so he can pour the soup into bowls. They sit down to eat and when he hands Eddie a spoon he ignores it and slurps the soup straight from the bowl.

“Savage.” Steve rolls his eyes but can’t fight his amusement at his antics. Eddie smacks his lips loudly and grins.

“So, anyway…” He drums his fingers against the bowl. “Do you wanna go out, whenever Wayne gives me the all-clear to leave the house?”

Steve grins, watching the loud man be hesitant for once.

“Are you asking me on a date, Munson?”

His already red nose gets even redder.

“We don’t have to call it a date, we can just hang out, just the two of us.”

“Nah, I’d rather call it a date.”

Eddie inhales and a smile spreads on his face.

“Okay. Let’s do it then. Arcade? I feel like cinema dates are such a cliche.”

“Yeah, but there’s this new movie I’d like to argue with you about.”

��Is it The Fly? Or The Little Shop of Horrors?” Eddie prods with excitement. Because a heated debate on the first date sounds utmost alluring.

Steve extends his leg under the table, nudging softly at Eddie’s ankle. He nudges back with a grin and they rest their legs against each other. A simple touch they can settle on until Eddie gets better, until the date they plan in the cramped kitchen over bowls of soup until the sky turns dark.

#spicysixwinterfanworkschallenge #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #mine #ff #st #stranger things 4 #steddie fanfiction #steddie one shot #steddie fluff

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calabria-mediterranea · 2 months

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Occitan is still spoken in Southern Italy's Calabria

Blessed with one of the most beautiful languages, Italy is also home to a plethora of linguistic minorities, twelve to be precise, across fourteen regions, with almost three million speakers. The Occitan linguistic minority of the Alpine valleys of Northern Italy's Piedmont and Liguria is probably one of the most well known, also because of the importance the language had in the history of European culture and literature: the Langue d’Oc and its poetry inspired the troubadours of Provence, in Southern France. In those days, Occitan was spoken in the South of France, from the Atlantic to the Alps, but today only small pockets of Occitan-speaking people exists, mostly across the Alpine valleys of France, Liguria, Piedmont and in thr town Guardia Piemontese, in Southern Italy's Calabria.

How did Occitan speaking people end up from the mountains of Northern Italy to the southernmost region of the Italian peninsula?

It’s a long story, one that brings us back to the 13th century, to a religious minority called Waldensians and to the fact Calabria is known for being a welcoming land for all those seeking refuge, from Greeks to Albanians and Jews.

The Waldensian movement had developed in the Cottian Alps between France and Northern Italy towards the end of the 12th century, most likely thanks to the contributions of Peter Waldo (from whom the movement took its name). Waldensians lived a life of asceticism and poverty, but some of their more extreme views — lack of faith in transubstantiation and having associated the Catholic church with the “harlot of the Apocalypse” — turned them into religious pariah and victims of persecution across Europe.

A considerable group of Waldensians moved to Calabria in the 13th century to escape persecution in Northern Italy and the land of Calabria proved to be a blessing, because its fertile soil allowed the development of a prosperous community.

Guardia Piemontese is a town on the Western coast of Northern Calabria.

The date of Guardia's foundation is unknown, and the name of the place has changed several times in history. "Guardia" means watch or lookout, and this name is probably related to a lookout tower built in the 11th century. Such lookout towers were built to warn against Arab pirates, then called Saracens, ravaging the coast.

For the first century, the community of Guardia cohabited peacefully with their Catholic neighbors, but things tragically changed when the Waldensians decided to join the Protestant Reform: then, they became the enemy and victims of a religious persecution that was to obliterate them in the early summer of 1561. Those tragic events are still remembered today in Guardia Piemontese, thanks to a monument called La Porta del Sangue, (the Gate of blood), a memento to the violence that killed so many and forced many others to conversion.

Despite the suppression of their religion, the people of Guardia, or La Gàrdia, as they call it, have continued to use their distinct Occitan dialect, Gardiòl. Not surprisingly, it has been influenced by the speech of their neighbours in Calabria. For example, Gardiòl has adopted the use of retroflex consonants, common in Sicily and southern Italy.

The traditions that the Waldensians brought from Piedmont to Calabria, such as the Occitan language and certain customs, have survived over the centuries right through to the present day.

In 1863 the name Guardia was changed to Guardia Piemontese, to honor the geographical origins of the Waldensians.

On 5 June 2011, 450 years after the massacre in Guardia, the Waldensian Church opened a museum and cultural centre in the town. The museums tells the story of how the Waldensians arrived all the way in Calabria and preserves agricultural tools, the traditional clothing of Guardia Piemontese, made with a particular yarn of broom and the famous hurdy gurdy, an French instrument of medieval origins. In the Occitan valleys in Italy, the hurdy-gurdy was the traveling companion of buskers.

The Waldensian Church and the municipal authorities now collaborate closely in cultural affairs. Numerous ecumenical events have been planned together with the local Catholic community to mark the 500th anniversary of the Reformation.

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midnightpink · 10 days

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I am the moved on

read it here on ao3

“Sirius?”

It takes a second for him to realize he’s wrong. It’s not Sirius’ voice, familiar as it is.

“No, though I’m not surprised you’d think so. I’m the overlooked sibling.”

The overlooked sibling, as it is, has backed away—James is sure his head was resting on his thighs a second ago. Regulus stands a few feet away now, his posture overly casual. One leg is stretched out gracefully before him while the other curls up to his chest. He’s calculated nonchalance, with an arm draped effortlessly over his raised knee. Playing a great game of pretend. He looks bored, almost. Almost, because there is no mistaking how sharp those gray eyes look, catching and dissecting every movement in the room. Resting on James with something like confusion.

by: ThisLiminalSpace

Words: 54,388, Chapters: 9/9, Language: English

Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Regulus Black, James Potter, Harry Potter, Euphemia Potter, Fleamont Potter, Sirius Black,Remus Lupin

Relationship: Regulus Black/James Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Harry Potter & James Potter, Regulus Black & Harry Potter,Regulus Black & Sirius Black,Sirius Black & Harry Potter

Additional Tags: , Angst, Panic Attacks, Existential Crisis, Betrayal, Secrets, Flashbacks to Hogwarts era, 6 years later, Mpreg, BUT NOT ONE (1) USE OF THE WORD PREGNANT THOUGH, a love letter to Aix-en-provence, Unreliable Narrator, Smut, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, everyone is really upset at everyone, for A good long while, If you’re here for the mpreg you’re going to be disappointed, But if you’re not here for the mpreg you’re also going to be disappointed, We are taking canon and putting it in a little jar, Shaking it beautifully and then throwing it at the wall and destroying it, references to walburga’s a+ parenting, Parenting for Dummies, Sexual Content, Past Relationship(s), Hurt/Comfort, sand metaphor out of the ass, just saying, prepare yourself, Sibling bond, James Potter is Harry Potter's Parent, Baby Harry Potter, Desi James Potter, Exes to Lovers, Exes, Second Chances, Brothers, Raising Harry Potter, Implied Mpreg, Post Mpreg, Family Secrets, Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Romance, Room of Requirement (Harry Potter)

#harry potter #james potter #regulus black #remus lupin #sirius black #euphemia potter #fleamont potter #jegulus #wolfstar #james x regulus #fic rec

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pwlanier · 9 months

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SPINY AMMONITE

Crioceras Nolani

Cretaceous, Hauterivian, 129–132 million years

Alpes de Haute-Provence, France

39 × 43 cm (without stand)

Ammonites are an extinct group of cephalopods that were very rich in form. There are 1500 known genera of ammonites. Thanks to their variety of forms ammonites are a popular collector's item. Their shell – rolled up in the manner of a logarithmic spiral – recalls that of a snail, but this is not the case with all ammonites. The species Crioceras Nolani has a flat, spiral shell, where no coil is in contact with the other.

Why the shape developed in this way is unknown. Possibly this species lived in the benthic zone at the lowest level of the sea, so there was no need for a shell suitable for swimming. The spines decorating the animal's shell served as protection for the ammonite, which was either sedentary or could only move slowly on the sea floor.

Koller

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sicutpuella · 10 months

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Desiderium [Tom Riddle x Original Character]

Chapter 1: nuit de février

In the outskirts of Provence, France, on a February evening in the year 1951, an air of enchantment permeated the countryside. Nestled amidst the rolling hills, a grand chateau stood as a beacon of refinement and grandeur. Adorned in exquisite finery, every detail meticulously attended to, the sprawling estate emanated an aura of timeless elegance. As dusk descended upon the land, casting a golden hue upon the snow-covered landscape, the chateau's lights shimmered with a radiance that rivaled the celestial stars above. Their warm glow cascaded through the windows, casting a spell of enchantment upon all who beheld the spectacle.

The atmosphere was filled with anticipation as carriages, resplendent in their regal splendor, made their stately procession towards the chateau's entrance. Each arrival added to the symphony of murmured conversations and tinkling laughter that echoed through the frosty air. The gardens, too, had not been spared from the touch of whimsical enchantment. The carefully manicured flora, bedecked with delicate frost and a dusting of snow, created a magical tableau. Twinkling lights were carefully woven amidst the branches of ancient trees, casting a soft, ethereal glow that danced in harmony with the falling snowflakes.

Within the chateau's walls, guests mingled amidst opulent salons adorned with gilded tapestries and magnificent chandeliers. Laughter, tinged with the echoes of clinking glasses, filled the air as conversations flowed like a melodic symphony of shared stories and whispered secrets.

In this grand setting, the evening unfolded with a grace befitting the majesty of the surroundings. The guests, their attire a tapestry of refined elegance, moved through the chateau's halls with an air of sophistication and charm. The soft notes of a grand piano accompanied their every step, lending an ethereal soundtrack to the festivities.

As the night wore on, the allure of the chateau's splendor captivated all who beheld it. The snowflakes continued their gentle descent, weaving a veil of enchantment over the landscape. The grandeur of the scene, the delicate interplay of light and snow, whispered of timeless beauty and the promise of unforgettable memories.

And so, in this idyllic setting on that fateful February evening, the grand chateau stood as a testament to the power of elegance and refinement. Its magnificence, embellished by the softly falling snow and the twinkle of a thousand lights, created an ethereal world where dreams and reality intertwined, casting a spell upon all who had the privilege to partake in its grandeur.

From the depths of a carriage emerged a vision of elegance and poise. As the door swung open, a woman alighted with grace, her every movement imbued with an innate sense of refinement. Cascading down her back, her crimson tresses were styled with meticulous care, their lustrous waves framing a countenance of ethereal beauty.

Clad in a gown of regal allure, she wore a shade of dark royal blue that enveloped her form with a beguiling charm. The neckline of her evening attire ascended gracefully, drawing attention to her slender, swan-like neck that held an air of elegance and grace. The absence of sleeves allowed her long and graceful arms to be exposed, captivating the onlookers with their sheer loveliness. A white-fur cover-up adorned her shoulders, adding a touch of luxurious warmth to the ensemble. Her attire, though modest, possessed a subtle sensuality that hinted at the allure lying just beneath the surface. The back of her gown, tastefully revealed, offered a glimpse of her radiant skin, evoking a sense of both mystery and desire. The delicate balance struck between modesty and allure painted her as a woman of refined taste and captivating beauty.

The woman's features were a testament to her natural loveliness. Her makeup, light and delicately applied, enhanced rather than masked her inherent grace. Her electric blue eyes, the very windows to her soul, shimmered with a blend of nervousness and charm, captivating all who had the privilege of meeting her gaze. Her every expression, every flutter of her lashes, conveyed a delicate vulnerability that only served to enhance her appeal.

Amidst the grandeur and opulence that surrounded her, she stood, radiating a captivating aura that drew admiring glances from all who beheld her presence. Though there lingered a hint of nervousness, a touch of awkwardness in her demeanor, it only served to accentuate her natural beauty, making her all the more endearing.

As the noble and revered Domitius Rosier caught sight of his daughter entering the grand halls, his eyes alight with unmistakable delight. His commanding presence, tall and dignified, matched her own in stature, for she stood only a few inches shorter than her esteemed father. A man of striking countenance, his features exuded an undeniable allure. His light-blonde hair, touched with traces of silver, framed a visage that had weathered the passing years with grace, further enhancing his handsomeness and charm. With an ethereal bone structure and an air of regality, he stood as a testament to the timeless appeal of his lineage.

"Ah, Claudia, my beloved daughter!" Domitius voice carried a note of sheer elation as he greeted her. His eyes, mirroring the mesmerizing electric blue hue of her own, twinkled with paternal pride and unbridled joy. Eagerly, he closed the distance between them, his arms outstretched in anticipation of their long-awaited reunion.

"Father! How I've longed for this moment!" Claudia's voice, filled with warmth and affection, rang out as she embraced him tenderly. The bond between them was undeniable, a testament to the profound love they shared as father and daughter. In that embrace, time seemed to stand still, and the grand chateau faded into the background, leaving only the cherished connection between them.

Their reunion was a symphony of love and joy, their voices intertwining in laughter and heartfelt conversation. As they moved gracefully through the opulent halls of the chateau, their shared happiness permeated the air, casting a radiant glow upon all who witnessed their familial bond. The grand chateau, with its resplendent décor and majestic ambiance, became the backdrop to a cherished moment between a father and his daughter. Amidst the flickering candlelight and the whispers of enchantment, their love and connection shone brightly, a beacon of warmth and tenderness in a world filled with fleeting moments.

“At least, you weren’t late!” Domitius gently teases his daughter.

"I am honored to be present for this joyous occasion, Father," Claudia replied, her voice filled with a mixture of excitement and anticipation. She glanced around the room, taking in the sight of the esteemed guests and the palpable aura of importance that surrounded them. Tonight was not just any ordinary wedding; it was a gathering of influential figures, where political allegiances were forged and strengthened.

Domitius chuckled softly, his voice tinged with amusement. "Ah, my dear Claudia, punctuality is indeed a virtue that runs deep in our bloodline. I am glad you have inherited that trait from me." His eyes sparkled with affection as he placed a hand on her arm, guiding her through the bustling crowd. "But it is not just punctuality that makes this evening special. It is the union of two great families, the intertwining of destinies, and the forging of alliances that will shape the course of our future."

As they strolled along the gilded corridors, their steps echoing softly against the marbled floor, Claudia listened intently to her father's words. His wisdom and guidance had always been a beacon in her life, grounding her amidst the tumultuous storms that came with their esteemed name.

"Father, I cannot help but feel a mixture of excitement and… dread," Claudia confessed, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

Domitius’ gaze softened, and he placed a hand on her cheek, a gesture filled with paternal reassurance. "My dear Claudia, you have always been a source of pride for me. Your strength and intelligence shine brightly, and I have no doubt that you will carry our family's legacy with honor. But remember, my child, that even in the face of great responsibilities, you must never lose sight of your own happiness and fulfillment. Your heart should guide you as much as your intellect."

Claudia nodded, absorbing her father's words of wisdom. She understood the delicate balance between duty and personal desires, and she vowed to find harmony within herself. The burden of their name may be weighty, but she refused to let it overshadow her own dreams and aspirations.

"Thank you, Father," she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude. "Your guidance and unwavering support mean the world to me."

Domitius smiled warmly, his eyes shimmering with love. "You are my greatest joy, Claudia. Remember that, always."

Among the sea of esteemed guests, Claudia Rosier stood tall and regal, her crimson gown accentuating her elegant stature. Her eyes shimmered with a mixture of excitement and curiosity as she observed the gathering. This was not merely a social affair; it was a convergence of power and influence, where alliances were forged and secrets exchanged beneath the guise of polite conversation.

As she made her way through the grand hall, Claudia's gaze alighted upon the familiar faces of Ministry members, seasoned politicians, and influential figures of pureblood society. The room seemed to come alive with the whispered conversations and laughter of those who held the keys to power. It was a world she had been born into, a world where connections and lineage held great sway.

Her eyes briefly met those of Armand Malfoy, a figure of great importance within the pureblood circles. The intensity in his gaze spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of their shared heritage and the intricate web of blood ties that bound their families together. Claudia couldn't help but wonder about the complexities that lay beneath the surface, the unspoken alliances and unbreakable loyalties that governed their world.

Amidst the sea of influential guests, Claudia's attention was caught by the presence of rich old purebloods. They exude an air of privilege and entitlement, their names etched into the annals of pureblood history. Their wrinkled faces and weathered hands spoke of a lifetime spent in pursuit of power and wealth, their very presence a testament to the enduring legacy of their bloodlines.

As she gracefully moved through the crowd, Claudia engaged in polite conversation with acquaintances and family friends. She spoke with eloquence and confidence, her intelligence and charm evident in every word she uttered. Yet, beneath her composed facade, there was a flicker of restlessness, a longing to make her mark on a world that often felt suffocating in its traditions and expectations.

She observed her father, conversing effortlessly with influential figures. His commanding presence and charisma commanded respect, his words holding weight and authority. Claudia couldn't help but feel a swell of pride, knowing that she was his daughter, a reflection of his legacy and the aspirations he had instilled within

As they moved through the grand hall, the whispered conversations and admiring glances followed in their wake. Claudia's crimson tresses, her regal bearing, and the air of sophistication that enveloped her drew the attention of many. Yet, beneath the surface, she was aware of the expectations placed upon her, the burden of her family's legacy. It was a world where appearances were everything, and Claudia knew she had to navigate the treacherous waters with finesse and tact.

As Domitius led her further into the heart of the festivities, Claudia steeled herself for the challenges that lay ahead. She knew that within this grand gathering, there were alliances to be forged, secrets to be discovered, and ambitions to be pursued. The evening promised more than just a celebration of love; it was an arena where power, influence, and destiny converged.

As they approached the heart of the gathering, Claudia's eyes alighted upon the bride and groom.

In the grand ballroom of the opulent estate, the wedding of Allectus Rosier and Lucretia Black was a spectacle that had been meticulously orchestrated. It was a union not solely born out of love, but a strategic alliance between two prominent pureblood families. The Rosiers and the Blacks, both esteemed and powerful, sought to strengthen their ties and preserve their ancient lineage.

In the opulent ballroom, Allectus Rosier stood amidst the gathering, his presence commanding attention. The flickering candlelight accentuated the chiseled features of his face, casting shadows that only heightened the allure of his masculine beauty. His deep-set, electric blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, inviting those who dared to meet his gaze into a world of mystery and intrigue.

As he moved with a grace and confidence that bespoke his noble lineage, Allectus drew the attention of all in his path. His impeccable sense of style, showcased through his tailored attire, bespoke a man who understood the power of appearance and how it could captivate the minds and hearts of those around him. With every step he took, the whispers of admiration followed, like the gentle rustle of silk against marble.

Beside him, Lucretia, resplendent in her wedding gown, exuded an ethereal grace that complemented Allectus's commanding presence. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, cascading like a waterfall of obsidian, and her dark eyes held a hint of mystery. While her beauty was undeniable, it was the underlying knowledge that this union was forged for the preservation of bloodlines that cast a veil of complexity over her delicate features.

The guests marveled at the sight before them, marveling at the union of two individuals whose physical beauty seemed divinely ordained. But hidden beneath the façade of this arranged marriage, were the intricacies of their familial obligations and societal expectations. It was a delicate dance, where duty and desire intertwined, and the future of two great houses hung in the balance.

As the ceremony progressed, the solemn vows were exchanged, sealing the union of Allectus Rosier and Lucretia Black.

The grandeur of the reception hall was ablaze with the glittering chandeliers and the lively chatter of the esteemed guests. Claudia, beaming with pride for her brother's successful nuptials, made her way through the crowd to congratulate him. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she playfully teased Allectus, her beloved sibling.

"Congratulations, dear brother! You managed to look decent tonight, finally," Claudia jested, her voice laced with affectionate banter. She held her brother's arm and leaned in closer, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "And Lucretia, my dear sister-in-law, you look absolutely splendid. I hope you have a stash of potions to counteract any potential headaches from dealing with him," she teased, a playful smile adorning her lips.

As Claudia exchanged pleasantries with her family, a familiar voice cut through the air. Turning her head swiftly, she beheld her cousin, Abraxas Malfoy, his presence commanded attention, his poise and demeanor oozing with aristocratic elegance.

The soft glow of the chandeliers played upon Abraxas' bright white-blond hair, each strand meticulously arranged to perfection. Not a strand dared to be out of place, for it knew its role in accentuating his otherworldly features. His sharp, piercing gaze, like the blade of a silver rapier, met Claudia's eyes with an unwavering intensity.

With a smile that danced upon her lips, Claudia stepped forward to greet her cousin. The warmth in her eyes was mirrored in her voice as she extended her hand in greeting. "Ah, Abraxas, it is a pleasure to see you again," she said, her words carrying a genuine warmth and affection.

Abraxas, ever the epitome of refinement, reciprocated her greeting with a nod, acknowledging her presence. His pale, icy-blue eyes met hers.

She extended her hand towards Abraxas, a gesture of kinship and shared heritage. The group of pureblood friends surrounding him, including Mulciber, Nott, Lestrange, and others, exuded an air of sophistication and privilege, much like Claudia and her brother.

However, as her gaze swept the room, Claudia's eyes locked onto a figure that sent a chill down her spine. Tom Riddle, a man of enigmatic allure, stood apart from the revelry, his presence both captivating and unnerving. The room seemed to darken ever so slightly as Claudia's gaze met his piercing eyes.

Claudia's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to him, as if he possessed an invisible pull that captivated her gaze. It wasn't just his striking appearance that caught her attention, but the way he carried himself with an air of confidence and intelligence. Tom Riddle seemed to possess an otherworldly charm, his features perfectly chiseled and his movements graceful.

His dark, curly hair framed his face in a way that accentuated his piercing, intelligent eyes. The slight curl at the ends of his locks added a touch of effortless elegance. His cheekbones were sculpted, giving his face a refined and aristocratic look. There was an enigmatic quality about him that left Claudia intrigued, as if there were depths of complexity hidden beneath his attractive exterior.

As Tom Riddle moved through the crowd, conversing with various guests, Claudia couldn't help but notice how effortlessly he commanded attention and respect. His words were articulate and thoughtful, drawing people in with his wit and charm. It seemed that even her brother, Allectus, and her cousin, Abraxas Malfoy, both known for their own good looks, paled in comparison to Tom Riddle's magnetic presence.

Claudia's curiosity grew, and she found herself longing to engage in conversation with this enigmatic figure. She observed the way he carried himself, the way he made others feel important and valued. It was as if he possessed a charisma that extended beyond mere physical appearance, captivating the hearts and minds of those around him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Abraxas noticed how his cousin Claudia seemed to stiffen up a bit upon seeing Tom.

“Ah! Lest we not forget your little show back when you were what… 11?” Allectus chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The mention of that particular memory elicited a brief flashback in Claudia's mind, transporting her back to her first year at Hogwarts.

She could vividly recall the scene in the Slytherin common room, bathed in the dim glow of the firelight, where Tom Marvolo Riddle, then a sixth-year prefect, had been surrounded by a crowd of admirers. The Slytherin Quidditch team, basking in the glory of their recent victory, had flocked around him like moths to a flame. Claudia, a wide-eyed first-year filled with youthful infatuation, had watched from a distance, her heart aflutter with anticipation.

Summoning her courage, she approached him, her delicate footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. In her hand, she clutched a folded piece of parchment, its edges slightly creased from her anxious grip. In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only her and the enigmatic figure of Tom Riddle before her. Her heart raced, her palms grew clammy, but her determination propelled her forward.

"Hello, Tom Riddle!" she had exclaimed, her voice quivering yet filled with a resolute innocence that belied her tender age. The room fell silent, every eye fixed upon the brave young girl who dared to express her affections so openly.

"I am Claudia," she continued, her words tumbling out in a rush, like a cascade of pearls from a broken necklace. "I know that you and my brother, Allectus, are good friends, but I... I cannot help myself, Tom Riddle. My heart beats faster whenever you are near. I like you, Tom Riddle. I like you more than treacle tart, more than sugar, more than the finest chocolates from Honeydukes! I like you with every fiber of my being!"

The common room held its breath, the air pregnant with anticipation. Claudia's cheeks flushed with a rosy hue, her doe-like eyes shining with a mixture of vulnerability and hope. Her innocent declaration of love hung in the air, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly's wings.

Tom Riddle, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, regarded her with a mixture of surprise and gentleness. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her body, as if she had been touched by magic itself. His voice, like the soft whisper of the wind through the trees, was warm and reassuring. "Claudia, I must commend you for your sheer courage and honesty. Your feelings are not unappreciated, but I fear I cannot return them in the same manner. Please do not take this the wrong way. You possess incredible qualities that will undoubtedly captivate someone worthy of your love."

Though Claudia's heart sank at his words, she admired his response, understanding the truth in his gentle rejection. Tom had handled her confession with grace and compassion, preserving her dignity and shielding her from the potential ridicule of their peers.

"Thank you, Tom Riddle," she whispered, her voice filled with a bittersweet acceptance. "I appreciate your honesty and value our friendship above all else. Let us continue to support one another, as fellow Slytherins and as friends."

Tom's gaze softened, his eyes reflecting a fleeting glimpse of regret. "Claudia, you are a remarkable young witch. Never doubt your worth or the impact you can make in this world. Your bravery and resilience will take you far. Remember, love comes in many forms and at different times. The right person will appreciate the extraordinary person you are."

With those words, he gently released his hold on her shoulder, allowing her to retreat from the center of attention.

Claudia, now standing amidst the glamorous wedding celebration, smiled softly at the memory. How young and innocent she had been, captivated by Tom Riddle's allure even then. But time had passed, and Claudia understood that. She shook off the reverie, returning her attention to her teasing cousin and brother. "Oh, hush, you two!" Claudia replied with a playful pout. "That was ages ago, and we were but children. Let us focus on celebrating Allectus and Lucretia's joyous union tonight."

“Ah, Claudia, dear cousin, you never fail to provide us with delightful memories!” Abraxas chuckled, his bright blonde hair cascading around his face like a halo. He exchanged a knowing glance with Allectus, their eyes gleaming with mischief.

Allectus, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, added, "Indeed, Claudia, we must commend your courage. Confessing your undying affection for Tom Riddle in front of the entire Slytherin house! A moment that shall forever be etched in our memories."

Nott and Lestrange, who had been standing nearby, couldn't resist joining in on the teasing. Nott, his voice dripping with sarcasm, remarked, "Oh, Claudia, how fortunate we were to witness such a heartfelt declaration of love! I dare say it rivaled the most dramatic scenes in plays."

Lestrange, his eyes twinkling with amusement, interjected, "Indeed! I shall never forget the stunned silence that followed your confession. It was as if the very air held its breath in anticipation of Tom Riddle's response." Claudia, though initially taken aback by their teasing, soon found herself joining in the mirth. "Oh, do cease your mockery, my dear companions!" she playfully retorted.

As the bustling crowd began to simmer down, Claudia found herself seated beside her cousin, Abraxas. They exchanged warm smiles, their conversation a testament to the enduring bond shared between them.

"I've heard you're working with the Ministry of Wizarding Law Enforcement now!" Abraxas exclaimed, genuine pride gleaming in his eyes. He was delighted to see Claudia flourishing in her professional life, ascending the ranks of the magical world. Claudia's cheeks flushed with a rosy hue, her modesty shining through despite her accomplishments.

"And I've heard you and your wife have been blessed with a pregnancy!" Claudia's voice rang out, her eyes sparkling with genuine joy. The news of their impending parenthood had reached her ears through the whispered gossip of high society, and she could not contain her excitement.

Abraxas, ever the astute conversationalist, skillfully redirected the topic, a playful glint in his eyes. "Ah, don't change the subject, dear cousin," he quipped, a sly smile playing upon his lips. "But yes, we have indeed been blessed with the gift of a child.”

Claudia's attention returned to the matter at hand, a graceful smile gracing her features. "Oh, it's nothing extraordinary," she replied, her voice a melodious blend of humility and pride. "Recently, I have been entrusted with a significant role in the Ministry, tasked with the creation and refinement of laws concerning magical artifacts.”

Abraxas nodded approvingly, acknowledging her accomplishments. "Ah, the intricate world of legislation and governance," he remarked, his voice laced with admiration. "I have always known that your intellect and tenacity would lead you to great heights.”

Before she could delve deeper into her recent ventures, she was interrupted by the familiar voice that had once stirred her soul. It was Tom Riddle, the enigmatic figure whose presence had ignited a flame within her young heart. His entrance, marked by an aura of charm and confidence, drew the attention of all who were fortunate enough to witness it.

"My, my, my... Claudia Rosier," he spoke, his voice laced with a hint of amusement and genuine admiration. "It has been far too long since our paths last crossed, and yet, in that time, you have accomplished so much. I must offer my sincerest congratulations."

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