#seventies san francisco au
Note
I WANT LIGHTHOUSES SNIPPETS I AM FERAL FOR LIGHTHOUSES SNIPPETS JFC xo @hardly-an-escape
Then it is feralness you shall receive!! And I notice you said SNIPPETS plural so have a small bouquet of feral moments in this fic, in increasing length and feralness: Hob needing to borrow Dream's shower, accidentally cumming to the thought of your friend's smile, and wanting so bad it hurts your chest
(some NSFW under the cut)
Hob comes out of the shower shirtless with a towel around his neck. His hair is curling wet around his face. He did a poor job of drying himself. There’s beads of water caught like dew in his chest hair. A stray rivulet of water is running lower, down his furred belly. He’s dripping a puddle on the hardwood floor, and still glowing a little with exercise. Dream is certain he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
“Hey, thanks, man. I’ll get outta your hair now,” he says, unaware of the fact Dream is vividly imagining kneeling before him and following that rivulet of water with his tongue. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Naw,” says Matthew, as if Hob had been talking to him. “Stay for dinner and beer.”
Hob looks at Dream. He swallows heavily. “Yes,” he croaks. “Stay.”
Hob lights up. “Well, alright.”
“Right on,” says Matthew.
---
After kicking Hob out, he jacks off with an arm thrown over his face, because he doesn’t want to see anything else. Doesn’t want to be in this room or this life, a coward’s life, a greedy life, hungering after his friend.
If Hob ever saw it, he’d run.
Dream tries to exorcise the buzzing lust, curled sideways on his bed like a parenthesis and fucking into his fist, not taking his time with it like he normally does. He doesn’t want to take himself apart. He wants to tear himself apart. Wants this monstrous black hunger climbing up the inside of his ribs to be satisfied as quick as possible, so he can look Hob in the eye and talk to him without biting his tongue.
He thinks of good fucks he’s had, moments and pieces from them, stitched all together. It does nothing. It’s like purgatory. Limbo. Even as he twists his hand around his prick, crooks a leg and presses up on his hole with fingers, he’s blind with need and he still can’t fucking cum. He groans in frustration and squeezes his eyes shut, thinks of guys fucking him rough, hands ‘round his hips leaving bruises, pretty twinks with big eyes kneeling for him, the bar smell of leather and poppers and piss, hot tongue and spit on his hole, the warmth of another body, of bodies, of beckoning glances and smiles, of one smile, Hob’s smile, his easy grin, clear as day, the heat of him, the brush of his skin, his hands, restless and warm and big, with hair dusting the knuckles, fidgeting with a pencil, stroking the neck of a bottle, holding a cigarette—him him him—smiling and saying us poor fuckers.
And he comes back to himself a moment later, panting. He rolls away from the mess he made across his sheets to stare at the ceiling, limbs loose and soul damned.
He shouldn’t have waited. Should’ve climbed into Hob’s fucking lap instead of the chair next to him that first day, should’ve made a scene, should’ve known. Hob deserves someone who would see him straightaway for the marvel he is, and he didn’t. Didn’t see him until Hob had already seen someone else here.
He wouldn’t regret it with Hob.
---
He’s drank too much. He’s drank too much and this was stupid idea, actually, to bring Dream here. To sit next to him and hear fierce poetry about gay love, and desire, and touch. They’re across from each other now, and still it feels too close. Feels dangerous. He hasn’t been this sort of drunk since leaving home. The kind where he wants so badly it physically hurts. Like kneeling on broken concrete. Like a pulse. His hands itch. He needs a fuck, a fight, anything at all. Anything to stop him from quoting Shakespeare and staring too long at Dream’s lips and thinking of all the lines he heard tonight, coiled around his heart and throat, mocking him.
“I’ll wait,” he says, standing so hard on the knife edge of truth and discretion he thinks he won’t be able to walk away from this, or walk ever again after it. “I’d wait a hundred years for, for him. However long it takes.”
“You’re too loyal, Hob.” Dream looks disappointed with him. He wonders if it’s obvious, how fucked he is right now. He wonders if his want is rolling off of him, like fog, if Dream sees it. Or feels it, clinging to his skin, damp. If he’s repulsed. He doesn’t want to be pitied. Not by Dream. Not for this. There’s nothing wrong, being loyal. Nothing wrong waiting.
“Maybe. Maybe I am.” Hob’s eyes feel wet. He thinks about being a little kid and picking sea glass from the beaches of Sausalito, before they moved to Fort Wayne. He thinks about how the colours got dull by the time he was home, and how he’d put the soft-edged pebble of glass in his mouth, suck the salt off it, just to see it shining and transluscent again. Green, and clear, and amber, and sometimes, rarely, blue.
His head is swimming. Not swimming, no. Drowning. He’s a bad friend. He doesn’t want to be rescued. He wants to pull Dream down with him. Dream’s own lines rise up in his mouth like bile. He leans forward, defiant.
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll, maybe I’ll save every breath in my lungs for him.”
“Don’t,” says Dream, jaw tight. “Don’t do that. Don’t take that from me.”
Hob hears the warning in his voice and wants to dash himself on it, wants to crash up on the rocks of the awful island Dream has made of himself if it means he’ll finally look at Hob with that white-hot attention he reserves for his secret love. “Why not,” he hears himself flatly say.
“I mean it, Hob.” Oh, he’s angry, now. Anger is a kind of heat. Maybe it’s the best he’ll get.
“Why not?” he repeats. He fumbles out a cigarette, lights it. He’ll play Dream’s mystery man for him. “C’mon, huh?” He takes a shaky drag and laughs, and raises his chin. “Why not? Why don’t you take something from me, then, and we’ll call it even?”
Dream, unblinking, sets his glass down on the table with a sharp thunk. A stupid little thrill races through Hob.
Shit, maybe he’ll deck me, if I’m lucky.
Instead, Dream reaches out and pulls the cigarette from his lips and puts it between his own. Hob sways forward. Dream takes a long drag and tilts his head back to blow the smoke past Hob. His throat is pale. Like the fucking moon. His eyes haven’t left Hob’s. Sharp wet seaglass. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thinks. Dream drops the cigarette in the ashtray between them and leans forward too. His voice is rough. “Like that?”
Hob is dizzy. His chest feels like it’s on fire. Like he’s been running miles too long, too hard. His lips are stuck parted. Soft. Fucked with wanting as the rest of him. He’d buried too much, and it filled him up, it’s all of him now, singing through every fibre of his body. “No,” he says, quiet. “More.” Dream shouldn’t be able to hear it in the noise of the bar. Hob can hardly hear himself over his pulse pounding in his ears, and maybe Dream doesn’t hear him at all, maybe he’s staring so hard at Hob’s mouth that he can just see the shape of the words. His lungs are going to burst.
Dream’s eyes flick back up to look at him. Not sea glass, no, the sea itself, all sunlit bright and unsecretly hungry. Looking at him, really looking at him.
“Who are you waiting for, Hob?” he asks.
Hob exhales.
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It’s All Happening
Written By: @luminescencefics
Characters: Frankie/Harry
Summary: If Frankie Goodhart had one secret in her life, it would be that she spent her summer writing album reviews to Rolling Stone, hoping one day they’d give her a shot. If she had a second secret in her life, it would be that she was constantly chasing love, never knowing what it felt like to be truly immersed in another person. She blames this on her ever-growing record collection filled with love songs.
Harry Styles had a lot of secrets in his life, but if he had to share one, it would be that he was trying his hardest to balance his life while being on the road with his band. Just as he’s starting to feel like he’s begun to balance the ever-shifting scales of his life, Frankie shows up, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep his secrets hidden any longer.
Well, except one.
Inspired by Almost Famous, a 70s au about a girl whose job required her to ask the hard-hitting questions and a boy who did everything he could to avoid them.
March 1973 - entry no. 1
Most mornings in the Goodhart household typically started with some sort of screaming match between Frankie’s mother and her older sister, Mary. You see, Mary had a penchant for rebellious behavior, or so their mother believed. She liked listening to rock music and kissing her boyfriend Greg outside in his Chevrolet Nova past curfew. Mary graduated high school four years before Frankie did, and her mother had begged her to go to college. But instead, Mary took that time to “find herself,” and put off enrolling into schools on the west coast in favor of finding her own place in the world.
Cynthia Goodhart had a lot of rules in their household, but two that stood out the most (and practically ruined Mary’s life) were: no rock music and no popular culture influences. Cynthia believed that her children did not need those things to rot their brain, and instead played classical music and watched films that she had seen numerous times before to ensure they were censored appropriately and recently introduced soy to their diets.
“This is why dad left you!” Mary would say whenever their mother would find a hidden record that went against her arbitrary rules.
“You’re so ungrateful, I didn’t raise you to be so cruel!” Her mother would respond, and Frankie would sit on the top of the carpeted stairs and watch it all unravel below her.
Truth is, Frankie didn’t know why their dad left. She was too young to remember what life was like with him around, but Mary always told her that it was their mother who drove him away with her incessant rules and authoritative outlook on life.
“I’m never going to end up like her, Frankie,” Mary would say after their fight, squeezed beside her little sister in her twin bed. Frankie would just hold her hand tightly and agree, even though she didn’t really think her mother was all that bad.
A few weeks later when Mary announces that she’s leaving Santa Monica and going to San Francisco to become a stewardess, Frankie isn’t all that surprised. It was only a matter of time until Mary left. Their mother didn’t take this well, of course. She wanted Mary to go to college and find a nice boy to start a family with. She didn’t want her running off to San Francisco with Greg to travel a world so far from what she had known.
Before the Chevrolet Nova skids out of the driveway and Frankie never sees her sister again, Mary runs up to her and gives her the tightest hug she could muster. Frankie holds her with all of her grip, wishing that she didn’t feel that she had to run away in order to be her own person. But it was out of Frankie’s control, so she could only wish the best for her older sister.
“Frankie,” Mary whispers in her ear, “look under my bed. That suitcase is yours. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know, every question you have, the answers are there. I love you. I always have.”
After Mary is long gone and her mother has cried out all of her tears, Frankie slips into her sister’s room and lifts up the ruffled bedskirt to find an old brown leather suitcase. She opens it and inside is Mary’s secret cache of rock albums spanning decades. Frankie heaves it into her room and plucks Tommy by The Who on her record player and plays it softly, and in that moment she feels as if her life is finally starting.
***
May 1973 - entry no. 2
Frankie was sitting in her bedroom listening to
Exile on Main St.
by the Rolling Stones trying to clear her head. She was suffering from a bit of writer’s block, and she was feeling a bit uninspired at the moment.
During the middle of “Torn and Frayed,” Frankie hears the landline start ringing from the kitchen downstairs. Her mother was currently in the shower, and deeming the call to be rather important as it was after dinner time, Frankie trudges downstairs to answer before the ringing has ceased.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Lester Bangs here. Is this Frankie Goodhart?” A deep voice says on the other line.
Frankie pauses, scrolling through the rolodex in her brain trying to remember if she knew anybody with that name. Suddenly, Frankie sucks in a breath, realization dawning on her.
“Hello? Do I have the wrong number or something?” The voice repeated, clearly losing patience. Frankie was currently speaking to the Lester Bangs, top music editor at Rolling Stone magazine. Also known as, the name she had scribbled on the past fifteen manilla envelopes she sent out to the magazine up in San Francisco.
“Er, yes. Hi, this is she,” Frankie mutters, trying to sound sophisticated.
“Awesome. I work at Rolling Stone and we just came across your review for Bowie’s Aladdin Sane record. Ace work,” Lester says quickly, and Frankie can feel her heartbeat in her throat.
“Oh cool. Thank you,” Frankie replies, quietly jumping up and down on the tile flooring of her kitchen.
“Are you currently writing for any other publication? Please don’t tell me those bastards over at Creem snatched you up,” Lester asks.
“No, uh, nothing like that. Just freelancing, at the, er, current moment,” Frankie says. She lowers her voice an octave so she doesn’t sound like the eighteen year old high school graduate she clearly was. She was sure that Rolling Stone would want nothing to do with her if they knew the truth.
“Good to hear. On the envelope in front of me it says you're based out in Santa Monica. Tonight there’s a show at The Troubadour. The Nocturnals are performing and if you’re up for it, we’ll give you fifty dollars to write a review on it. Eight hundred words.” Lester spoke so quickly that Frankie couldn’t even discern what he was actually saying to her.
The Troubadour. A live show. The Nocturnals. Fifty dollars.
The words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. She had no idea that this could even happen to her. Before she could reply, Lester spoke again.
“Fine. Seventy dollars, but I can’t go any higher,” he sounded exasperated with a hint of desperation laced in between.
Just as Frankie was about to respond with a resonant yes, she hears her mother’s voice on the other telephone from her bedroom through the tinny speakers.
“Francine? Who on earth are you speaking to at this time?”
Frankie’s heart drops.
“Uh… Hello?” Lester asks, completely confused as to why there were two voices on the line. Before her mother could blow her cover, Frankie drops the receiver onto the kitchen counter and sprints upstairs to her mother’s bedroom, slamming her fingers on the lever to end the call.
“It’s a friend from school. Sorry it’s a late call, I’ll get off the phone in a minute,” Frankie rushes out, before turning back on her heel and grabbing the other telephone in the kitchen.
“Hi Lester, sorry, that was my, uh, assistant. Yeah. She’s sort of new at answering the phones and such,” Frankie shoots out quickly, lying straight through her teeth.
She needed this phone call to end immediately.
“No worries. I’ll expect a review mailed over by tomorrow so it’s on my desk by Monday morning. Any questions?” Lester asks in a way that sounded like he really didn’t have the time to answer.
“Nope. Sounds good,” Frankie says sounding completely out of breath.
“Expect to hear from me on Monday. Good luck,” Lester says, hanging up before Frankie could even consider responding.
Frankie’s first reaction was to start squealing in excitement. The second was, shit, what am I supposed to say to my mother?
***
Somehow, Frankie convinces her mother to drive her down Sunset Strip towards The Troubadour for the live show. If there’s one thing Frankie Goodhart could never do in this world, it would be to hurt her mother. Granted, she knows her rules are a bit obscene and that she can be a bit overbearing at times, but at the end of the day, she was her mother. And that was the main difference between Frankie and Mary—Mary thought running away was the answer to everything whereas Frankie believed honesty was most important.
Which is why Frankie was currently sitting in the front seat of her mother’s baby blue Lincoln Continental parked illegally across the street from the concert venue. She had spilled the beans about her writing cohorts to Rolling Stone, and even though her mother didn’t like the idea of it, she appreciated the fact that Frankie was trying to make something of herself. And there’s no denying that seventy dollars was a lot of money for any eighteen-year-old.
“Please make good choices. I’ll be here to pick you up at ten on the dot,” her mother says, staring at Frankie sharply.
“I will, mom.” Frankie makes a move for the door handle, watching as the crowd of teenagers and twenty-somethings huddle towards the front entrance. It’s loud and she can smell cigarette smoke and marijuana in the air. She knows her mother can too, and she knows that she’s about two minutes away from a full-blown heart attack, so before she can escape the confines of the car, she gives her mother a gentle reassuring squeeze.
With her tape recorder in one hand and her pocket-sized notebook in the other, Frankie starts walking towards the front entrance. Before she can get too far, she hears her mother bark out one last order.
“And Francine? NO DRUGS!”
Frankie feels her cheeks burn up as the people in front of her turn around and snicker at her mother’s frame hanging out of the Continental. They jokingly repeat her mother’s warning, with some even holding up a lit joint at her, cackling away.
If there was a hole in the pavement, Frankie would admittedly jump into it.
She makes her way to the front entrance with no luck. The show was sold out, and she didn’t have a ticket. Before Frankie can start to panic, she reassess the venue and sees that around the back there was some sort of loading dock. She turns the corner and is situated at the top of a ramp, with a group of three girls at the bottom giggling to themselves near a steel door.
“Are you new?” Frankie hears a voice from behind her.
She turns and is face to face with one of the most beautiful girls she’s ever seen in her life. Her blonde hair is long and curly, cascading over her shoulders and down her back effortlessly, ending just above two hollow dimples. The girl towers over Frankie, and when she looks down at her glittery go-go boots she understands why. Her long legs are toned and smooth underneath her leather mini skirt. She’s wearing a silver halter top that is so sheer Frankie can see her nipples through the thin layer of material. Over top is a pink velvet trench coat with frills on the lining, a garment completely inappropriate for the California heat in the beginning of summer.
That doesn’t matter though, because this girl emits confidence that is almost palpable. Frankie compares her own outfit to this girl’s, her long ivory legs and knobby knees hidden beneath her flared denim bell bottoms, her pointed boots with the small heel making her seem taller than she actually was. Her white cropped t-shirt is almost childlike compared to this girl’s daring choice, and when Frankie looks up she’s a bit embarrassed to be seen with her.
“Uh, I guess. I’m supposed to be writing an article about The Nocturnals for Rolling Stone, but I found out a bit late and I don’t have a ticket,” Frankie explains, holding up her tape recorder lamely. She really wishes she thought this entire thing through.
“Ooh, a journalist,” the girl echoes, reaching into her translucent plastic purse to grab a cigarette. She’s effortlessly cool in a way that should be intimidating to Frankie, but for some unknown reason she emits warmth.
“Cherry!” Frankie hears from down below the ramp. Suddenly the squealing trio starts running up the pavement and Frankie watches as the curly blonde skips down to meet them in a group hug. They’re all wearing some sort of sequinned ensemble, and Frankie can only assume that they’re groupies.
“Who’s this, Cherry?” A girl with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes asks, pointing at Frankie. Her long fingers are covered in jeweled rings and she has a fair amount of kohl liner surrounding her eyes. She’s wearing leather and is not as warm as the blonde girl.
“I’m not sure. I think she’s new, girls,” the blonde girl, presumably Cherry, says. She sounds much older than she looks and it’s almost obvious that she’s the ring leader of this troupe of glittery girls.
“I’m a journalist. I’m not a, uh, grou…” the words fall out of Frankie’s lips before she can finish the sentence. The girls in front of her hang their mouths open in shock, and Frankie feels as if she has said the wrong thing. The blonde girl has a hint of a smile on her face, as if the whole interaction is amusing to her.
“Don’t you dare say groupie!” The black-haired girl shrieks, practically jumping out of her skin.
Frankie feels bad, suddenly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I just—”
“—Assumed?” Cherry finishes for her.
Frankie shrugs her shoulders because she isn’t sure what to say. She feels bad for assuming the worst out of these girls, but she really couldn’t blame herself considering they were standing at a back entrance wearing far too much eye makeup than they should be. Frankie hated to judge people, because she didn’t deem it fair. But, she genuinely didn’t know any better. And she really didn’t think that these girls would be offended.
“You’re talking to Cherry Bomb here. She changed the groupie way of life forever. Before Cherry, girls were just throwing themselves at rockstars and sleeping with them just for the hell of it. Cherry here inspires people, man. They write songs about her! It’s much deeper than just sex, honey,” the girl with black hair says, pointing at Cherry as if she was a fine painting in a museum that you weren’t allowed to touch.
In some ways, she sort of was like that.
Cherry just smiles. “It’s about the connection. You’ll see,” she says.
Before Frankie could apologize again and leave, the large steel door opens and another pretty girl with brown hair and shiny pants comes out, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cluster of backstage passes in the other. The girls all start running towards the door, and Frankie is about to turn around in defeat before she feels a small hand latch onto her forearm.
“Aren’t you coming?” Cherry asks with a grin.
Before she could respond, Cherry tugs on her arm and the two girls are running through the steel door into the large venue. The other four girls start walking ahead, sharing sips from the large bottle of champagne, but Cherry hangs back, slowing her strides so she’s matching Frankie’s slow gait.
“So, what do I call you?” Cherry asks as they continue walking down a long hallway.
“Frankie,” she responds, looking up into Cherry’s silver eyes. “What do I call you?”
Cherry laughs. “Cherry should be fine,” she says, her words twisting as if they were a riddle.
Before Frankie could respond, they’re suddenly being thrust into a much smaller room. The air is stale with cigarette smoke and the effervescent scent of boy. Inside the makeshift dressing room, Frankie recognizes the girls from outside lounging around men of different ages. They’re laughing and drinking straight liquor from the bottle and Frankie tries her hardest to conceal her uneasiness.
Because in front of her were The Nocturnals, and she had a job to do.
She notices the drummer and the bassist, Jett and Rod, sitting on a torn up leather couch sharing a joint between the two all while entertaining Cherry’s friends. A girl with hair as dark as coals sits in front of a mirror applying red lipstick and Frankie recognizes her as the keyboardist and backing vocalist, Veronica—the only female in the band. A man with dark green eyes and long brown hair looks up and smiles when Cherry walks into the room, and Frankie realizes that he is Eddie, the lead guitarist.
Frankie did her research.
Before she could start conducting her interviews, a husky voice from the other side of the room calls out, stopping Frankie dead in her tracks.
“Cher, who’s your friend?” he asks.
Frankie’s head snaps up and immediately her blue eyes latch onto a pair of green. They’re much lighter than Eddie’s, and if Frankie was standing closer, she would be able to see the turquoise ring that outlined his pupil. His hair is shorter than the rest of the men in the band, albeit still curling around the tops of his ears. He’s the only member of The Nocturnals with a bare face, sans facial hair, and Frankie is taken aback by his youthful features. He’s wearing white wide-legged trousers and a bright pink shirt tucked under the waistband, barely buttoned up, showcasing his toned stomach and chest. His sleeves are rolled up and Frankie can almost make out the shapes of his tattoos, but before she can inspect them further, she’s completely aware that she’s been staring at him far too long.
Him, also known as Harry Styles, the lead singer of The Nocturnals.
Cherry hasn’t said anything, but with one look in her silver eyes, she’s said an entire string of words to Frankie without even opening her mouth.
Frankie suddenly feels a fire start to grow in her stomach.
“Harry, this is my friend Frankie. She’s a journalist,” Cherry announces loud enough for the rest of the room to hear over the beginning riffs of the opening band’s first song.
“A journalist?! Who let her in? She’s the enemy!” Eddie yells over from the couch. It’s clear that the rest of the band feel the same way about having a reporter around, and Frankie’s confidence suddenly starts wavering.
“Oi, calm down Eddie. She looks harmless enough,” Harry says slowly, suddenly appearing right in front of her. His voice is low and his eyes have a twinkle to them and Frankie’s throat has become increasingly dry.
“Hi Frankie, I’m Harry. Nice to meet you,” he says, towering above her from his stance.
Frankie shoots her arm out for a handshake. “Hi Harry. Nice to meet you, too.” His hands feel warm in her grasp and she’s shaking his so hard that the bangles on her wrists clang together like tambourines.
“If you have the time, I’d love to ask you a few questions before you—”
“—Five minutes!” A voice interrupts. Instantly, the band starts standing up and running around the room, grabbing various instruments and beginning to tune them accordingly. Roadies come in to grab amplifiers and microphone stands, and everything starts twirling together like a whirlwind and Frankie is losing grasp on what she’s supposed to be doing here in the first place.
The band starts walking towards the stage and Cherry grabs Frankie’s arm again, giggling a bit to herself. They catch up to Jett, and Frankie can see through his red-rimmed eyes and his glazed over stare that he’s stoned out of his mind, but he smiles at her and gives her a small nod, and Frankie feels a bit more welcomed.
“So who do you write for?” he asks, grabbing his drumsticks from the back pocket of his blue jeans and running his fingers over the shiny wood.
“Rolling Stone,” Frankie replies quickly.
He stops walking for a moment and looks up with wide eyes. “No shit? I’ll come find you after the show. Give ya a real interview,” he says excitedly, before giving her one last parting nod and approaching the rest of the band.
Frankie feels a bit out of sorts, but Cherry is still standing by her side and she feels an odd sense of comfort in that. The band is doing some sort of pre-show ritual and Frankie starts scribbling it all down in her notebook because it seems like the right thing to do. She watches the huddle break apart in front of her, and the band starts walking out onto the dimly lit stage.
She can hear the roars of the crowd, can practically feel them vibrating through the thick leather of her boots. And just before Harry steps on stage, he looks over his shoulder and gives her a wink, and the fire inside Frankie’s stomach turns into a full-blown blaze.
***
The show is everything and more. Frankie started by lingering in the background, letting the rest of the friends of the band stand closer to the side stage viewing area. After their first song was over and the crowd was cheering louder than anything Frankie had ever heard before, she feels Cherry drag her towards the front where she can get a better view of the band.
“How are you supposed to write an article standing all the way back there?” Cherry asks with a grin. They’re standing so close together that Frankie can feel the frills on her jacket tickling her cheekbones, but she doesn’t mind.
“Good evening, everybody,” Harry says after they’ve finished their first song of the night. He’s nothing but confident up there, a true frontman, and Frankie is a little bit in awe of him. “We’re The Nocturnals. I hope you like this next one,” he says and the crowd cheers. He looks over towards Eddie with a nod and he starts picking at the fret, playing a loud solo before the drums crash in and the second song starts.
It’s the third single off of their album and Frankie isn’t ashamed that she knows all the words. She would be lying if she didn’t think it was a good album. She remembers running to the other end of the boulevard into Tower Records before they closed to purchase it. Frankie must have played it for a week straight on the record player in her room.
Frankie starts scribbling in her journal, balancing on one foot while her knee is raised in a ninety degree angle acting as a makeshift desk. Her head is darting up, down, making sure not to miss a moment, but also making sure she’s capturing it all for the article.
“Enough of that, Frankie. Just watch,” Cherry says, whispering in her ear. Her small hands put pressure on the notebook over Frankie’s thigh, pressing down so her boot-clad feet touch the ground again.
“But I have to—”
“—Just watch. It’s the best way to experience the music.”
And Frankie does just that.
***
The show finishes with an encore of their number one hit single, “Too Much.” It’s electrifying and Frankie is glad that she listened to Cherry’s advice and watched the entire thing with wide eyes, remembering every moment of it. She could feel everything—the thumping of the bass, the rattling of the cymbals, the zing of the keyboards. But Harry’s voice—that was something she couldn’t wait to write about.
Frankie’s raking through the thesaurus in her mind trying to think of other words to describe his voice. She scribbles down guttural and gravelly, grating and gruff, throaty and raspy before she’s hearing it right in front of her.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, and Frankie is trying her best not to stare at the sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead, past his cheekbone, and pooling at his deep collarbones.
She blinks.
“It was amazing. Perfect, almost,” she replies.
“Almost?” Harry repeats, tilting his head downwards. Frankie watches as a bead of sweat travels down the bridge of his nose and she feels the warmest she’s ever felt this entire night.
Frankie reaches out to grab her tape recorder. Just as her finger is hovering over the record button, Harry shakes his head, tutting in disapproval.
“Not now.” And with that he walks away.
Frankie searches around for Jett, remembering that he promised her an interview after the show. Surprisingly, it goes a lot better than her attempt with Harry, and not long after, Rod decides to pitch in and add some remarks about the performance. Reapplying her makeup from the vanity behind the group, Veronica agrees to speak to Frankie and somehow she’s surprised that this group of people who once called her the enemy suddenly have an inkling to speak to her.
Harry reemerges suddenly, swapping out his pink dress shirt for a black one. It still isn’t buttoned appropriately, and he’s still looking at her with a twinkle in his emerald eyes that Frankie has never seen before. She watches as one of Cherry’s friends tries to give him attention, but his eyes are locked on Frankie’s, and she knows that this is the moment she needs to get his interview before the clock strikes ten.
“Do you have time to talk?” Frankie asks, approaching the pair cautiously.
The auburn haired girl rolls her eyes, but Harry just nods, shooing her away. Frankie feels bad.
They sit in the farthest corner of the room, her notepad and pen at the ready, her finger hovering over the record button. Harry’s watching her intently, inspecting her close enough that he can see the nervous shake of her hand, the small quiver of her lip.
“So, what has inspired you to make music?” Frankie asks, wasting no time.
Harry blows out a breath. “That’s the first question you ask me?” He reaches his hand out for the bottle of whiskey on the table, slugging it without pouring it into a glass.
“Well, on your debut album your song ‘1969’ clearly comes from personal—”
“—What inspired you to write?” Harry asks, completely ignoring Frankie’s question.
“Excuse me?” She says, completely thrown off guard.
Harry just shrugs his shoulders, smirking at her from his position on the leather seat. He takes another swig from the bottle and Frankie tries not to stare at his bottom lip that has become shinier from the liquor.
“I’m the one meant to be interviewing you, Harry,” Frankie says shyly.
“What if I want to know more about you, Franks?” His gaze is unwavering and Frankie is sure he can see the flush working its way up her neck, before settling over her freckled cheeks.
Before she could respond or even begin to pry into the mysterious mind of the frontman of The Nocturnals, Frankie chances a glance over at the clock and sees that it’s 9:58.
Shit. Her mother.
“What?” Harry asks with a chuckle.
Shit. Frankie said that outloud.
“Nothing. I just have to go,” she says quickly, closing her notebook and tucking her pencil behind her right ear. She presses the pause button on her tape recorder, holding it tightly in her hand until her knuckles turn white.
“You have to leave? Already?” Harry’s eyes are wide at Frankie’s fumbling, and for once he’s actually confused that a girl who looks like her isn’t throwing herself at him.
“Yeah. Thanks for the interview, even though I can probably only quote a few words,” Frankie says offhandedly. She stands up and Harry follows suit. She’s not sure what type of parting she should give him, so she settles with an awkward wave, before running out of the dressing room and back through the steel door.
She can hear the honking of the Continental from the same illegal parking spot, and Frankie sighs as she starts picking up her speed on the loading dock, knowing that the longer she takes to reach her mother, the more frantic the honking will become.
“Frankie! Wait up!”
Frankie turns around and sees that Cherry and her wild blonde hair are running up to her. Frankie looks at Cherry’s hands, wondering if she had left something backstage. But when she’s standing in front of her, she is empty handed. Cherry reaches a small hand out and grabs the pencil behind Frankie’s ear, before stealing her notebook from her hand and flipping open to an empty page.
“You need to call me,” Cherry announces once she’s done scribbling her phone number down. She returns all of Frankie’s items back to their original place.
“Really?” Frankie asks, completely shocked. She couldn’t picture a world where a girl like Cherry would ever even consider being her friend.
“I need a new crowd,” Cherry says with a shrug.
Frankie just smiles, nodding her head with a promise to call her. She hears the Continental honking again but chooses to ignore it. Instead she watches Cherry walk backwards down the loading dock, giving Frankie the most infectious smile she’s ever seen.
“Can’t you feel it, Frankie?! It’s all happening!” Cherry’s arms are outstretched and she starts twirling around, before giving one last wink and walking through the steel door once again.
Frankie can feel it. It’s all happening.
***
June 1973 - entry no. 3
On Monday morning Frankie receives a call from Lester Bangs praising her for her review about The Nocturnals show. It went so well that Lester and the other music editors at Rolling Stone wanted to send Frankie on their West Coast tour for a month. They wanted her to follow the band on the road and write a featured article piece about the mysterious new British rock band that was taking over the industry by storm. It was scheduled to be printed in the middle of the magazine, spanning over three pages.
And they wanted Frankie to write it.
“How are you going to pay for it? Who will you stay with? Is it even safe?” Her mother asks after Frankie gets off the phone with Lester. He still didn’t know that she was an eighteen-year-old girl living with her mother. And her mother didn’t know that Lester offered to pay an eighteen-year-old girl still living with her mother a lot of money to write this piece.
It was just easier that way.
“The magazine will cover my hotel expenses. I’d obviously stay with the band, but in my own room. It’ll be safe, you know me—I stay out of trouble,” Frankie says, answering each of her mother’s questions one by one.
“But, Francine, how will you—”
“—It’s my dream, mom.” Cynthia Goodhart purses her lips. She’s thinking so hard that Frankie can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. After a few moments, her mother walks over and hugs her tight.
“You better call me every night. I want to know where you are and know that you’re safe. And for the love of god please—”
“—No drugs,” Frankie finishes for her mother. She hugs her back even tighter.
Three days later, Frankie’s mother has just dropped her off at Long Beach Arena in Los Angeles. Her duffle bag is swung over her shoulder, and for the first time in her eighteen years of living, Frankie Goodhart is alone.
And she’s shocked at how excited she is.
The Nocturnals are scheduled to play a gig at the arena tonight, and Frankie remembers her instructions. She’s meant to seek out their manager, Bryan Greenberg, and retrieve her all access pass for the next month. Then, he’ll show her the hotel accommodations, give her a room key, and she’s off to start her assignment.
The band has been informed of her role. She remembers Lester telling her that a few of them were not keen on the idea of having a journalist follow them around for a month, but after hearing that they were going to be featured in the next publication of the magazine, their outlook immediately changed.
“Rockstars,” Lester said over the phone, “They’ll do anything for some decent fuckin’ press.”
On her way into the arena, Frankie bypasses a behemoth of a vehicle. It’s monstrous and gunmetal grey and looks like it’s about to fall apart at any moment, and when she squints she can make out the lettering spelling BERNIE on the side near the door. It reeks of marijuana and booze and she can only assume that this is their tour bus.
Before she can continue to walk by, she hears her voice.
“Frankie!” It’s Cherry and Frankie is surprised that she’s actually happy to see the tall blonde girl. She’s wearing another outrageous assortment of clothing, full of frilly layers and white patent leather. Her lips are stained red and she’s wearing opaque pink sunglasses and when she wraps her thin arms around Frankie’s neck, she instantly hugs her back.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Cherry says, and Frankie’s glad too.
When they untangle themselves, Cherry grabs onto Frankie’s arm and drags her towards the arena, mumbling something about the lingering smell of sex inside of Bernie. Frankie doesn’t bother to ask her what she means, instead allows Cherry to drag her inside the venue.
Frankie tells her that she has to find Bryan and Cherry just shakes her head, explaining to her that Bryan isn’t any fun before five o’clock. Frankie takes her word for it, and not long after have the two entered a backstage area filled with tables and chairs and an assortment of food. Various crew members lounge about eating craft services, and as her eyes sweep over the room, she sees the band in the far corner.
“The enemy is approaching,” Frankie hears Eddie call out ominously from the table. Veronica and Rod snicker beside him, and Frankie tries not to let their words affect her.
She has a job to do.
Cherry shushes them before sitting next to Rod, running her fingers through his long blonde hair that falls past his shoulders. Frankie watches them, fully aware that the only reason Cherry is here is because she’s sleeping with the bassist. But then she remembers her conversation with Cherry’s friends outside of The Troubadour, and she pushes those feelings deep down, only hoping for Cherry’s sake that Rod cares about her the same way she cares about him, even though he has a rumored fiancée back home.
Frankie is trying not to judge.
Before she can say anything, she hears shuffling behind her. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up because in front of her is four-fifths of the band, so that only leaves Harry, who has suddenly appeared behind her. Frankie hates that she can feel his presence before she can actually see him, and when he gives her a throaty hello, she can practically see the goosebumps prickling her skin.
“Heard you were comin’. Glad you’re here, Franks.” Frankie is fully aware that Cherry’s eyes are on her, and all she can do is stare at her new friend, completely out of her own element.
“Hi, Harry,” Frankie offers shyly, finally allowing him to enter her frame.
Before she could examine him fully, another man approaches the table. He’s shorter than Harry, a stocky little man with a permanent frown etched onto his face. His hair is thinning, practically balding in some spots, and he looks utterly exhausted.
“You the journalist?” He asks Frankie. His accent is high-pitched and squeaky, and Frankie blinks once, twice, before realizing that he’s actually addressing her.
“Yeah, hi. Frankie Goodhart.” She extends her arm even though he makes no effort to try and shake it. Frankie suddenly feels small, even though she’s taller than the man in front of her. His eyes are raking up and down her body, and Frankie squirms under his gaze.
“Christ, Rolling Stone hires kids now?” He chuckles to himself and Frankie really wishes the ground would swallow her up right then and there.
“Enough Bryan. They wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t good, right?” Harry comments, finally taking the spotlight off of Frankie. She’s grateful that the attention is off of her now. All she wants to do is start gathering quotes for her piece.
If only things could be that easy.
***
The show was once again incredible. Frankie watched from backstage, standing on Cherry’s side. She followed her advice again, only jotting down pivotal moments in her notebook. Most of the show, she spent mouthing along to the lyrics.
She didn’t want to admit that she was a fan.
“You can’t let them know you’re into their stuff,” Lester told her on the phone three days earlier. “They’re gonna want to buy you shit, be your friend. All of that. You can’t let that happen. Once they’ve got you, you’re fucked.”
After the show is over, the backstage area of the arena is buzzing with people. Cherry’s friends showed up right after the opening act was finished, and currently they were traipsing around the green room as if they owned the place. Jett sat sandwiched between two of them, sharing a joint and sips of champagne right from the bottle. Frankie had just finished talking to Veronica, who surprisingly was a vessel of knowledge. Before she could finish making her rounds, Rod storms in angrily, with an annoyed Harry trailing behind him.
“You really had to stay out on stage the longest when we were giving our bows, Harry?” Rod asks, and suddenly the entire room begins to grow quiet.
“What’s going on?” Bryan asks.
“Fuckin’ Harry’s out here craving all the attention, that’s what’s going on! And you’re so far up his ass you can’t even see it!” Rod’s full on screaming now, and all Frankie can do is just sit and watch.
“Everybody says ‘oh look, it’s Harry’s band! Look how talented Harry’s band is! As if we’re not a fuckin’ unit!” Frankie watches as Harry’s eyes grow darker. Bryan is trying to calm Rod down, but it’s no use. He’s completely uncaged.
Before he can say anything else, his eyes suddenly fall onto Frankie’s.
“I’m not sayin’ anything else with the enemy around.” It’s final, absolute. The words resonate in her brain and for the first time since arriving, Frankie’s second-guessing taking this job in the first place.
Rod storms out after that, and Frankie tries to ignore the green eyes trying to search for hers. She doesn't want the attention right now. What she wants is to retreat back into her hotel room and reevaluate how the next month of her life will go.
While everybody else heads back to the hotel, Frankie notices that Harry stays back, choosing to spend the night in the bus.
***
June 1973 - entry no. 4
The entire bus ride to Tempe, Arizona is uncomfortable.
Tensions are still high from Rod and Harry’s fight after the show in Long Beach last night, and Frankie watches as they sit on opposite sides of the bus, eyes covered in sunglasses facing the windows.
Eddie sits close to Harry, automatically taking his side because he’s his older brother. It makes sense, and Frankie watches it all unravel in her seat beside Cherry. She’s thankful that the blonde girl has decided to sit with her instead of Rod, because Frankie is still struggling with fitting in. This whole enemy ordeal is really starting to make things difficult for her.
Once they hit a rest stop, Jett offers Frankie some of his potato chips and for the rest of the ride he talks to her about music and the process of recording their first album. Veronica joins in, recounting the story of how she joined the band after watching them play a show in Phoenix.
“They were decent,” she tells Frankie, her American accent standing out.
“She makes us better,” Jett says, nodding at Veronica appreciatively.
In the dressing room before the Tempe show, battle lines are drawn up. Harry and Eddie stand on one side, chain-smoking cigarettes and keeping to themselves. Rod and Cherry sit on the other side, and Frankie watches as Cherry soothes Rod’s anger by running her small fingers down his back. Veronica and Jett play the roles of peacemakers, alternating between each side, trying to get everybody in the mindset for a great show.
And as Frankie watches from the sidelines, she’s shocked that it is in fact a great show.
During their last song, Frankie watches Harry grab the water bottle resting on the riser where Jett’s drum set was. She almost misses the dramatic eye roll Rod gives him, seemingly annoyed at whatever Harry was planning on doing. As the lights are dimmed low and Eddie starts playing a riff, Frankie watches Harry fill his cheeks with water.
He can feel her gaze on him. As soon as Jett starts hitting the kick drum, Harry’s green eyes meet Frankie’s. He gives her a quick wink before turning over towards the crowd, leaning back on his legs and spitting the water up into the air as the instruments all clash together.
Frankie tries to ignore the tingling beneath her skin.
After the post-show adrenaline rush has worn off, The Nocturnals retreat back to their pre-show state. Eddie tries to entertain Harry while the rest of the band keep Rod as far away from him as possible. Frankie just observes, scribbling notes down in her journal, before Cherry approaches her cautiously.
“Do you think you could do me a favor, Frankie?” Cherry asks. Her voice is soft and her eyes show a little bit of apprehension, and Frankie immediately snaps her journal shut.
“Of course. Everything okay, Cherry?” Frankie is concerned because for the first time since being introduced to Cherry, she’s asking Frankie for help.
“Could you talk to Harry, maybe? He seems to be fond of you. Maybe you can get through to him about the whole Rod situation.” Frankie suddenly understands that the only reason Cherry is concerned about Harry is because Rod is involved.
“Uh, I don’t know if I’m really the best person—”
“—The thing is, they’re both alphas. Harry takes control and Rod doesn’t know how to function without it. They need each other, Frankie. The band needs them. Sometimes it’s tough getting through to Harry, but do you think you could try it just this time? For me?”
Frankie doesn’t know how to say no to people. Which is why she finds herself approaching Harry outside of the hotel while the rest of the band grab beers from Bryan’s cooler and stretch out around the pool outside of the building.
“I don’t want to do the interview right now, Franks,” Harry says quietly once he realizes that Frankie has stayed back to chat with him.
“We can just talk. Completely off the record,” Frankie says, throwing her journal and tape recorder deep into the depths of her messenger bag around her body.
Harry looks at her with his eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? So what, we’re just gonna talk as friends?” He’s teasing her now and Frankie just rolls her eyes.
“If that’s what you’d like, sure. Friends,” Frankie agrees, surprisingly meaning every word.
“Alright. Come with me.” Harry leads them to a quieter area away from the pool. It’s a makeshift smoking area, and when Harry reaches into his denim pocket for his pack of Winstons and offers one to Frankie, she shakes her head no. Harry gives her another long look before shrugging his shoulders and lighting the stick between his cherry lips.
“Are you here to try and make me feel better?” Harry asks smugly.
Frankie shakes her head, growing annoyed. “No. Cherry just asked if I could—”
“—Oh so Cher put you up to this?” Harry interrupts, and Frankie has decided that this is just something she has to get used to around him. The constant interrupting, constant avoidance of questions, constant staring.
Frankie just sighs. She’s not quite sure why Cherry thinks Harry is fond of her, considering they can barely get through a conversation without him ignoring her questions and directing them towards Frankie instead.
They’re quiet for a few minutes. Harry finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out with the sole of his boots before Frankie opens her mouth.
“Why do you put up with it?” It’s quiet and she’s not sure if she should have even asked him that in the first place, but she’s curious.
“I thought this wasn’t an interview?”
“It’s not. Off the record, strictly.”
Harry stands up straighter, no longer leaning on the fence surrounding the smoking area. His shoulders turn so he’s standing directly in front of Frankie, eyes falling past her uncovered shoulders to her thin yellow tank top, before falling down the lengths of her ivory legs under her jean shorts. She screams of innocence and Harry suddenly feels like he can drop his rockstar façade and finally be truthful for once in his life.
“I do it because I have to,” Harry says slowly.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Harry,” Frankie replies, blue eyes staring deep into green.
Harry just laughs to himself quietly, shaking his head.
“Sometimes you have to do things because they’re expected of you. Like love, for instance.” He’s speaking as if he has all of the answers in the world and Frankie can’t quite fathom how that could possibly be true.
”What do you mean?”
“Well. You’re expected to love your boyfriend, right?” Harry’s asking her in a way that doesn’t come across as fishing for information. Frankie suddenly wonders if he thought she was the type of girl that would have a boyfriend. That she was capable of enthralling the other sex.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Frankie’s suddenly shy, and Harry looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time.
“Well, any of your boyfriends. You were expected to love them.” Harry doesn’t need Frankie to tell her that she actually has never had a boyfriend in her entire life. Her silence tells him more than he needs to know, and Frankie hopes he can’t see her fidgeting under the moonlight.
“I wouldn’t know.” Frankie says it so quietly that Harry almost missed the words leaving her lips. He suddenly feels his age for the first time—twenty-three and hyperaware of the pretty girl with freckles on her face who has never been in love before.
“You’ve never been in love?” He sounds shocked, and Frankie starts wondering if there’s something wrong with that. Sure, she’s had a few opportunities to try and fall in love, and sure, she was almost close to it with her prom date a few months prior, but the truth still stands. It’s a feeling that Frankie’s heard endless times play over in the songs on her record player.
It’s the one question that she’s never found the answer to in Mary’s collection.
“Not truly, no. I mean, every song I’ve ever heard has talked about love as if it’s supposed to be this monumental explosion of feelings. It’s supposed to be all-encompassing. We’re supposed to crave it, chase after it, live for it. So when you say that you’re expected to love another person, I don’t know what you mean. Because you shouldn’t be expected to do something that’s supposed to consume you.”
Frankie chances a look over towards Harry and finds that his eyes aren’t set on hers. Instead, they’re looking over her head, fixated on the trees behind her. He has a distant look in his eyes as if he understands exactly what Frankie is telling him.
Suddenly, his eyes lock back on hers. But this time, the glint is gone. Instead he looks sad almost, nodding absently at whatever Frankie had just said.
Frankie has another sleepless night.
***
June 1973 - entry no. 5
Frankie began to grow quite fond of Bernie on the drive from Tempe to Las Vegas.
Somehow, The Nocturnals had a strong affinity for the nearly broken down grey touring bus they’ve been sequestered to for the past few months. Jett proclaimed that Bernadette had magical powers, and they preferred to travel to each venue by bus because they performed much better after sitting in the bristling heat for hours on end.
Frankie thinks that Jett needs to lay off the weed.
Each band member had their own little corner of the bus. Eddie always preferred the middle so he could jump from conversation to conversation wherever he was needed. He didn’t like feeling left out. Veronica was happy towards the front as long as she always had a window. She always said her lack of a penis allowed her prime window seating. Nobody disagreed.
Rod liked the back of the bus because that was where he could sneak off and make out with Cherry without anybody else watching. Sometimes he would sneak his hand down her skirt and Cherry would giggle as if he was telling her the funniest joke in the world. Harry on the other hand always chose to sit in the front seat behind Bryan who was always driving. It was an unwritten rule that nobody else could sit there. It was also an unwritten rule that Harry always needed to be close to Bryan.
That is where Frankie finds him when they’re about twenty minutes away from the Las Vegas Convention Center. His long body is taking up two seats with his head leaning against the glass window. He has his black sunglasses on but Frankie can see that his eyes are open through the tinted frames.
“Starin’ is impolite, Franks,” Harry says after a few moments.
Frankie blushes, looking down at the floor. “I’m still waiting for your interview, Harry.”
He shuffles a bit while he’s mulling this over. In the two week span of Frankie’s time on tour with the band, she’s gotten one on one interviews with everybody but Harry. Whenever she attempts to reach out to him, he always wanders off. Lately, he’s been switching the roles and asking her questions instead.
She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable around him.
And with her deadline approaching soon and the final three shows looming in the distance, Frankie was starting to grow impatient.
“After the show. I promise,” Harry says, before turning his attention back out towards the window.
Frankie ignores Cherry’s gaze as she slinks into the seat in the back left of the bus. But Cherry is anything but adamant, and not even ten seconds later, Frankie can feel the tips of her blonde curly hair grazing Frankie’s exposed shoulders.
“He’s making this extremely difficult,” Frankie admits, slumping down further into the seat.
Cherry nods. “Give him time, Frankie. He’ll come around eventually.”
Frankie only wishes that were true.
***
The show in Vegas is nothing short of a disaster.
Frankie notices the mistakes more so than the audience members mainly because she’s been watching The Nocturnals perform the same show for two weeks now. From the second they walked onto the stage, there was a disconnect amongst the band members. Jett and Veronica did the best they could trying to appease both Harry and Rod, but it began to crumble halfway through their set. Rod began to overdue his solos, throwing the timing off for Harry. The worst part was when he started oversinging the backing vocals, almost making Harry sing the wrong lyrics.
The dressing room was quiet after the show. And for the first time since touring with the band, Frankie had no desire to ask anybody questions.
“Well guys, that was—”
“—A fuckin’ shitshow,” Harry says, interrupting Bryan.
Eddie stands closer to Harry, trying to calm his little brother down. Everybody knows that it was bound to happen, because Eddie always puts Harry first. But this seemed to spur Rod on, because immediately after Eddie puts an arm around Harry, Rod flies out of his seat and points an accusatory finger at the both of them.
“I’m so fuckin’ sick of you two. Every time there’s a disagreement, Harry is never at fault in your eyes, Ed. It’s about fuckin’ time you realize that your brother is singlehandedly ruining this band.” Rod’s words are venomous and Frankie practically flinches with each syllable.
“Well, maybe if you stopped being so jealous of H, we wouldn’t have this problem!” Eddie retorts, stepping in front of Harry and squaring his shoulders towards Rod.
“Jealous?! Of that prick? That’s fuckin’ rich.”
The rest of the argument seems to blow up in front of Frankie, but for some unknown reason, she chooses not to stare at Rod and Eddie yelling at each other in the middle of the room. Instead, her blue eyes fall onto Harry, who hasn’t said a word throughout this entire exchange. He looks as if he wants to be anywhere but here, and as if he can feel the heat of Frankie’s gaze on him, he tilts his head towards her and stares right back.
“If you don’t get your ego in line, Harry, I’m fuckin’ walking,” Rod says. Frankie watches Harry’s eyes snap back towards the bassist, and instead of responding, he just shakes his head slowly. Suddenly, Harry starts careening towards the exit, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and Frankie in the other.
“Harry…” Frankie says, but it’s useless. He’s walking so quickly and swallowing back whiskey so fiercely that Frankie has no choice but to hold onto his hand tighter and allow him to lead her out of the arena, past Bernie, and down a few roads until the flashing lights are fading into the distance and the honking of vehicles has practically ceased.
Frankie isn’t sure what to say because up until this point she hadn’t really considered her and Harry friends. Their conversation in Tempe only made Frankie more confused, and every time Cherry tells her of Harry’s fondness of her, she thinks that her friend is seeing things.
But now, standing hand in hand with him, Frankie begins to think differently.
His hands are shaking when he drops hers, and instead of speaking, he just takes another swig of the bottle. His cheeks are flushed and Frankie isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or something else, and then before she can dissect him any further, he stops abruptly and turns to face her.
“Do you ever feel like you need to get away? Like things are just happenin’ too quickly?” He’s back to asking her questions again, and Frankie isn’t sure how to respond.
“Shit, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you any of this.” He suddenly runs the hand that used to hold hers through his curly hair out of frustration. Harry starts pacing back and forth in front of Frankie, and she’s very aware that they are far from the venue.
“It’s fine, I won’t—” Frankie cuts herself off because she isn’t quite sure what she’s trying to tell him. She already promised to talk to him off the record back in Tempe, and deep down she really wants to tell him this again. But she’s losing focus on her assignment, and she’s doing everything that Lester Bangs told her not to do.
Harry’s green eyes are back on hers and he’s suddenly a lot closer to her than he was previously. But before he could say anything, a car pulls up and his eyes shift from blue to the approaching vehicle.
“Whoa, you’re Harry Styles!” A boy with straight blonde hair says. He’s driving a car and looks to be a few years younger than Frankie, and the rest of his friends seem to be as shell-shocked as the driver.
“Just Harry, s’fine,” Harry replies, stepping away from Frankie and smiling at the group of boys.
“Would you wanna come to a party? My parents are out of town and my house is down the street,” the blonde kid offers. Immediately, Frankie starts to shake her head, expecting Harry to follow suit. Instead, she bafflingly watches as Harry grins at the group before jumping into the backseat of the car.
“Harry!” Frankie shoots out, beginning to chastise him.
“C’mon Franks, let’s have some fun,” Harry says, grabbing her from the sidewalk and pulling her into the van. The group of boys cheer and begin asking Harry a million questions, but it might as well be white noise because Frankie’s eyes are looking into green and she finds herself agreeing to this ridiculous plan because she’s found that she can’t say no to Harry no matter how hard she tries.
And when he hands her the whiskey bottle and promises that she’ll like it, she drinks it without even thinking, smiling back at Harry when his eyes go wide.
***
A few hours later, Frankie finds that Harry is impossibly drunk. He’s stumbling throughout a high school party, fluttering from the living room to the kitchen and back. The teenagers are handing him plastic cups filled with a concoction of various liquors, and while Frankie has only had one cup, it was enough to make her feel warm and light, so she stopped after that.
She has just walked out of the bathroom when she realizes that Harry is not where she had left him. Nervously, Frankie begins checking each room in the house, praying that she didn’t just lose the frontman of The Nocturnals at a high school party in Las Vegas. Once she rounds the stairs, she hears his laugh from the first door to her left, and when she walks in she finds him sitting on a desk chair surrounded by a group of kids with glazed eyes and a bong sitting in the middle of a circle.
“And that is why you shouldn’t mix acid with vodka. It’s just—Franks! There you are! Thought I lost ya.” Harry blindly reaches out for Frankie’s hand, pulling her towards the group. She stumbles until she’s sitting right beside him, and he’s grinning at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.
“I made new friends,” he says softly, gesturing towards the group of stoned teenagers on the floor below him.
“I can see that,” Frankie responds, seemingly unaware of their close proximity. Harry’s arm is resting lightly around her shoulders, and if she leans in just an inch more, she could smell the whiskey on his lips.
“Maybe I’ll start a band with them. What d’ya think? They’d probably be more fun, anyways,” he mumbles, his slurred words meshing together.
Frankie isn’t sure what to say, so instead she just drunkenly laughs, standing up when Harry grabs her arm and leads her out of the room and into the backyard.
They walk further until they’re sitting at the top of a hill under a mesquite tree. The party is barrelling on below them, and when Frankie looks up at the sky and notices that the inky night has turned into a deep blue, she can assume that it’s the early morning.
Harry sighs contentedly beside her, sitting down close enough that their sides are touching. Frankie can feel his hip rest with hers, her shoulder pressed against his bicep, their thighs touching. The warmth from the alcohol flowing through her body suddenly becomes warmer, and Frankie can feel the flush on her neck begin to creep upwards.
“I never get to do this,” Harry says after a few minutes of silence.
“Do what?” Frankie asks.
“Act like a kid. Drink with my mates in our parents house. Be young, I guess.” Frankie cocks her head to the side and acknowledges the sadness on his features. She’s suddenly aware of the fact that Harry is the youngest in the band but never gets to feel like it because he’s constantly on the road, working with people much older than him, arguing about ridiculous things that shouldn’t matter in the long run.
She begins to feel bad for the rockstar who she believed had everything.
“You really didn’t miss much,” Frankie says, nodding her head towards the group of high school students surrounding a keg.
“No? Isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of your life or summat?” Harry asks, genuine curiosity dripping from his mouth.
Frankie just shrugs. “I sure hope not.”
Harry shifts his position and Frankie misses the warmth when she can no longer feel his body pressed against hers. His big hands reach out towards her forearms and pull so that she twists to the side, their knees knocking together. Harry’s sitting in front of her and his eyes are twinkling brighter than the stars and Frankie isn’t sure where else to look.
“Why are you so different from every other girl I’ve met?” Harry asks. Frankie tilts her head down, trying to hide the blush forming on her cheeks. She feels Harry squeeze her forearms, and she’s suddenly aware that his hands haven’t left hers.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” Frankie says shyly.
His hand reaches out towards her chin, tilting it up so that she’s no longer hiding from him. Frankie watches his heels dig into the grass, allowing him to heave himself forward so that their legs are slotting, his knees surrounding hers. They’re much closer now, and she can see the glint in his eyes has turned into adoration and she suddenly feels frozen.
“Frankie Goodhart,” he whispers, “That would make for a good song.”
His fingers drop from her chin and Frankie can feel him getting closer. He’s angling his torso towards her and his shiny lips are getting closer to hers and she’s instantly panicking because shit, she thinks, this shouldn’t be happening.
And just before his mouth can close around hers, she backs away, and the look in Harry’s eyes fades. Instead, he’s staring at her, dull green eyes and all, and she suddenly feels empty inside. He stands up abruptly and begins walking down the hill back towards the street. Even in his drunken stupor, Harry somehow remembers how to get back to the carpark where Bernie is waiting with the rest of the band. They’re silent as they walk into the bus, the yellows and purples of sunrise filtering through the windows.
Harry chooses to sit near Rod, a sign of a truce. Frankie sits in the back, ignoring the looks Cherry gives her. For once, she just wants to be alone.
***
July 1973 - entry no. 6
Everybody besides Frankie seemed to be in high spirits on the journey to the San Jose Civic Center. The feud between Harry and Rod seemed to be an anecdote, something they could joke about during the long drive. Frankie watches from the back of the bus, a permanent scowl on her face, completely confused at the last ten hours of her life.
She was confused by the almost kiss, for starters. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss Harry, because of course she wanted to. But when his mouth was inching closer towards hers and his irises were so wide all she could see was mossy green, the only thing running through her mind were Lester’s warnings.
“Don’t get lost in the madness of it all. They’re gonna eat you alive if they know that you’re a fan. They’re gonna want to be your friend, lure you into their world. Stand your ground. The second they hear you write for Rolling Stone they’re gonna shit their pants. Don’t let us down.”
So she panicked. And when Frankie saw the frown on his face, she could feel her heart fall towards her feet inside her body. Frankie was never the type of girl that boys chased after, especially boys that have the world at their fingertips with blonde/auburn/black haired beauties throwing themselves at him. What would Harry want with a freckled-face eighteen year old high school graduate who had little to no experience with the opposite sex? It would be utterly laughable for the two of them to end up together.
But she would be lying if she hadn’t been kicking herself the entire journey to San Jose, regretting ever pulling away from him.
“Why are you so pouty?” Cherry asks from beside her. She opted to sit with Frankie mainly because Rod and Harry were rekindling their friendship with inside jokes and bottles of beer, and Frankie wasn’t all that mad that she was a second option.
“I’m not,” Frankie lies, sinking her head against the cool window. She needed her brain to stop replaying this morning's events over and over whenever her eyelids closed.
Cherry just hums beside her, knowing fully well that Frankie is lying. “I’m assuming it has something to do with Harry. He’s been looking at you like a lost puppy ever since we turned onto the freeway hours ago.”
Frankie ignores her friend the same way she’s been ignoring the warm heat of Harry’s gaze from the front of the bus.
She needs the silence to remember why she was even here in the first place. But there’s no denying that she’s so close to losing the point in the first place—feet dangling at the edge of the mountain, practically about to freefall below.
***
The San Jose show was the best one Frankie had seen yet, even better than the first night at The Troubadour three weeks earlier. The energy radiating from the stage was tangible, a thrumming of excitement Frankie could feel from the tips of her toes all the way up to the roots of her light brown hair. If she reached out to touch the handle of the steel door leading to the green room, she was convinced she would feel a zap of electricity from what The Nocturnals left out on the stage.
Harry was the best she had seen him yet. His voice was unmatchable, a perfect concoction of rasp and grit with a beautiful falsetto. Frankie was in awe, to be fair. Normally she takes turns watching each member of the band, but tonight, her blue eyes refused to move from his body.
Harry could feel her gaze. With Frankie’s eyes locked on him, he knew that he had to put on the best show of his life. He made sure to interact with the crowd, singing in a different octave so he could hear the gasps from the audience, leaning against Rod and Eddie with his head thrown back, shaking his hips to the pounding of Jett’s kick drum. Frankie’s hot gaze on Harry gave him a newfound sense of confidence, and it was palpable throughout the entire arena.
“What a fuckin’ show!” Bryan hollers from the doorway of the green room. Frankie watches as he interacts with each member of the band, even offering to take a hit of the joint Jett extends towards him. Rod even gives him a hug, and Frankie is just as confused as ever.
“Let’s celebrate!” Rod agrees, grabbing Cherry by her hips and bringing her towards his front. He drowns her giggles with a bottle of whiskey.
The band convenes in the middle of the green room, passing around a whiskey bottle and planning on throwing an after party in their hotel rooms. Eddie asks Bryan to upgrade their rooms so they can fit more people, and Jett agrees, telling Cherry’s friends to invite anybody in the area they know. Frankie ultimately feels like an outsider, having no desire to go out and drink with people who barely even wanted her around in the first place.
As she begins to gather her belongings and throw them into her tattered messenger bag to retreat to her own hotel room for the night, Frankie sees the tips of black leather shoes touch her white sneakers. She looks up slowly, her breath practically catching in her throat when she notices Harry peering down at her, a faint trace of a smile on his lips.
“Fancy that interview, Franks?” Harry says softly, and Frankie suddenly is at a loss for words. She’s unsure if it’s from his close proximity to her face, or the fact that he actually is ready to allow her to interview him, but she just nods slowly.
“You don’t want to party? I think you earned it,” Frankie mutters back, offering him an out.
Harry doesn’t take it though. “Nah, let’s get out of here,” and with that, he loops her messenger bag around his broad shoulder and places a large hand at the small of her back, tracing her out the door.
Frankie offers to conduct the interview inside Bernie, but Harry just shakes his head, “I’m sick of sittin’ on the bus.” When she mentions her hotel room being on a different floor than the rest of the band’s, Harry just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “Tryin’ to take me to bed already?” Frankie just rolls her eyes, wishing her skin was a darker shade so her blush wasn’t so prominent. Harry smiles, enamored that he can get her riled up so quickly, and drags her towards a small staircase on the top floor, a sign reading NO ENTRY in bright red letters.
Frankie pauses and Harry just laughs, opening the door with his hip and grabbing her wrists with his long fingers. “Live a little, Franks,” he whispers, dragging her up the staircase and onto the roof of the hotel.
The dark sky looks so vast from the roof, and Frankie cranes her neck back to take in all of the glittering stars above. She never gets to see the constellations through the LA smog, so from this vantage point, Frankie doesn’t hesitate to take it all in, her hair shining in the moonlight.
Harry doesn’t hesitate to take Frankie in, either.
“Ready, Franks?” Harry’s voice bursts Frankie’s imaginary bubble, and she fumbles around trying to grab her notebook and recorder before sitting across from Harry over a skylight. She doesn’t meet his eyes because she’s scared that if she does, she’ll forget everything she wanted to ask him.
“So, Harry. Why music?”
And it’s as if a dam has broken, split completely in half, and Harry’s words are the water that flows from the cracks. He tells Frankie that he started the band with his brother in small town Manchester, England, and they were shit at first. Tells her how the idea of a band came from the 1961 Ice Blue Fender Musicmaster their dad left behind when he left his mother when Harry was a boy. How the first few songs he wrote were about his fear of abandonment, and when he lost his virginity, all he could write about were girls and hearts and lips and feelings. He tells her things that Frankie didn’t even need to pry from him, instead, he willingly tells her how he was nervous to have five members in a band, nervous to leave England, nervous to be the frontman of a group when he was the youngest one. And when they were sat on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise building with walls of windows in New York City, signing their recording contracts, Harry never felt more out of control in his life.
“You seem to be so confident on stage though, so in control. I mean, you just look so cool up there,” Frankie mumbles, realizing that she isn’t asking a question anymore. Instead she’s prodding for more information that she isn’t sure Harry feels comfortable doting out to her.
“I promise you, I’m entirely uncool. It’s all an act. I’m far too in my head most of the time,” Harry says with a chuckle, shifting his body closer to Frankie’s. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only person in this world who’s seen me properly. I’m just as uncool as you.”
Frankie feels herself shifting closer, too. Her finger unknowingly hovering over the STOP button on her tape recorder.
Harry notices just like he notices everything about her. He can feel the shift in their conversation, and he turns his body closer towards Frankie, asking her the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue the entire day.
“Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”
His voice is uncharacteristically shy. Frankie’s never seen this version of him—so quiet, so unsure. It startles her.
“Um,” she pauses, pressing her finger down on the button, her mind suddenly confuddled. “I’m technically not supposed to.”
“Franks,” Harry shakes his head, his mouth practically inches from hers. “When are you gonna realize life is more fun when you do the things you aren’t supposed to?”
With his mouth so close to hers, Frankie feels like she can’t breathe. His eyes are sincere and she can feel her heart beating so loudly she’s sure her ribs are bruised. And for the first time in forever, Frankie doesn’t want to follow the rules anymore.
She wants to break them.
Specifically, she wants to break them with Harry.
Frankie brazenly drops the tape recorder into her messenger bag at her feet and wraps her hands around Harry’s neck, bringing his lips to hers. He stills at first, not entirely sure if this is actually happening or he’s just imagining her kissing him. But then she starts to nibble at his lower lip and he finally reacts, wrapping one hand into her brown hair and another around her stomach, fingers spread over the ivory skin uncovered by her cropped shirt.
Frankie shudders when Harry whines at the contact, and when he feels like he needs more more more, he drags her legs and hoists them over his thighs so she’s straddling his lap. Their teeth knock together hungrily and it’s literally better than anything Harry’s ever had, and he’s had almost everything there is. Harry feels dehydrated, and Frankie’s lips are the only thing quenching his thirst. He’s never been so enraptured by another person before, and just having her body wrapped around his is practically careening him towards the edge.
When Harry’s hand in her hair pulls back exposing her neck towards him, she moans when his lips lick a thick strip from her sternum towards her chin. She tries to think of love songs that explain how she’s feeling, and when her mind becomes blank, she figures that they can write their own song, fuelled by pink lips and hungry bites and satisfied breaths.
“Jesus, Franks. You’re everything,” Harry mumbles against her lips. Frankie just nods, her hands pushing open his unbuttoned shirt and fanning against his chest. When his head falls back in a blissful sigh, Frankie marks the part of his skin where his shoulder meets his neck, and she can feel it too. That this is everything.
When Harry tries to take her shirt off and lower his hands into the waistband of her jeans, she stops, fully aware that this is her first time ever having somebody this close to her. Of having somebody want to get this close to her, to feel her, to have her in every sense of the word. And she’s terrified.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Franks. I blacked out, I forgot. You’re just—fuck. Can’t fuckin’ think straight when you’re lookin’ at me like that with your mouth all pouty and your hair all messed up. I’m losin’ it,” Harry says hurriedly, his forehead falling against her clavicle. He’s completely breathless and Frankie is in awe that she brought him to this point.
When she feels his hands running a comforting line down her back, she’s fully aware that she wants nothing more than to feel closer to Harry. It’s inevitable at this point—all of the lingering gazes, the interrupting questions, the way he can feel her gaze on him when he’s performing, the way she doesn’t want to look anywhere else. He wants to tell her his secrets. And she wants to keep them, hidden away from the world, just for her to hold.
So she reaches down and places her hand over Harry’s, dragging it down her chest and stomach, over her stomach, against the button of her pants. Harry sucks in a breath and Frankie can feel it against her neck, his lips pursing in shock.
“Frankie, it’s okay, we don’t—”
He’s silenced by her popping the button open and unzipping her jeans. His head shoots up, eyes latched onto hers, arms wrapped around her hips protectively.
Frankie shushes him with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay. You’re everything.”
And with that, Harry reaches inside of her pants, and the both of them fall apart, seeing stars that rival the constellations twinkling above them.
***
July 1973 - entry no. 7
Frankie spends the next day trying to quell the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
After her night with Harry on the rooftop, she feels as if she’s floating through thin air. She can’t stop the grin growing on her face whenever Harry is in a five foot radius of her, and she can practically feel his smirk from a distance. When they leave San Jose and travel to Palo Alto, Frankie practically forces her body to the back of the bus, trying to put as much space between them as possible.
Because if he was any closer, she wasn’t sure if she could keep her hands to herself.
Frankie has never felt like this. She feels as if Harry is her newest addiction, and no matter how hard she tries, she just can’t fucking stop thinking about him. It’s infuriating and infatuating at the same time, incredible and unknown and so new that she’s practically shaking in her seat from the excitement whenever his green eyes find hers.
Harry feels like he’s sixteen again. He feels so light and bubbly and giggly and the whole thing is reminiscent of a first crush, that he doesn’t even recognize who he is anymore. The most surprising aspect of it all is that he actually likes it. He feels his heart swell with every longing gaze, every secret smile, every phantom touch. He can’t get enough of her. Just one taste of Frankie wasn’t enough to soothe his ever-growing appetite, and he’s not sure if he can contain himself any longer.
After an entire day of almost touching her skin, Harry feels like he’s about to burst. Twenty minutes before the show, while the rest of the band is warming up, Harry finds himself sneaking off to find Frankie. She’s on her way back from the bathroom and when he sees her he practically jumps out of his skin, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her into a utility closet across the hallway.
Harry quiets her shrieks with a mouth-watering kiss, and he practically implodes at the feeling of it. He’s been waiting for this moment all day, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it was the best kiss of his life.
His hands are everywhere and Frankie feels overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. She’s breathing him in and feeling every inch of his skin on hers and it’s crazy to think that in her eighteen years of life she waited this long to experience this feeling.
She’s just so happy she’s experiencing it with Harry.
When they hear Bryan give the five minute call, Frankie breaks away breathlessly, laughing when Harry whines at the loss of her lips on his.
“Just one more kiss please Franks,” Harry begs, wrapping his hands through her hair and pulling her closer to his mouth.
She obliges but only momentarily, before pushing him back towards the door.
“Go,” she whispers, biting her lower lip to conceal her giggles.
Harry just groans, holding onto her for dear life. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Franks.”
She watches him walk away, blowing him a kiss and laughing when he catches it and tucks it into the pocket of his trousers.
When Frankie goes to claim her spot sidestage, she’s interrupted by Cherry grabbing onto her shoulders. She can see the band rustling around in the background, grabbing their instruments and getting mic'd up, but Frankie can’t focus. Because Cherry’s eyes are blown out and she’s holding onto her so tightly and Frankie knows that whatever is about to come out of Cherry’s lips next is either going to be monumental or devastating.
“Frankie! I need to tell you something,” Cherry whispers through her brightening grin.
“What is it Cherry? Are you okay?” Frankie is worried.
“I’m amazing. Better than amazing, actually. I’m gonna tell Rod that I love him after the show. I’m gonna jump into his arms, tell him that he’s the only one for me, and that I’m so far in love with him that I can’t even breathe.”
Frankie sighs. It’s devastating.
“But… Cherry. What about his fiancée? Kids? Did you think this through?” Frankie asks, watching as her friend’s eyes fall and her mouth form a straight line. Frankie hasn’t seen this look on Cherry’s face since the night she almost called her a groupie. Immediately, Frankie feels the twisting feeling of guilt in her gut.
“He’s leaving them for me. He told me last night.” Cherry’s voice is so low that Frankie isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince her, or herself.
Frankie just shakes her head. “Cherry, you can’t think like that. How could he promise you something like that? You can’t just—”
“—I can’t just what, Frankie? What are you even trying to say? I love him! That should be enough! It’s always been enough!” Before Frankie could even get another word in, Cherry just shakes her head, stepping away from her. “I don’t even know why I bothered telling you. You wouldn’t even know what love is if it slapped you right in the face.”
Frankie pauses, mouth falling slack. “What are you even talking about?”
Cherry laughs, and for the first time, Frankie hates the sound of it. “Because you don’t even give it a chance. I see the way Harry looks at you, and all you do is keep your head down, ignoring the entire thing. All you care about is your stupid article. Well ya know what? At least I let Rod close enough to give love a chance.”
Frankie isn’t sure what to say. Part of her wants to tell Cherry about the night she had with Harry on the rooftop, or the words he spoke to her, or the way he grabbed her no less than five minutes ago. But she doesn’t. Because saying them in an argument makes it less genuine.
“Cherry, I’m just trying to help. You deserve better than Rod,” Frankie says, reaching for Cherry’s hands to squeeze in reassurance.
But Cherry just jumps back as if Frankie’s hands are scorching. “You know what, maybe you and Harry are perfect for each other. Both lonely and selfish.”
And with that, Cherry walks away, and Frankie hangs behind the crowd sidestage, feeling her chest constrict in anger. Cherry couldn’t be more wrong about Harry. He let her in, he told her things he promised he would never tell anybody else. Frankie would never let him near her if he acted the way Cherry just described.
So when the show is over and Frankie feels herself retreating back into the hotel without a word to anybody else, she practically combusts when Harry shows up at her room. His eyes are blown wide and he has concern written all across his face, because all he wanted to see after the show was her. Just as he’s about to ask if she was okay, Frankie grabs him by the back of his neck and drags him through the doorway, crashing her lips onto his.
“Franks, wait, babe, what’s goin’ on?” Harry asks between kisses, and Frankie just sighs, noticing the way her head clears and her heart feels lighter whenever he is close to her.
“I just don’t want to think right now. I need you,” Frankie says, and Harry practically drops through the floor when she utters those last three words.
I need you is the closest thing to I love you Harry has ever felt. Love to him always felt compulsory, a feeling that was expected between two people. He never had to work for it, and whenever he said the words, they never meant anything to him before.
So when he hears I need you fall from Frankie’s chapped lips, he’s floored at the way those words feel inside his chest. If words were tangible, they would be pumping the blood through his chest cavity, propelling his heart up up up until it was lodged into his throat.
He never thought I need you would mean more to him than I love you.
Not until now.
“I need you all the time,” Harry responds, grabbing Frankie and pulling her onto the bed. They kiss until they’re both only wearing their undergarments, Harry clad in tight white boxer briefs and Frankie wearing a boring nude bra and matching cheeky panties. They make her feel childlike, and she wishes that she owned something black and lacy and sexy.
But Harry could care less what she’s wearing. Just the fact that she’s laying next to him, completely opening him up until he could feel like he was properly breathing for the first time in three years is enough for him. And when they kiss until their lips feel bruised, Frankie just lays her head on his chest, revelling in the feeling of his warmth.
“Thank you,” Frankie whispers against his skin.
“For what?” Harry asks, running a finger absentmindedly through her hair. Just one touch is never enough for him.
“Being here. Being you.” It’s trivial and shouldn’t really mean much, but to Harry it means everything, and he sighs blissfully at the thought that just being himself was more than enough for this beautiful girl.
“God, Franks,” Harry says slowly, resting his chin against the top of Frankie’s head. “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”
And when she’s wrapped around Harry in every sense of the word, she can’t help but think that if this is how she were to spend the rest of her nights, she wouldn’t want it any other way.
***
July 1973 - entry no. 8
The term bittersweet comes to mind when Bernie rolls into the Fillmore in San Francisco.
Bitter because it’s her last show with The Nocturnals. Bitter because Cherry hasn’t looked at her in two hours, and she doesn’t want to leave with her friendship falling to pieces in front of her. Bitter because she feels like she’s truly found herself, and she doesn’t want this feeling to escape when she arrives back in Santa Monica. Bitter because she won’t be spending her nights wrapped with Harry anymore.
The sweet part is all Harry, Frankie hates to admit. His sweet smile, the taste of his sweet lips, the way his hands feel sweetly wrapped around Frankie’s middle, the way she won’t hear him say her sweet nickname Franks.
Frankie looks over towards her right and smiles at his sleeping frame tucked next to hers. Her heart practically stilled when he chose to sit near her in the back of the bus instead of his usual spot behind Bryan in the front. If anybody felt a certain way about it, nobody mentioned it, which made Frankie relax into the ripped leather seat. When Harry’s warm hand latched onto her thigh, Frankie’s heart almost stopped beating.
“Franks, ‘m tired. Can I use you as a pillow?” Harry asks, his voice thick with sleep.
Before Frankie could reply, Harry’s head was already resting in the crook of her neck, his chestnut curls ticking the underside of her chin. Frankie just smiles, knowing that this would probably be the last spare moment they have together before she has to leave after the show to write her piece for Rolling Stone.
“So soft. You’re the sweetest, Franks,” Harry mumbles before drifting off into sleep.
The hotel is conveniently across the street from the Fillmore, so while the band unloads their instruments, Frankie slinks into her hotel room to deposit her duffle bag and sort through the endless notes she had taken during her summer with the band. Most of them are scribbled in her notebook that was practically ripping from overuse, but the most important tidbits, the ones that Frankie didn’t want to forget, were written on bar napkins and setlist pages. On room service menus and gas station receipts. Frankie makes sure to stuff those into her folder, making sure they stay with her forever.
On her way back to the concert venue, Frankie hears screaming from the room Cherry and Rod share. Part of her wants to knock and make sure that her friend is okay, but after their last conversation, Frankie’s convinced that she’s probably the last person Cherry wants to see anyways. So she saunters back to the Fillmore, rushing to try and find Harry to lift her spirits once again.
But what she sees does the complete opposite.
Bleach blonde hair. Pretty red dress. Deep hazel eyes. Brand new patent leather pumps. A handbag that definitely cost more than the entire ensemble. Matching red lips.
Red lips that were attached to Harry’s.
Frankie freezes. She can feel her heart burst, but not in the way that it has been used to doing the past few days. Instead, it’s a painful burst. She can feel shards slice through her beating flesh, ripping her open and spluttering on the concrete flooring.
Suddenly green eyes are latched onto hers.
And suddenly, they’re the last thing she wants to see.
“Oh, hello! You must be the reporter everybody has been telling me about. Frankie, right? It’s so great to meet you! This is such a great opportunity for everybody,” the pretty girl is saying, but Frankie isn’t registering anything.
All she’s registering is Harry’s hands jumping away from the girl’s waist. His green eyes wide and pleading. His uncomfortable shuffling behind her.
Frankie snaps her mouth shut, trying her hardest to pull herself together. “Hi, yes. I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you, er…”
“Roslyn. I’m Harry’s girlfriend.”
Frankie tries her hardest to keep a straight face, but she’s practically breaking at the seams. She doesn’t even register two sets of feet stopping short behind her, doesn’t even acknowledge her shaky hand slipping into Roslyn’s, doesn’t even feel the heat of Harry’s eyes on hers, of everybody’s eyes on hers.
She feels like the biggest idiot in the world.
Before she could sink into the floor, Frankie feels a small hand settle on her back, blonde ringlets falling onto her bare shoulder. She shuffles back, feeling the warmth of Cherry’s embrace behind her. She knows that Cherry’s heard everything, and with one look into Frankie’s eyes, Cherry can see her reflection through the tears that threaten to fall.
“Frankie, did you bring the necklace you borrowed from me last night?” Cherry asks. It’s an out, an excuse to drag her away from the absolute nightmare unfolding in front of her. Frankie can barely shake her head back, instead she’s gripping onto her friend for dear life, feeling that if she wasn’t anchoring her into the cement flooring she’d be sinking.
“Wait, Cher! Franks, I—”
“—Don’t. We’ll see you after the show,” Cherry says. And for the first time since knowing her, Frankie shivers at the coldness dripping from her mouth.
The two girls don’t bother to hear a response. Instead, Cherry whips through the exit door of the venue and drags Frankie back into the comfort of her hotel room. Once she’s sitting on her flimsy mattress and the door is deadbolted, Frankie finally cries, painful sobs ripping through her chest. She hunches over, feeling her chest constrict at the lack of oxygen rushing through her respiratory system. But she doesn’t care. The hurt she felt watching Harry kiss another girl feels worse than this.
“Frankie, shush, it’s going to be okay,” Cherry says sadly, wrapping a thin arm around Frankie’s shoulders.
“It’s not going to be okay. Cherry, I can’t breathe. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Wait, I should be apologizing, Cherry I—” Frankie’s rambles are cut off by Cherry kneeling in front of her, holding her glistening face in the small palms of her hands. Cherry smiles, and when Frankie looks hard enough, she can see that it doesn’t meet her eyes. And she instantly knows that something is wrong.
“Wait, Cherry what’s wrong. Did something happen?” Frankie whimpers, holding her hands on top of Cherry’s, trying to squeeze the truth out of her friend.
“I think we should get out of here. What do you think? Let’s get away from it all,” Cherry says, gesturing at the front door where Frankie’s duffle lays untouched. Frankie feels herself nodding, grabbing Cherry in one hand and her bag in the other, walking outside of the hotel with a shattered heart.
Before they can get too far, she hears his voice. And that’s all it takes for her to feel the shards rip through her skin again.
“Franks! Please you’ve got to listen to me, please!” He’s pleading and Frankie feels disgusted that he’s calling out for her when his beautiful blonde-haired girlfriend is waiting for him inside just as she’s been waiting for him at home while he’s been wasting his time with Frankie.
“Cher, please let me talk to her, I’ve gotta—”
“—Goodbye Harry,” Frankie says softly. It’s final. Absolute.
She’s not sure who’s heart is breaking more, and honestly, she can’t bring herself to care. All she knows is that she feels as if Harry had shown her a world unlike any other—bright and unknowing and enticing and full of new wonders and surprises. But at the same time, he introduced her to heartbreak and pain and suffering and emptiness.
Frankie doesn’t look back as Cherry drags her towards the street, hailing a taxi and shoving them both into it. She doesn’t look out the window when the tires peel from the pavement, falling into traffic on the motorway. If she did, she would see Harry’s heart crumpling into the ground, his chest heaving in pain, his eyes watering.
Because they were both the closest to love they had ever felt in their lives. And Harry had ruined it. And the worst part of it all?
Frankie should have known better.
***
Inside the departures terminal in San Francisco Airport, Frankie finally wipes all of the water from her eyes. She’s pretty convinced that she’s cried all of the tears her body could produce, so with one last shaky inhale, she lifts her head from the crook of Cherry’s neck, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“Thank you, Cherry,” Frankie whispers to a girl she never thought she would ever call a friend.
“I should be the one thanking you, Frankie,” Cherry admits, laughing softly to herself. It isn’t genuine, and Frankie can see the pain hidden behind her silver eyes.
“What happened?”
“You were right.” Cherry doesn’t need to explain more, but Frankie feels her heart aching for her friend. She feels horrible about their fight, but she feels even worse at the fact that Rod hurt Cherry.
“Why doesn’t he love me?” Cherry asks, and Frankie wonders how the two of them had gotten to this point. Both broken and scarred over two men who couldn’t love them the way that they needed to.
“I don’t know the answer to that, Cherry. But I do know that you never needed his love. Because love doesn’t feel like this. Love is supposed to be the thing that people write songs about, and you’ll find it one day. We’ll both find it one day.”
Cherry just nods at her brown-haired friend she’s grown to love in the span of three weeks. She hugs her tightly, hoping that this embrace will help heal their shattered hearts. Because even though they didn’t find love with Rod and Harry, they found love between each other. And that’s something worth remembering.
“Thank you,” Cherry mumbles against Frankie’s hair.
“Of course. I’ll always be here for you, Cherry,” Frankie replies, squeezing her friend a little tighter.
“I know that, and I will too.” Cherry stands up, grabbing Frankie’s hand one last time. Her suitcase is in the other, and she has a distant look in her silver eyes. “I just can’t do it here.”
Frankie smiles, knowing all along that Cherry was too good for this place. “I know. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says with a promise.
Before Cherry runs off to purchase a one-way ticket to a city far away from California, she turns back around, her eyes glistening. She reaches down to grab Frankie’s hand one last time.
“Aubrey Lennox,” she whispers.
“What?”
“My name,” Cherry replies with her infamous grin. “Is Aubrey Lennox. I’ll call you when I’ve found a place.” And with that, Aubrey walks off, giving Frankie one last parting glance.
An hour later when the hollowness inside Frankie seems to slowly start dissipating, she sees Mary in her stewardess outfit, a million questions at the tip of her tongue. With one look at her little sister, Mary knows something is wrong, and when she tells her that she’ll take her anywhere she wants to go, Frankie only has one place in mind.
She wants to go home.
***
August 1973 - entry no. 9
Frankie writes the Rolling Stone article the night Mary finds her in the airport in San Francisco. After promising her little sister that she’ll bring her home after she checks in with Greg and feeds their cat, Frankie stays up all night, clacking away on her sister’s old Smith Corona Classic 12 typewriter, writing three thousand words about her time with The Nocturnals.
She writes about their origin. She writes about their dazzling stage presence, the way they build off of each other, the way they trust each other wholeheartedly throughout each show. She writes about their growing tension. She writes about their poor management. She writes about how they’re debut album was incredible, chart-stopping, and the main reason why they’ve been successful. She writes about the promise of their second album being better than the first, and how she couldn’t imagine them breaking up any time soon, and how their music is for all the uncool people in the world.
It’s amazing and honest and truthful, void of spite or hatred or bias. She tells their story the way it should be told—open and honest and real. When she delivers it to Rolling Stone, they tell Frankie it’s going to be on the front page. They love the way she portrays The Nocturnals as normal people, chasing the high they provide for those who pay to watch their show.
But when they make out the call to fact check her piece, they deny everything.
“Did you talk to Harry Styles?” Frankie asks, growing frantic. She figured the least he owed her was to be honest and allow her to write their story.
“He was the one who denied everything.”
After that phone call, Frankie returns home with Mary. Once she’s opened the door and said hello to her mother, she locks herself in her room for three days and doesn’t leave.
Frankie didn’t think her heart could withstand any more pain, but she was wrong. She feels a bone-aching tiredness shiver through her body, the hollowness making her feel as if she was just barely there on most days. She can’t sleep because her pillow isn’t the rising and falling of Harry’s bare chest, the soft snoring from his mouth, the gentle caress of his hands over her arms.
Her anger overrides her feeling of emptiness in regards to her heart. She’s crushed at the fact that Harry lied to her about Roslyn, but even more so, he continued to lie when he denied her story from Rolling Stone. She hates him in these days, wishing she could tell him how much of a coward he was to his face.
And when she can’t sleep at night, she hears Lester’s words reverberating through her brain, don’t get too close, don’t get too close, don’t get too close.
Frankie wishes she just fucking listened.
***
The next morning, Frankie is lathering a thin layer of butter over her charred toast when the doorbell rings. She doesn’t make a move to answer it, and when Mary approaches the kitchen with a twinkle in her eyes, Frankie knows that whoever is at the door is waiting for her.
“Mary, no—”
“—Go answer it, Frankie.”
Frankie gulps her dry toast down her throat, letting it fall onto a paper towel with a soft thud. She walks slowly to the front door, hoping that whoever it is could see the state of disarray she was in and would presumptively leave her alone.
Once she reaches the foyer, she hears a gruff laugh, a noise she’s never heard before.
“Holy shit, you’re a fuckin’ kid.”
When she looks up, it’s no other than Lester Bangs in the doorway. His long hair is parted to one side, brown eyes covered in black wayfarer sunglasses. His brown leather jacket hangs off his arms, and she’s shocked that he would come all the way from San Francisco to talk to her.
“Cat’s out the bag,” Frankie shrugs, realizing that she’s too tired and too hurt to keep up her adult façade. She’s fully aware that her plaid pajama bottoms and high school t-shirt give away the fact that she is actually eighteen years old.
But somehow, Lester doesn’t seem to mind.
“Had a feeling. You write like you’re experiencing shit for the first time in your life.” Frankie tries to ignore the truthfulness to his words.
“Yeah, well… What are you exactly doing here, Lester?” Frankie asks.
Lester holds up his left hand and clutched inside is the August edition of Rolling Stone’s magazine. On the front cover is a picture of The Nocturnals: Harry, Eddie, Veronica, Jett, and Rod, posing in front of a red backdrop. On the left hand column reads THE NOCTURNALS: Sex, Drugs, and Life on the Road. And right under that, in glossy red print, reads Written by: Frankie Goodhart.
Frankie starts to feel the hollowness inside of her fill up.
“Harry Styles called and told us that everything you said was true. And that he’s sorry, for some reason,” Lester says, holding out the publication for her to keep. She runs her fingers over the words, smiling for the first time in a week.
“Wow, uh, I don’t know what to say,” Frankie says, floored.
Lester laughs and produces a second copy, holding out a Sharpie in the other. “Mind if you sign mine? Figured it’ll be worth a lot once you make it big, kid.”
Frankie laughs, before shakily reaching out and signing her name in big swoopy letters. Before Lester leaves, he tells her to keep sending him her album reviews, and that whenever she figures out what she wants to do with her life, he’ll always be waiting for her call.
A few days later, the hollowness doesn’t feel as painful anymore. Frankie distracts herself by hanging out with her sister, spending time with her mother, listening to new records, telling Mary the in’s and out’s of her time on the road. She leaves out a certain curly-haired boy with green eyes that broke her heart, but Mary knows that Frankie will tell her over time, once she’s finished mending the scars he left her with.
When Mary announces that she’s heading back to San Francisco, her departure isn’t as sad as the first time. Cynthia and her daughter seemed to have found common ground with Mary’s outlook on life, and with a promise to be back for Thanksgiving, Frankie starts to feel like the ground isn’t as shaky as it was a month earlier.
“Want to go to Tower Records with me? One last time before I go, for old time’s sake,” Mary whispers in her sister’s ear when their mother is busy making lunch.
Frankie nods, and the two girls set off across the boardwalk.
The sun warms Frankie to her core, and she suddenly starts to feel the weight being lifted from her shoulders. She feels more in control of her life now than ever before, and walking side by side with her sister, she no longer feels hollow. Instead, she feels excited. Excited for her future. Excited for the idea of endless possibilities and newness.
“You should come with me to San Francisco, Frankie! I can get you a stewardess position and we can travel the world together. Live like we never have before. What do you say, kiddo?” Mary asks, rifling through the “M” section of the new releases in the record store.
Before, Frankie would have done anything to be closer to her sister. But now, in the after, she feels a new sense of home in Santa Monica.
“I think I’m gonna stay here. Go to college at UCLA. Probably study English, if they’ll let me,” Frankie announces. And for once, she actually means what she’s saying.
Mary smiles at her sister, her thumbs crossing over towards the “N” category.
“Whatever you end up doing Frankie, just remember that you’re doing it for yourself. And that no matter what, I’m in your corner. Always have, always will.”
Frankie reaches an arm around her sister, holding her close. She hopes that Mary can feel the love she has for her through her embrace, and when Mary smiles, she knows she can feel it.
“Oh, I haven’t seen this before,” Mary says, coming to a stop on a record in the middle of the “N” bin.
Frankie watches as her sister pulls out a black vinyl wrapped in a pink and blue sleeve. The band she spent weeks on the road with is written on the top, with the picture from the Rolling Stone cover in the middle. When Frankie’s eyes scroll towards the bottom of the record, she can feel her breath catch in her throat when she reads the name of the title.
GOOD HEART.
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aos!star trek sense8 au
okay so. i had a thought as I was watching star trek 2009. mainly, i was pissed that we got jim being a fucked up troublemaker and spock being an ostracized genius, but we didn’t get:
uhura growing up with her huge family devouring information about alien cultures, or bby!sulu learning how to fence or bby!checkov doing spiraling math equations on the wall of his bedroom or little scotty running around with an outrageous brogue and a penchant for taking apart the replicator, or bones being adorably, earnestly caring
fuck that noise. I want baby-faced versions of the whole bridge crew.
thus, the sense8 AU. I’ve never watched sense8 but I’m 90% sure they’re all supposed to be the same age, which is alright. i can do that. it just means that they know each other a little differently; some things happen earlier or different, but that’s fine.
oh my god this is going to be ridiculous. okay. again, never seen sense8, never will, so i’m pulling this out of thin air
—
clusters are so rare no one knows about them at this point; there are myths and legends from the eugenics wars—the very wars which essentially wiped them out, actually—but for the most part, everyone has forgotten.
very rarely will someone from a cluster speak about their experiences, but whenever they do, it’s written off as part and parcel of mingling with telepathic alien races.
(little do they know it’s the one form of telepathy completely indigenous to Earth)
—
Spock is the most powerful telepath of his generation because of his uniquely human experience fielding the emotions of six other people.
—
nyota is five when she decides she wants to learn to speak all the other languages, because then she can talk to pavel and spock with their words. she learns to speak swahili with her mother and father and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents at home, and standard at school. having to translate things in her mind because people don’t know her language, her words, is hard. and if she can keep pavel and spock from having to do that, she will.
—
nyota is the reason they all join starfleet, in the end. she meets a recruiter at school when they’re seven years old. when the woman starts to talk about experiencing alien cultures and first contacts and languages she excitedly pulls everyone to her. they all sit bunched up at this woman’s feet and learn about starfleet for the first time, together. maybe they don’t all know what they want to do yet, or even that this is what they want.
but nyota wins out, in the end. she always does.
—
when Jim breaks the security on Frank’s car, ribs still aching from the night before, Hikaru slips into the passenger seat. they don’t—none of them really know how to respond when things like this happen to jim, when jim pulls these stunts
(sometimes, Spock can get through to him, speak to his anger. but spock is...having his own problems today)
but when Jim frantically pulls out of their driveway and down the dusty half-road, only thinking awayawayaway Hikaru grins at him and whoops as they push sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety
then the cop pulls up alongside them and he gets nervous. jim throws him a wild grin and yanks the wheel to the side, crashing through the gates and heading straight for a ravine.
“Jim,” Hikaru says in a panic. “Jim, jim ,jim stop the car! Stop the car! JIM!”
they’re 20 feet away from the edge when sulu makes a desperate, useless grab for the wheel and Jim finally gives in. everyone steps onto the edge of the cliff as he frantically grabs at sand and dust, living only because his friends family cluster are screaming at him.
they huddle around him in shock as he pushes to his feet and mouths off to the police officer; scotty giggles at his nonchalance and nyota thwaps him on the back of his head and leo wraps him in a hug, careful of his ribs.
—
everyone piles into pavel’s room the nights his uncle tells stories. exciting adventures with spies and snipers and assassins.
—
nyota spends quiet afternoons with spock on his balcony under the hot vulcan sun, pouring over whatever data has drawn Spock’s attention this week. he helps her with her pronunciation and lets her practice golic scripture on his pads. vulcan is her third language she ever learns.
—
Hikaru goes on hikes with Scotty through the still-preserved highlands, stopping every five minutes to pester him for the names of the plants. when they first start out, there are a lot of “i don’t knows,” or asking of scotty’s mother, but eventually Scotty starts learning them ahead of time, just to see Hikaru’s grin as they discuss foliage patterns and pollination.
—
Jim, Spock and Pavel will spend hours debating mathematical theories, wearing out the wrist of whoever’s room they’re in. every once in a while pavel will say something that gets and eyebrow raise out of spock and a look of utter shock from Jim, because he proven them completely wrong in an effortless manner
—
Tarsus—
when Jim understands what’s happening, what Governor Kodos means, it’s—fuck. he just. he just shuts down, starts grabbing as many people as he can, other kids, mainly.
and everyone else freezes right where they are. in the middle of class and fencing practice and church and after bolting upright in the middle of the night.
Spock initiates an emergency shutdown of his pod and rushes up the stairs, politely requesting (demanding) that the instructor contact his father immediately.
Pavel jumps out of bed and bangs on his Uncle’s door, begging him to open up, please open up, you still have friends on the federation council, yes?
Nyota pulls the...enhanced radio transmitter Scotty helped her build out and immediately breaks into contacts starfleet command’s private frequency to begin relaying everything she has so far, as Jim gets it, and Scotty sits right next to her, helping find new ways to break in every time starfleet shuts them out until they have to listen, please listen, this is not a joke!
Leo and Hikaru...they stay with Jim, as he scrambles through the facility where Kodos penned them in to be slaughtered; grabbing a phaser off of a corpse and shooting the guards who chase after them; kicking the legs out from under one who gets too close; keeping track of little Kevin who’s screaming and crying for his mother.
(instead of waiting six months until their scheduled check-in to find the remains of the Tarsus IV colony, Starfleet finds out about the massacre of 4,000 federation citizens almost as it’s happening; finds out from, oddly enough, the Vulcan ambassador to Earth, a former incredibly classified russian special ops agent for the United Earth, and one very persistent child in the African Confederacy with a souped-up radio communicator.
it still take three weeks for the nearest ship to warp to Tarsus, near the edge of uncharted space, and rescue the remaining colonists)
Hikaru advises Jim on whether they can eat what few plants they find; Leo uses his rudimentary medical knowledge to help patch up the injured children. Nyota and Spock take turns helping Jim translate for the young Vulcan among them, young enough that her Standard is not yet perfected.
Spock demands that his father demand information on the rescue mission, so that he may coordinate with Jim on how long they have and where to meet the survivors that Jim is slowly, carefully, gathering.
—
the minute Jim is settled in the med-bay of the starfleet vessel carrying him and the other 73 survivors of Kodos’ condemned colonists, he breaks. break in half, breaks down sobbing, curls up into a ball and just lets himself feel, again.
all six of the others pile around him on the biobed, surrounding him, until all he can see are other parts of himself.
—
Jim is fourteen years old. There are six other people living in his head. He has survived a massacre and a genocide and his mother is—
His mother is—
Not coming. She’s not coming. She’s sending him back to Frank, who chased Sam away and let Jim go to Tarsus. She barely even looks at him when she sentences him to another six years of terror.
Before, he might have panicked. Now he just...shuts down again, steals a datapad, and hacks into starfleet’s communications with his mother and frank. Jim-as-Frank says he’s beaming to Risa to pick Jim up as soon as possible, and Jim-as-Winona signs off on it.
With Leo yelling at him and Nyota reminding him he can just come stay with her family and Pavel saying my uncle would be happy to—, Jim steps onto the transporter pad and beams down to Risa, hastily making his way out of the starfleet outpost and into the crushing crowds of the pleasure planet, and disappears.
—
They all worry about Jim, and keep tabs on him, but they have their own lives to live, too. Even if they never give up on pulling him to one of them before he gets himself killed.
—
Pavel gets admitted to starfleet academy when they’re fifteen and Nyota is not jealous! No, no, she’s not jealous, shut up, Hikaru. And it’s fine, anyway, because they all know the reason half of them are planning on joining starfleet (at least, right then) is because of her. So there.
And when he gets homesick his second week there, Nyota plops herself down on his bed and babbles with him in Russian (her fourth language) until the ache in his chest recedes.
—
Hikaru and Pavel are the first of them to meet in person, because Hikaru lives in San Francisco. Whenever Pavel is granted leave from the Academy, Hikaru shows up to drag him surfing, or to his favorite restaurant, or to meet his parents.
—
Six months after Pavel starts at Starfleet, Leo is needling Spock about the Kohlinar so much that he actually seeks out his mother to ensure Leo is wrong, that he is not needlessly repressing his “humanity” at the expense of a real part of himself.
Leo stands there in shock, glee and utter disbelief as Spock tells the old racist bastards at the Vulcan Science Academy where to put it; just claps him on the shoulder on his way out.
(Jim quietly grins to himself as he listens in)
(Nyota high-fives Pavel, Hikaru and Scotty; five down, two to go)
—
Given the nature of Vulcan secondary education and Spock’s desire to be a science officer, he tests out of basically the first two years of classes. Then he does such an exemplary job that he earns an officer’s commission right after graduation under fucking Pike, are you kidding me?? Nyota screeches and jumps up and down and generally makes an emotional scene while Spock suffers.
—
When they are seventeen, Leo gets his girlfriend Jocelyn pregnant.
What.
—
After Tarsus, the times that they all get together are few and far between; but when Joanna is born they all stop what they’re doing to gather around Jocelyn’s biobed and coo, or congratulate, or tease Leo for being the one to have a kid, come on, I really had money on Jim.
He smiles at Jocelyn and stares in awe at Joanna and feels how much they all love him, how much they already love his daughter (not their daughter; not yet).
—
When they’re eighteen, Scotty and Hikaru and Nyota are finally (!!!! Nyota is so excited) going to Starfleet Academy, to join Pavel in his third year and catch Spock in passing whenever he’s on leave.
Before they leave, Nyota stands in the center of her sisters and cousins and aunts and nieces and sobs, happy to be one step closer to starfleet but unashamedly grieving for the stage of her life that she’s leaving behind. And she decides then that she’s going to start going by Uhura, her family name, so that she can take them with her into the stars.
—
Jim is, oddly enough, the one to sit up with Leo on those long nights when Joanna just. won’t. sleep. He quietly chats him up and stares in awe at this baby girl who came into the world peacefully and wanted, if not fully expected. This baby girl whose parents will never raise a hand to her and has a dozen people willing to lay down their lives for her and, more importantly, take her in if god forbid it becomes necessary.
He whispers sweet nothings she can’t hear to her and Leo throws an arm over his shoulders, grateful and missing him even though he right there.
—
His feet hit the ground on Earth for the first time in four years two weeks later, after doing a few things he shut the others out for (he and spock are the only ones who bothered to learn how to do that) to get onto a shuttle headed straight back...home.
Not home because he lived there Before, but home because that’s where all the other pieces of him are living.
Because he a masochist (shut up, Leo) he acquires a hover bike and zips over to Iowa, and starts haunting Riverside, Iowa. He lets the corn and small-town bullshit crawl under his skin and takes it out on anyone stupid enough to provoke him when he’s drunk.
He’s completely smashed when Leo finally admits he’s going to be a doctor and tries to call him sawbones; only, the first part doesn’t quite make it out of his mouth.
Leo—Bones—groans because the others are never gonna let this go.
(he is correct on that front)
—
The others are trying to give him space, he knows, but they’re also not at all subtle about their excitement at his being so close for the first time.
Hikaru, Scotty, Pavel, and Uhura orbit each other in San Fran, with Spock the occasional comet passing through their system, together in person, for real, and so eager to share that with the last two of them who’ve never met any of them in person.
They descend on they newly-christened Bones for winter break that first semester (well, actually, it’s Pavel’s seventh semester—i swear to god Chekov i’m gonna knock that smirk off your face) to meet Jocelyn and Joanna.
And god, they spoil that girl. Almost a year old, toddling around and bumping into everything and so curious about everything.
Spock couldn’t quite swing leave time to go with them, but they video comm him a few times so Joanna can see him, too.
Jocelyn is quietly unnerved by these people her partner is so close with, who he talks about all the time but has apparently never...met in person before? Who call him Bones, of all things. And they all take the time to talk to her, get to know her and try and connect, but it’s overwhelming.
And then Uhura sits Bones down in person and lays out all the reasons he should transfer to the Starfleet Academy to finish out his med degree; they have a track laid out to get your doctorate and become an officer, you’re majoring in xenobiology anyway and there’s no better place for that, the opportunities for residencies will be so much better, the trauma surgeons at the academy are unmatched, and—
and we’ll be there. Joanna can grow up with all of us around to help.
Six down, one to go.
—
The first time Hikaru sits at the helm of a shuttle, he doesn’t stop grinning the rest of the day. Botany is his first and best love, but by god he’s going to qualify to be a pilot, too. Maybe someday he’ll get to fly something like the Enterprise.
—
Scotty has taken engineering by storm. All his professors have an opinion on him, and it’s always love ‘em or hate ‘em. He’s absolutely brilliant or completely mad, should be given the flagship at the earliest opportunity or marooned somewhere he can’t do any real damage.
—
Uhura comes in knowing eight languages: Swahili, Standard, Vulcan, Russian, French, one of the Rhiannsu (Romulan) dialects, Tellaran, and rudimentary Andoran. She knows exactly what she’s going to do and has been preparing for it her whole life.
The rest of them grin to each other when they start hearing about Uhura’s exploits in astounding the communications track time and time again.
—
Spock lets them know before anyone else that Captain Pike has been re-assigned to Starfleet Academy for a round of teaching...and that Spock himself will also finally be accepting the Science track’s increasingly desperate demands that he teach.
He’ll also be offering courses in communications; ones Uhura will have to take before graduation. A clear conflict of interest.
(Uhura is ecstatic; Spock is concerned, but will only volunteer the incredibly personal information when it becomes relevant)
—
When Uhura sees the sign-up for a summer tour of the shipyards in Riverside, she smirks to herself and signs the fuck up, then goes directly to Jim to needle him about it.
Jim sighs and orders another drink, but...finally getting to see one of them in person after all these years...something settles in his chest that hasn’t sat right since he was just a kid.
—
Uhura is practically vibrating as she bursts into the club. Practically half their class is stuffed around chair and in booths, and she makes a brief stop by some of her friends, but she’s on a mission now.
She can feel a subtle itch under her skin that means Jim is so close. So close, after so long. After being so alone for so long.
He doesn’t quite understand how unwilling she’s going to be to let him go, once she has him in her clutches.
They practically run into each other next to the stools by the bar and she fights the urge to throw her arms around him. He looks breathless and a little disbelieving, even though he knew this was coming for months, until a bright and easy smile breaks out on his face. The one she hasn’t seen since they were still kids.
“Jim,” she laughs, giddy, and he laughs back at her, leaning onto the bar. She sidles up next to him, as close as his current general aura of “don’t touch me” will allow, and just...breathes, for a second.
He’s definitely drunk (although, when isn’t he, these days) but still lucid. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly, so low she almost can’t hear it over the throbbing music.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she shoots back, still unable to let go of her smile.
They’re still just basking in each other’s physical presence (after all these years, she still sometimes has no idea what to do with Jim Kirk, except be there with him), when asshole security track cadet Hendorff and his pals make their way up to the bar behind the pair of them.
She can feel the way Jim perks up at the tension in their figures and sighs internally.
“This townie isn’t bothering you, right?” He asks with a smirk, like, what, he has the authority to protect her?
“Oh, beyond belief, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” Uhura turns toward Jim and tries to make it clear that he has no business interrupting their conversation, but Jim...
“You can handle me, that’s an invitation,” He smirks at her and knows exactly what he’s doing.
And she has half a mind to let him do it; if he wants to get his ass beat that’s his business.
“Hey, farmboy,” but then Hendorff lays his hands on Jim. “Maybe you can’t count, but there are four of us and one of you.”
He lays his hands on Jim. He’s interrupted their first meeting in person after nineteen years living in each other’s minds, and laid his hands on her cluster-mate.
Jim lets his gaze flit to her for half a second and then steps into Hendorff’s space, clapping him on the cheek. “So go get some more guys and then it’ll be an even fight.”
Uhura rolls her eyes and her shoulders and knows from Jim’s experience the exact moment the tension will spill over into violence.
Hendorff draws back and decks Jim, who falls into the bar; as he makes his next move, before Jim can fully turn around, Uhura draws her heeled boot up and buries it in Hendorff’s stomach, flinging him back into the crowd.
The other three look at her in shock before Jim draws their attention again and they start—god, brawling is the only word for it. Flinging wild punches and bottles and chairs.
When one of them gets Jim in a lock Uhura swings behind him and pinches the nerve on his shoulder, just like Spock taught them, and he goes down like a light.
But the other two still get four good hits in while she’s doing it, and between the alcohol and the concussion one of them manages to fling him onto a table while Uhura goes for the other one.
Unfortunately a whistle pierces the din before she can kick his ass.
Captain Pike is standing at the entrance to the club, staring in disbelief at the mess they’ve made of the place, and of Jim. “Outside, all of you,” he orders.
Uhura seethes at the lost time; she didn’t even have the chance to make her annual pitch for him to join starfleet. But she also doesn’t make her way out with the others, instead grabbing some napkins from a nearby table and hurrying over to Jim, who’s in that fun in-between state between conscious and unconscious he’s so very familiar with.
“I can feel you judging me from over here,” he mumbles, then lolls his head back to say something about whistling to Captain Pike.
She dunks one of the napkins in a glass of water and starts wiping at his face automatically, until Captain Pike clears his throat.
“Cadet, you know this man?” He asks pointedly. God, she’s going to get court-martialed for this, but she looks down at Jim before she answers. He’s been off Starfleet’s radar since he was fourteen, and has never been keen to get back on it.
But he sort of shrugs at her, so she looks back up. Pike is giving her a bemused eyebrow raise she’s pretty sure he got from Spock as she says, “Yes, sir. This is Jim Kirk, my...” she doesn’t even know the word for it. Cluster-mate? Bonded? There’s no true word for it in Standard, or even Vulcan.
“Boyfriend?” Captain Pike finishes dryly, but then watches as they both gag. Uh, no.
“No, sir, Jim is one of my...bond-mates.” She grimaces. “I don’t know the exact term for it, but that’s close enough, sir.”
“Well, Cadet Uhura, if you don’t know the word than it the word must not exist,” Captain Pike says, and she fights the urge to flush.
Decides to raise her chin instead. “Thank you, sir.” Deeming his face clean enough for now, she hauls Jim off the table and hands him the rest of the napkins. She draws the line at stuffing things up his nose for him.
“Why don’t we all sit down for a minute and discuss what the hell just happened here,” he suggest-orders.
—
Spock has a very interesting comm message from Captain Pike the next morning, and fights the very human urge to rub his temples in exasperation. Uhura is supposed to be his partner in sensibility, not Jim's back-up in bar fights.
Perhaps they all bring out different sides of one another.
—
Uhura screeches at Jim when he shows up at the shipyard the next morning.
“Are you kidding me? All I had to do, all this time, was dare you to join Starfleet? Are you six fucking years old?!?”
Jim grins at her, and is incredibly lucky they’re lifting off so she can’t get up and strangle him.
—
Of course Jim joined for Them. But it’s funnier to let Uhura think Pike could just dare him into it.
#wow this was uh#a lot#utter garbage#weird as hell#not exaclty what i was looking for but i like it kinda??#whatever#anyway#sens8#star trek#fic#star trek fic#star trek 2009#nyota uhura#jim kirk#spock#hikaru sulu#pavel chekov#montgomery scott#leonard mccoy#anyway i may write more of this i may not#but its fun to think of pike finding out his first officer has a bunch of other teenagers in the back of his head#and then having an incredulous conversation about sharing personal info#i'm tired this took awhile#enjoy?? i guess???#this is 4k i wasn't expecting to write tonight#long post#tarsus IV#sens8 au
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Point Limite Zero (1971) from Patrice De Bruyne on Vimeo.
Légendaire film de course poursuite "Point Limite Zéro" (Vanishing Point) fut tourné avec un budget très minime de 14.000 US$ (et en très peu de temps) par Richard C.Sarafian qui désirait Gene Hackman dans le rôle de Kowalski ! Mais la Fox a imposé Barry Newman. 9 Dodge Challenger ont été utilisées pour le tournage à la fin duquel 8 voitures étaient irréparables.
Le film commence sans aucun son, même le logo de la Fox n'est pas accompagné de sa fanfare habituelle... Pour aller de Denver à San Francisco, il y a un peu plus de 2.000 km, Kowalski (Barry Newman) doit donc faire une moyenne de 200 km/h pour tenir son pari. C'est donc une publicité "extra" pour la Dodge Challenger qui est donc capable (dans le film) de soutenir la limite perpétuelle de la zone rouge sans défaillir, sans chauffer sans exploser... Au fur et à mesure que la voiture fonce à tombeau ouvert et que le film avance de même, pour que ça ne soit pas monotone, on nous apprend ce qu'était la vie de Kowalski : pilote de moto, puis pilote automobile, des accidents et des emmerdes. Puis on le voit policier ne supportant pas les agissements de son supérieur. Puis il est amoureux d'une surfeuse qui finit par disparaître dans la mer... Puis il mange des glaces, des hamburgers... Jamais on ne le voit faire pipi et caca, c'est donc un homme sain et propre. Il passe à travers tout (sauf des murs) mais son cœur se burine comme son visage, bref il vieillit et s'en rend compte... Faut bander tant que ça fonctionne encore. C'est donc un homme qui souffre, qui a beaucoup souffert et qui sait qu'il va encore souffrir, même s'il ne laisse rien paraître. Ce n'est pas un hasard si le film commence un dimanche matin à 10h02, puis revient en arrière à partir du vendredi après-midi, pour finir le dimanche matin à 10h04. Ne dit-on pas que lorsqu'on meurt, on voit sa vie défiler devant ses yeux ? N'est-ce pas ce qui s'est passé avec Kowalsky durant les "deux" minutes que durent le film de sa vie : il revit également sa vie par la radio en interposition avec Super Soul, un animateur radio, son nom signifiant "Super Âme", il est donc l'Âme de Kowalsi, sa conscience qui le guide vers sa fin inexorable... Pourtant la fin aurait pu être différente.
En effet, la version dite "UK" du film contient une longue scène supplémentaire de 7 minutes environ. Elle se situe dans la nuit du samedi au dimanche. Kowalski prend une jeune auto-stoppeuse (jouée par Charlotte Rampling qui a beaucoup vieillit depuis et qui ne serait sans doute plus prise en auto-stop, je ne sais si c'est un message subliminal qui a ainsi été ajouté ou si c'est un service rendu ? Un mystère de plus !). Ils s'arrêtent au bord de la route et elle lui demande son nom ('est cucul, je sais !). Il répond "Kowalski, nom et prénom et rien d'autre" (Je vous avoue que je n'ai toujours pas compris le sens caché de cette tirade)... Puis tous les deux s'enlacent et se font l'amour. Chaud ! Sauf que le dimanche au petit matin, Kowalsky se réveille mais l'auto-stoppeuse a disparu. As-t'elle piqué son portefeuille, ce qui va lui donner l'envie d'en finir ? As-t-il bandé mou ? Quoiqu'il a fait ? Si elle avait été encore là le matin, Kowalski aurait il foncé sur les bulldozers ? Cette auto-stoppeuse était-elle vraie ou n'était-ce qu'un rêve dans lequel Kowalski a connu une dernière fois l'amour avant de se suicider ? S'est-il branlé en rêvant ? Dommage que cette scène ait été coupée, car elle apporte une nuance au film (pour qui peut la voir). L’important n’est pas tant la destination que le voyage, la trajectoire, c'est la seule destinée pour qui avance... Celle de Kowalski traverse autant les grands espaces américains que les Etats-Uniens vintage seventies qui la peuplent. Des prédicateurs du désert. Un charmeur de serpents. Un couple de hippies, dont une nenette qui fait de la moto à poil, incarnation absolue de la beauté et de la liberté. Et un animateur radio aveugle, qui dans ses monologues entretient un lien quasi mystique avec Kowalski. Moi, jamais ça ne m'arrive dans mes déplacements !
La caméra s’attarde sur les gueules ridées et mutiques de l’Americana, à la manière de la photographe Dorothea Lange. Dans les arrières plans, le trouble : l’impression de voir autant de figurants que de vrais badauds venus observer le tournage. D’où l’idée d’un film peuplé de fantômes, ou plutôt de golems de cinéma. Des êtres hybrides, inachevés. Autant témoins d’une époque, que de la cavalcade d’un des derniers héros américains, épris de vitesse et de liberté.
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Fangs and Flower Power Music
One of the most fun things about this vampire au was deciding from what time period the characters would be. Since I chose the seventies for Jehan (flower child, how could I not) and the eighties for Grantaire, here are some songs I associate with the two of them:
Flower Child Jehan:
Scott McKenzie’s “San Francisco”, for obvious reasons.
Emerson Lake and Palmer’s “Jerusalem”, because the seventies were Weird and so is Jehan.
Tee-set’s “Ma Belle Amie”, because I like the sound for Jehan and also because of the mangled French.
David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel”, because how could I pick anything else?
80′s Grantaire:
The Stranglers’ “Golden Brown”, because it combines strangely happy lyrics with oddly melancholy chords.
Queen’s “Hammer to Fall”, because Grantaire has to like Queen and these lyrics are too on the nose to ignore.
David Bowie’s “Day In, Day Out”, not because I think it would be R’s favourite, but because it’s from the late eighties and rather pessimistic.
Harold Faltermeyer’s “Axel F” because eighties Grantaire listens to this on bloody repeat and no one will convince me otherwise.
Also, thanks to @adorablecrab the titlesong for this fic is now Queen’s Who Wants To Live Forever because how could I not have realized it is perfect
#fangs and flower power#silly bonus content#sweet like blood sugar#vampire!jehan#jehan#grantaire#music#sunfreckle's scribbles
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Foreign relations of Japan/wako English bibliography
Chen Chingho 1960, ‘Chinese junk trade at Nagasaki at the beginning of the Qing Dynasty’, New Asia Journal (Hong Kong), 1.3: 25-50, 273-332.
J. P. Delgado, Khubilai Khan's lost fleet: in search of a legendary armada (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2008).
G. Elison 1988, ‘The Priest Keinen and His Account of the Campaign in Korea, 1597-1598: An Introduction’, in Motoyama Yukihiko kyoju taikan kinen rombunshu henshu iinkai, ed. Nihon kyoikushi ronso: Motoyama Yukihiko kyoju taikan kinen rombunshu (Kyoto: Shibunkaku shuppan)
W. Enomoto 2012, ‘The current state of research on the history of Japan’s contacts with other countries in the first half of the medieval period’, AA 103: 95-120.
J. A. Fogel (ed.) 2002, Sagacious monks and bloodthirsty warriors: Chinese views of Japan in the Ming-Qing period (Norwalk CT: Eastbridge).
J. A. Fogel (ed.) 2007, Crossing the Yellow Sea: Sino-Japanese cultural contacts 1600-1950 (Norwalk CT: EastBridge 2007).
J. A. Fogel 2013, ‘Sino-Japanese shipping connections as reported in Chinese and Japanese sources’, SJS 20
R. von Glahn 2014, ‘The Ningbo-Hakata merchant network and the reorientation of East Asian maritime trade, 1150–1350’, HJAS 74: 249-279.
A. E. Goble 2009, ‘Kajiwara Shozen (1265-1337) and the medical Silk Road: Chinese and Arabic influences on medieval Japanese medicine’, in A. E. Goble, K. R. Robinson and H. Wakabayashi (eds), Tools of culture: Japan’s cultural, intellectual, medical, and technological contacts in East Asia, 1000s-1500s (Ann Arbor, Michigan: Association for Asian Studies), pp. 231-257
A. E. Goble, K. R. Robinson and H. Wakabayashi (eds) 2009, Tools of culture: Japan’s cultural, intellectual, medical, and technological contacts in East Asia, 1000s-1500s (Ann Arbor, Michigan: Association for Asian Studies).
M. Guang 2017, ‘Tributary ceremony and national security: a reassessment of Wokou diplomacy between China and Japan during the early Ming Dynasty’, Journal of Asian History 51: 27–54.
Y. Hashimoto 2012, ‘Korea in Muromachi culture: cultural exchange between Japan and Korea and between Ryukyu and Korea’, AA 103: 23-52.
B. H. Hazard 1967, 'The formative years of the Wako', MN 22:260277
B. Hazard 1976, ‘The wako and Korean responses’, in J. B. Parsons, ed., Papers in honor of Professor Woodbridge Bingham: a festschrift for his seventy-fifth birthday (San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center) .
S. M. Hong-Schunka 2005, ‘An aspect of East Asian maritime trade: the exchange of commodities between Korea and Ryukyu (1389-1638)’, in A. Schottenhammer, ed., Trade and transfer across the East Asian “Mediterranean” (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz), pp. 125-161
H. M. Horton 2012, Traversing the frontier : the Man'yoshu Account of a Japanese mission to Silla in 736-737 (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press).
K-J. Hur & Y-S. Cho 2016, ‘Aspects of Korea-Japan cultural exchanges analyzed through Tongshinsa delegations during the National Seclusion period’, Athens journal of history 2.2: 129-136.
K. Ito 2008, ‘Japan and Ryukyu during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries’, AA 95: 79-99
E. Hae-Jin Kang 1997, Diplomacy and ideology in Japanese-Korean relations from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century (New York; St Martin’s Press)
E. H. Kang 1998, ‘Diplomacy and Ideology in Early Modern Korean-Japanese Relations’, in Sang-Oak Lee and Duk-Soo Park, eds, Perspectives on Korea(Sydney: Wild Peony)
C-S. Kim 2010, ‘Parhae’s maritime routes to Japan in the eighth century,’ Seoul journal of Korean studies 23: 1-22.
M. Laver 2012, 'Diplomacy, piracy, and the space between: Japan and East Asia in the medieval period', in K. F. Friday, ed., Japan emerging: premodern history to 1850 (Boulder CO: Westview Press)
J. B. Lewis (ed.), 2015. The East Asian war, 1592-1598: international relations, violence, and memory (Abingdon: Routledge).
G. Ma 2017, ‘Tributary ceremony and national security: a reassessment of Wokou diplomacy between China and Japan during the early Ming Dynasty’, JAH 51: 27-54.
G. M. McCune 1948, ‘The Japanese trading post at Pusan’, Korean review 1: 11-15.
S. Ogura 1991, 'About two Japanese scrolls: "Sea map - trade with the state of Jiazhi" and "Avalokitesvara"', in Ancient town of Hoi An: an international symposium held in Danang on 22-23 March 1990 (Hanoi: Foreign Languages Publishing House), pp. 128-134
H. Okamoto 2008, ‘Foreign policy and maritime trade in the early Ming period: Focusing on the Ryukyu kingdom’, AA 95: 35-55
S-R. Park 1992, ‘Korea-Japan Relations and the History of Science and Technology’, Korea Journal 32.4: 80-88
J. Reckel 1995, Bohai. Geschichte und Kultur eines manschurisch-koreanischen Kônigreiches der Tang-Zeit (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag)
K. R. Robinson 1996, ‘The Tsushima governonr and regulation of Japanese access to Choson in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries’, Korean studies 20: 23-50
K. R. Robinson 1996, ‘The Tsushima governonr and regulation of Japanese access to Choson in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries’, Korean studies 20: 23-50
K. R. Robinson 1997, ‘The Jiubian and Ezogachishima embassies to Choson, 1478-1482’, Chosenshi kenkyukai ronbunshu 35: 55-86
K. R. Robinson 1999, ‘The imposter branch of the Hatakeyama family and Japanese-Choson Korea court relations’, Ajia bunka kenkyu 25: 67-88
K. R. Robinson 2000, ‘Centering the King of Choson: aspects of Korean maritime diplomacy, 1392-1592’, JAS 59: 109-125
K. R. Robinson 2001, 'Treated as treasures: the circulation of sutras in maritime Northeast Asia, from 1388 to the mid-sixteenth century', EAH 21: 33-54
K. R. Robinson 2006, ‘An island's place in history: Tsushima in Japan and in Choson, 1392-1592’, Korean studies 30: 40-66
K. R. Robinson 2009, ‘A Japanese trade mission to Choson Korea, 1537-1540: the Sonkai tokai nikki and the Korean tribute system’, in A. E. Goble, K. R. Robinson and H. Wakabayashi (eds), Tools of culture: Japan’s cultural, intellectual, medical, and technological contacts in East Asia, 1000s-1500s (Ann Arbor, Michigan: Association for Asian Studies), pp. 71-101
K. R. Robinson 2010, ‘Japanese presence, Korean military bases, and Korean maps in the late fifteenth century’, Acta Koreana 13.1: 7-34.
K. R. Robinson 2015, ‘Violence, trade, and imposters in Korean-Japanese relations, 1510-1609’, in J. B. Lewis, ed., The East Asian War, 1592-1598: international relations, violence, and memory (Abingdon: Routledge), pp. 42-69.
E. D. Rockstein 1973, ‘Maritime Trade and Japanese Pirates: Chinese and Korean Responses in Ming Times’, Asian and Pacific Quarterly of Cultural and Social Affairs 5.2: 10-19
K. Saeki 2003, 'The Hakata merchant Sokin and relations with East Asia in the Muromachi period', Interactions and transformations: bulletin of the JSPS 21st Century COE Program (Humanities; Kyushu University), 1: 167-182.
B. Seyock 2005, ‘Pirates and traders on Tsushima island during the late 14th to the early 16th century: as seen from historical and archaeological perspectives’, in A. Schottenhammer, ed., Trade and transfer across the East Asian “Mediterranean” (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz), pp. 91-124
K-W. So 1975, Japanese piracy in Ming China during the 16th century (Michigan State UP).
T. Takatsu 2008, ‘Ming Jianyang prints and the spread of the teachings of Zhu Xi to Japan and the Ry?ky?kingdom in the seventeenth century’, in Angela Schottenhammer, ed., The East Asian ‘Mediterranean’: maritime crossroads of culture, commerce and human migration (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz), pp. 253-270.
Y. Takekoshi 1940, The story of the Wako, Japanese pioneers in the southern regions (Kenkyusha, Tokyo)
K. Tashiro 1976, 'Tsushima-han's Korean trade, 16841710', AA 30: 85-105
H. Tono 1995, 'Japanese embassies to T'ang China and their ships', AA 69: 39-62.
T. Uezato 2008, ‘The formation of the port city of Naha in Ryukyu and the world of maritime Asia: From the perspective of a Japanese network’, AA 95: 57-77
C. von Verschuer 2003, 'Official missions to Tang China and information technology', in Soaring the Silk Road : Japanese Envoys to the Sui and Tang (Nara: Research Center for Silk Roadology)
C. von Verschuer 2004, 'Across the sea : intercourse of people, know-how, and goods in East Asi'", in Murai Shôsuke, ed., 8-17 seiki no higashi Ajia chiiki ni okeru hito, mono, jôhô no kôryû (Tokyo: Tokyo University Press), vol. 1, pp. 13-28.
C. von Verschuer 2005, 'Journal de voyage de Jôjin en 1072: la vie sur le Grand Canal dans la Chine des Song ', Revue d'Etudes Japonaises du CEEJA 1 (Colmar : Centre européen d’études japonaises d’Alsace), pp. 79-124.
C. von Verschuer 2006, Across the perilous sea : Japanese trade with China and Korea from the seventh to the sixteenth centuries, trans. K. L. Hunter (Ithaca, NY: East Asia Program, Cornell University)
C. von Verschuer 2007, ‘Ashikaga Yoshimitsu’s Foreign Policy 1398 to 1408 A.D.: a translation from Zenrin Kokuhôki, the Cambridge Manuscript’, MN 62: 261-298
C. von Verschuer 2011, ‘Les relations diplomatiques entre la Chine et le Japon au début du XVe siècle, d’après une lettre adressée par l’empereur Yongle au shôgun Ashikaga Yoshimochi ', Société des historiens médiévistes de l’Enseignement supérieur public, ed., Les relations diplomatiques au Moyen Âge (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne), pp. 197-208.
C. von Verschuer 2011, ‘Les relations diplomatiques entre la Chine et le Japon au début du XVe siècle, d’après une lettre adressée par l’empereur Yongle au shôgun Ashikaga Yoshimochi ', Société des historiens médiévistes de l’Enseignement supérieur public, ed., Les relations diplomatiques au Moyen Âge (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne), pp. 197-208.
G. Wade 2007, 'Ryukyu in the Ming reign annals 1380s-1580s', Asia Research Institute Working Paper Series No. 3
http://www.ari.nus.edu.sg/showfile.asp?pubid=676&type=2
M. Watanabe 2008, 'An international maritime trader -Torihara Sôan: the agent for Tokugawa Ieyasu's first negotiations with Ming China, 1600', in A. Schottenhammer, ed., The East Asian 'Mediterranean': maritime crossroads of culture, commerce and human migration (Wiesbaden: Harrassowtz), pp. 169-176.
M. Yamamoto 2008, ‘The Gusuku period in the Okinawa Islands’, AA 95: 1-17
T. Yamawaki 1976, 'The great trading merchants, Cocksinja and his son', AA 30: 106-116.
Peter D. Shapinsky. Lords of the Sea: Pirates, Violence, and Commerce in Late Medieval Japan (Michigan Monograph Series in Japanese Studies) Peter D. Shapinsky
Aleko LiliusI, Sailed With Chinese Pirates by Oxford University Press, US, October 17, 1991
Fabio Rambelli. The Sea and the Sacred in Japan: Aspects of Maritime Religion. Bloomsbury Publishing, 12. 7. 2018
So, Kwan-wai. Japanese Piracy in Ming China During the sixteenth Century. Michigan State University Press, East Lansing, 1975. ISBN 0-87013-179-6
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THE MCLENNON BIG BANG 2017 MASTERLIST
BIG BANG ENTRIES
BIRD PASSING THROUGH
by Savageandwise
art by Twinka and ahumoroussuggestion
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 17 625
Warnings: Some descriptions of violence, drug use and sex.
Summary: "They say when a bird flies into your house through one window and out another it's a portent of death." John's trip in the aftermath of Paul's moped accident in late December 1965. Fear not, this is not a death fic.
Story link: AO3
Art link: x x x
FIRST LOVE THEN MARRIAGE
by Leoblooms
art by Pol-Jawn
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 15 000
Summary: After living together in NYC since the mid-seventies, John finally decides that he wants to marry Paul. Paul, though extremely delighted to do so, is terrified of the press knowing, and the backlash that will most likely come about it. Gay marriage may be legal, but it is still not widely accepted. John, though he’s gone on about his hatred of the press, finds it difficult to keep it down. Whether it’s due to him struggling to realize that he’s about to be 40, or he just cannot bring himself to hide his love away. Either way, trouble is brewing for the two.
Story link: AO3
Art link: x
SUMMER OF LOVE by Drearymondays
Rating: R
Word Count: 18 471
Warnings: AU
Summary: San Francisco, Spring 1967. The Summer of Love is around the corner, the city is full of music, sex and drugs. Paul watches from across the water at Berkeley, happy to be on the outside looking in. That is until a twist of fate brings him face to face with John, a young musician here to experience everything the city has to offer.
Story link: AO3
MINI BANG ENTRIES
CRASH.
by Marchingintime
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2600
Warnings: Angst, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia Internalized, Homophobia, Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Violence Summary: Stu, Brian, Yoko. Each discovers a secret- and handles the news very differently. Written for the McLennon Big Bang 2017
Story link: AO3
SINGING IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT by LSDAndKizuki
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 12731
Warnings: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Prison, Period-Typical Homophobia, AU - Canon Divergence
Summary: On the 18th June, 1963, John viciously attacked DJ Bob Wooler, for insinuating homosexual relations between him and his manager, Brian Epstein. On the 21st of the same month, assault charges were filed. The general public took interest, as Bob explained the circumstances of the beating. Three months later, long after the case had settled shakily in his favour, an incriminating picture of John was released to the press by an anonymous source. A line of tolerance had been crossed. After this point, there was no crossing back over it.
Story link: AO3
PLEASE SEE ALL THE BIG BANG 2017 ART HERE
THE BIG BANG 2017 AO3 COLLECTION HERE
MCLENNONBB ON THE JP-LIBRARY
......the sneaky unofficial list here
WE THANK EVERYONE FOR PARTICIPATING. SEE YOU NEXT YEAR! xxx
#mclennon#mclennon fic#mclennon fan fiction#mclennon fanfiction#mclennon fiction#mclennonbb#mclennon big bang#mclennon big bang 2017#mclnbb#MCLNBB17
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Un nouvel article a été publié sur https://www.rollingstone.fr/1969-annee-electrique/
1969, année électrique
Il y a cinquante ans, le monde oscillait entre libération des mœurs et soubresauts politiques. Rétrospective d’une année sous tension.
Lorsque Serge Reggiani refuse un texte de Georges Moustaki, qui le chantera lui-même, signant là son plus grand tube, il ne saisit peut-être pas à quel point les paroles collent à l’époque : “Et je serai prince de sang / Rêveur ou bien adolescent / Comme il te plaira de choisir / Et nous ferons de chaque jour / Toute une éternité d’amour / Que nous vivrons à en mourir.” Ode à la tolérance, “Le Métèque” a bien choisi son année : 1969 débute avec l’entrée en vigueur de la Convention internationale sur l’élimination de toutes formes de discrimination raciale, qui “vise toute distinction, exclusion, restriction ou préférence fondée sur la race, la couleur, l’ascendance ou l’origine nationale ou ethnique, qui a pour but ou pour effet de détruire ou de compromettre la reconnaissance, la jouissance ou l’exercice, dans des conditions d’égalité, des droits de l’homme et des libertés fondamentales dans les domaines politique, économique, social et culturel ou dans tout autre domaine de la vie publique”. La lutte pour les droits civiques savoure sa victoire… avant de reprendre le combat, qui est loin d’être terminé. Si James Earl Ray plaide coupable, en mars, pour le meurtre de Martin Luther King l’année précédente, la cause cherche son nouveau leader. “Vivre à en mourir”, chante aussi Moustaki. Après le sentiment de toute-puissance provoqué par la libération sexuelle et l’éloignement d’un après-guerre traumatisé, le “deuxième effet Kiss Cool” des Trente Glorieuses commence à se faire sentir.
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1969 est l’année de la gueule de bois. Malgré les évolutions technologiques, le peuple se sent toujours menacé par les champs de bataille. Ayant investi la présidence le 20 janvier, le républicain Richard Nixon maintient une position ambiguë sur la guerre du Vietnam qui continue de sévir, alors qu’en parallèle la protestation pacifiste ne cesse d’enfler. Fin mai, John Lennon et Yoko Ono s’installent dans une chambre de l’hôtel Queen Elizabeth de Montréal pour une semaine. Leur bed-in voit naître “Give Peace a Chance” : “Henry Ford vendait ses voitures par la publicité, commente Lennon. Yoko et moi sommes une campagne de pub pour vendre la paix. Cela peut faire rire les gens, mais cela peut aussi les faire réfléchir.” Le 15 novembre, près de 500 000 Américains manifesteront contre la guerre du Vietnam à Washington et à San Francisco, réclamant le droit de ne pas servir de chair à canon pour une cause absurde. L’événement sera précédé d’une manifestation d’un genre inédit, le Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam, où seront lus les noms de tous les soldats disparus au combat. Le succès du film parodique MASH, sur les tribulations de chirurgiens militaires durant la guerre de Corée, témoigne du refus du peuple à suivre aveuglément la volonté de mainmise sanguinaire sur le terrain asiatique. Après les révolutions de 1968, la jeunesse continue de défier le pouvoir partout dans le monde. De Nixon aux États-Unis à de Gaulle en France, le fossé entre l’ancien et le nouveau monde paraît toujours profond. Même sonnerie du glas de l’autre côté du rideau de fer : en janvier, l’étudiant tchèque Jan Palach s’est immolé à Prague pour protester contre l’occupation de son pays par les Russes.
En France, bien que l’on bénéficie d’une certaine euphorie consumériste, on s’exprime dans les urnes. Le 28 avril, lorsqu’un “non” retentissant lui est opposé lors du référendum sur une réforme en profondeur du Sénat, Charles de Gaulle démissionne. “Comment sera maîtrisée la situation résultant de la victoire négative de toutes ces diverses, disparates et discordantes oppositions, avec l’inévitable retour au jeu des ambitions, illusions, combinaisons et trahisons dans l’ébranlement national que provoquera une pareille rupture ?” se sera-t-il interrogé au préalable. Le héros de la Libération cède la place à Georges Pompidou, élu à la présidence le 15 juin, face à Alain Poher. Du côté du Moyen- Orient, ça balance pas mal : Golda Meir – selon laquelle, “pour réussir, une femme doit être bien meilleure qu’un homme”, ce qui reste d’actualité aujourd’hui – devient la première femme Premier ministre d’Israël, et Yasser Arafat préside l’OLP (Organisation de libération de la Palestine), à la tête d’“une nation de sacrifice, de lutte et de djihad”.
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Cet été-là, il fait chaud. Emballés par les premiers pas de l’homme sur la Lune et par la musique pop du moment, les créateurs s’aventurent dans des tenues futuristes, des couleurs acidulées et des motifs fleuris annonçant le psychédélisme seventies. La grande gagnante est la minijupe, qui s’impose de plus en plus dans la rue. On suit le dilemme sentimental de Jean-Louis Trintignant dans Ma nuit chez Maud de Rohmer, tiraillé entre les sublimes Françoise Fabian et Marie-Christine Barrault : la foi l’emporterait- elle sur le désir ? Pour Serge Gainsbourg, la question ne se pose pas. Grâce à lui et à Jane Birkin, on fait l’amour sur des tubes qui offensent les prudes depuis le début de l’année : “69 année érotique”, qui ne cache pas ses intentions, et, surtout, le scandaleux “Je t’aime… moi non plus”, un “duo en râles mineurs” selon L’Express de l’époque. Outre-Atlantique, on veut aussi appliquer le mantra “jouir sans entraves” à la lettre. Du 15 au 18 août, le festival de Woodstock, dans l’État de New York, réunit pendant trois jours près de 400 000 personnes. Les plus grands s’y produisent : Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, Santana, The Who, Jimi Hendrix, qui y reprend l’hymne américain… L’adage “peace and love” connaît cependant ses limites. La foule piétine sous la pluie et devient rapidement fébrile. Ironie du sort, des hélicoptères doivent la ravitailler en eau et en médicaments. Trois morts sont à déplorer (accident de tracteur, appendicite et overdose) et, après le festival, le terrain est dans un tel état que les fermiers de la région réclament des dédommagements. Les gens viennent célébrer la paix, mais sous tension. Pete Townshend le premier, quand il éjecte brutalement le leader anarchiste Abbie Hoffman hors de la scène. L’insouciance n’est plus d’actualité, comme l’atteste le corps inanimé de Brian Jones, retrouvé dans sa piscine le 3 juillet. Les drogues ne peuvent pas faire oublier la pression de l’establishment ni la nocivité des excès. Les vers de Percy Shelley déclamés par Mick Jagger lors d’un gigantesque concert hommage à Hyde Park ne pourront le faire oublier. Le 1er mars, Jim Morrison avait été arrêté pour outrage aux bonnes mœurs, comportement indécent et autres joyeusetés, à Miami. Il est dès lors victime d’un acharnement judiciaire qui le poussera à s’exiler à Paris quelques mois plus tard. Pourtant, le puritanisme est toujours présent en France. Le 1er septembre, Gabrielle Russier se suicide. Cette professeure de 32 ans ne supportait plus les poursuites dont elle était l’objet pour être tombée amoureuse d’un de ses élèves, âgé de 17 ans. Aznavour s’en inspirera pour son “Mourir d’aimer”.
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Il est temps pour les serpents de rompre la quiétude du jardin d’Éden hippie. Le gourou Charles Manson commandite le meurtre de Sharon Tate, épouse de Roman Polanski, enceinte de huit mois, ainsi que de six de ses amis. En décembre, l’assassinat du jeune Afro-Américain Meredith Hunter, ainsi que de trois autres personnes, par les Hells Angels lors du concert des Stones à Altamont confirmera que le Flower Power laisse place à une époque plus sombre. D’ailleurs, les communistes font le deuil, le 2 septembre, d’Hô Chi Minh. À 79 ans, le fondateur de la République du Vietnam et du Parti communiste vietnamien tire sa révérence.
Si les mentalités peinent à évoluer, on n’arrête plus le progrès ! En janvier, le Concorde fait son premier vol d’essai en Angleterre ; en février, le Boeing 747 vole officiellement pour la première fois ; en avril a lieu la première implantation d’un cœur artificiel à Houston ; en septembre, le premier nœud de raccordement d’Arpanet, ancêtre d’Internet, est installé dans l’université Columbia, à New York. Mais c’est le 21 juillet que les humains se pensent enfin capables de tutoyer les étoiles, lorsqu’ils visionnent la retransmission du premier alunissage humain, avec 39 secondes de différé. Quelque 500 millions de téléspectateurs entendent Neil Armstrong déclarer : “C’est un petit pas pour l’homme mais un grand pas pour l’humanité.” Un petit pas qui a coûté très cher à l’État américain, au détriment d’autres dépenses sociales, comme le chante Gil Scott-Heron dans “Whitey on the Moon”. Mais les États-Unis ont gagné la course à l’espace qui les opposait à l’Union soviétique. La guerre froide a encore de beaux jours devant elle…
Sophie Rosemont
*****
Timeline de Xavier Bonnet à découvrir dans le n°111 de Rolling Stone, disponible en kiosque !
#1969#brian jones#Charles Manson#flower power#george moustaki#jim morrison#John Lennon#lune#Neil Armstrong#Serge Gainsbourg#Sharon Tate#The Rolling Stones#woodstock#yoko ono
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Lighthouses? 👀
My pleasure! Have a snippet that picks up where this one left off:
“I think,” says Hob, “I’ve been walking around bleeding for a long time.”
“Oh,” he says, stupid.
Hob puts some rumpled bills on the table - too much, he thinks - and then looks up at him. “C’mon,” he says, like he was the one who got up first. They leave together.
“It’s not so bad, y’know, once you’re used to it,” says Hob, huffing a little as they walk up the hill toward Dream’s apartment.
“Market?” he asks.
Hob turns to him and laughs. “No. Giving in to feeling. Walking wounded with it. Haven’t you ever tried?”
You seemed so cold at first, all his exes say. So distant. Not with you, he’d say, and pull them closer. And then the day would come when he would want too much of them, hold onto them too tightly, and go from being too cold to scalding them, and they would leave. Writing is the only excursion he allows from the borders he has made inside himself, and every time someone has talked their way inside, it has ended in misery.
“Yes,” he says, finally. “And always have I regretted it.”
“Always?”
“Never at first. Always, by the end.”
Hob is silent. Dream feels prickled with discomfort.
But after a glance at his expression, Hob says, conspicuously light, “You know what I regret? Moving to a place with so many damn hills.”
Dream feels absurdly grateful. “Only at first, I hope,” he says dryly.
He means it, too, underneath the shape of the words and down all the way to his bones. He wants Hob to love it here. He wants Hob to find peace in himself, and to find something in the city - even if cannot be him - to quench his dogged restlessness, and keep him here, selfishly, by his side.
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Du He Tao
Du He Tao
Those of us who went to Eric’s book launch have a head start on this one. Because here he told us that this was written for his girlfriend and the title refers to walnut gambling in China. Identical walnuts (or as similar as possible) are very valuable. They are used, I think, for playing with in your hand to relax you like those balls. I just typed in “relaxing hand balls” into google and apparently those metal ones are Chinese and they’re actually called “baotang balls”. So the more similar the two walnuts are, the more valuable. There is a practice of paying a set price before the walnuts’ green coverings are removed as a kind of gambling on whether you’ll get a matching pair which would be worth more than you’ve paid. We can see that there’s a nice metaphor for dating or starting to go out with someone and taking a chance on whether you’ll fit together. It’s interesting that it comes straight after “Tact” which is kind of about how you shouldn’t be too similar.
Eric runs through an amazing array of metaphors linked to this. So we have sciencey/atomic, DIY, bomb-disposal, safe-cracking, bird-pecking, gambling, computer-language, biological/medical sort of, but not strictly, section by section.
“When I’m all hulled up” - Eric draws out a nice metaphor for the single man being confined in his walnut or way of life or bachelor pad and love makes its way in.
“Husky” - having an outer shell, or having a sexy voice. I hope Anne-Laure doesn’t mind it if I suggest that this may refer to her sexy French voice.
“the heartnut aches” - heart nut is the seed of a Japanese walnut. Also an allusion to the opening of Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale “My heart aches”.
“You ground around it lick” - In China, apparently, experts have a better chance of spotting identical pairs. However, I saw nothing about them licking them. I’ve been quite taken aback by how surprised everyone seems to be about my sexual readings of the first two poems. So I’m just going to leave you with the image of the buyer putting their lips around the two walnuts. And say nothing more.
“Give lip… flushed over… quite tight”. Nothing more to say. Nothing at all.
“Fetch Felix… Radical Squad, Trojans.. long walk” - This is about bomb disposal. The first bomb squad (in New York in the earlier 20th Century dealing with mafia since you ask) were called the Radical Squad. Felix means lucky in Latin and is the name of the unofficial mascot of bomb disposal. Trojan is a mine-clearing vehicle. And the long walk is a phrase used about bomb disposal. And we see this metaphor in the verse with “hair-triggers… trip-wire”.
“With ink from crushed walnuts” this is what Da Vinci used in his notebooks.
“a foetus in utero” - Da Vinci did draw one of these. But also in keeping with the walnut image.
“If there is no love, what then?” a quote from Da Vinci in prison (enclosed) for sodomy.
“Ectoderm” - outer skin.
“brain-pan” - skull.
“Passerine” an order of birds. Passer is the latin for sparrow. This section moves more to the image of a bird pecking at a nut.
“A man’s house is his castle and each man’s home, his safest refuge”. This is a quote from Edward Coke, an Elizabethan Lawyer, so right up Eric’s street. I was wondering where the second bit came from, but that’s the whole quote. I think now we move into the idea of your girlfriend moving in with you. If you let someone into your house, they’re going to change things.
T5 to T8 - I’m not sure this can be right, but this seems to refer to a type of lighting strength. Certainly I still have energy efficient lightbulbs in my flat that date back to when I had a more-ecologically minded boyfriend move in with me. So, you know, this bit really spoke to me.
“Pericardium” membrane enclosing the heart.
“Epicardium” - membrane which forms the innermost layer of the pericardium.
“Myocardium” - muscular tissue of heart.
“Endocardium” membrane which lines the chambers of the heart.
“Ventricle” - cavity of the heart. (I think we get what kind of stuff is going on in this section).
“seventy-two times per minute” - heart beat? But why 21,000? STOP PRESS. I cheated and asked Eric. It's the number of nerve receptors in the human epiderm (he thinks)?
Vena Cava - the name of the vein that runs from the heart.
Chordae - tendons in your heart, known as the “Heartstrings”. I’d never really thought that would be an actual thing that was your heartstring. Huh.
“O, O, O” - what is this? I can only think of the Wasteland (O O O O that Shakespeherian rag).
“Peterman” - slang for safe cracker. We get a heist theme in this section like Eric’s walnut is a safe waiting to be cracked.
“Bertha’s Gift and Home Furnishings”. The Hole in the Wall gang were caught breaking into here, it’s a store in Las Vegas, in 1981. They were called the Hole in the Wall gang because… yup.
“Tete de Femme” - Picasso painting stolen from San Francisco Art Gallery in 1965.
“Bourne-shell” - this bit is all about computing. These are different “shells” which are how you access your operating system on your computer. “Korn-shell” is a development of the “Bourne-shell”. And C-shell and Bash are the same kind of thing.
“-sh” is the name of an executable file for Bourne shell (or something like that).
| - this punctuation (?) is used in computing language.
“Heartstone” - is this something to do with Dungeons and Dragons and the kind of person who’s into computers?
“shortcut” - computing.
“Platforms” - more internet speak.
“relational” - a relational operator is a programming language.
“Give me that man and I will wear him at heart’s core in my heart of heart”. - Hamlet says this. It misses out the phrase “that’s not passion’s slave” - so Eric shifts the meaning to make it romantic.
“hus” - this is icelandic for house. (It’s also hungarian for meat!)
“the hot crowd of thermal swarmed electron of eased atomic orbital in gradient still and radiating” - I asked a wise and lovely Science teacher at my school about this and he replied: “It doesn’t seem to mean a specific thing. If it’s meant to be metaphorical” LOL, let’s hope so, “electrons move quicker when heated and can jump up an orbital (they orbit atoms like planets). When they cool, they slide back down (an energy gradient), radiating light energy. Each atom releases a specific colour of light, like an optical fingerprint. Not sure if that metaphor works with my explanation, but that’s the closest thing it could be. Or he’s just bunged some atom based words together.” <crying with laughter emoji>
“Au coeur du corps” - to the heart of the body. Did I mention that Eric’s girlfriend is French?
“red electric” - we’ve done some DIY and got down to the live wire.
“Lin Changzhu” is a walnut farmer with whom there is an interview in some online paper about the exact thing of walnut betting. He makes 2 million yuan a year from his walnuts.
“betting on skin” this is how the thing where buyers pay a fixed price before the green outer covering is removed. It feels to me like there’s a tension here between the fact that the buyers aren’t interested in the actual kernel of the walnut but the shell despite the fact that a lot of this poem is about drilling into the inner part.
“Cupule” - cup shaped.
“English walnut or nux Gallica” - Eric mentioned this at the launch. He’s English, his girlfriend is French. English walnut is a type of walnut. Nux Gallica is Latin for walnut. Gallica means from Gaul (France).
“Mopan-mopan” I wish I could nail this exactly. mopan walnut is I think a type of walnut you use for massage; mopan is the chinese for disc; mopan-mopang are grinding stones found in prehistoric China used for grinding nuts.
“dog-throw” - there are a number of references to the Ancient Roman knucklebone betting game. The dog was the lowest number on the knucklebone. “Vulture” was the lowest roll of all the bones, and the “Venus throw” (appropriately for the Goddess of Love in a love poem) was the highest roll.
“ratscrew” - Egyptian ratscrew is the name of card game like snap.
“slapjack” - I can’t remember what we used call this, but I played it loads, it’s like snap but there’s that thing where you race to slap the pile. Anyway, once again trying to get by luck a match. (Although incidentally if you wanted to score high in knucklebones, apparently, you wanted the bones to all be different, not matching. I’m not sure if we’re meant to worry about that).
“government official’s hat, a chicken’s heart, a lantern” - these are, delightfully, names the Chinese give to different shapes of walnuts.
“front-run vigorish” I almost didn’t bother looking these up, which is kudos to Eric, because it just sounds like in a rush and kind of vigorous. But I did. And so I discovered that “front-running” is when you buy stock because you have some secret knowledge that it’s going to go up and “vigorish” is the percentage deducted from a gambler’s winnings.
“nutshell” - Has it really taken this long for our Hamlet-loving poet to use this word in a poem about nuts? And is this all he’s going to give us? Is it too obvious? Do you think Ian McEwan has ruined it for him?
“acupoint” - acupuncture point - obviously Chinese link.
“kerf” - slit made by cutting with a saw.
“swarf” - filings produced by machining.
“surfy cream curls and open out” - when Eric read this poem aloud, it sounded like it was totally filthy. And I swear I wasn’t the only one to say that. You’ll notice how restrained I’ve been typing here. But aside from the testicles, the whole thing really is about getting into someone’s vagina, right? I guess those of us who know Eric and Anne-Laure can be pleased that it seems to be a poem about Anne-Laure getting into Eric’s vagina.
“sat with a crimped copy of Homer and a lucky cricket”. This is lovely, isn’t it? Little Eric squashed in his nutshell. It feels like this is an actual allusion to something. For example, why Homer? Maybe it’s a personal allusion between him and Anne-Laure. If not, the best I can do is it made me think a bit of Keats’ “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer” with that sense of sudden new discovery etc.
“rolled round, palmed around” - now that someone’s got into Eric’s vagina, they seem to be giving him a good “palming around”. This goes back to the purpose of these walnuts which is to rotate them in your hand and it’s meant to be good for the “circulation”.
“I type up slow happenstance on keywater brightboarding” - This give me an image of the two of them in bed, Eric typing up his poem, but quietly and slowly so as not to wake her, and the glow of the keys being the “brightboarding” as well as a little sense of sailing away, stretching out, freed from the shell.
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Fanfiction Recommendations
Miscellaneous
Sousy/Dousy
•Consequences of the 90's By sweettears90
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26056330/chapters/63368566
AU where the team needed to abandon the Zephyr.
Something went wrong in the jump, and the team was separated. Now Daniel and Daisy find themselves stuck in 1993 San Francisco.
“Can you go get the consequence?” Daisy asked Daniel.
Daniel chuckled slightly as he moved to the other room. As he went inside, Enoch had a better look in through the open door than Jemma did.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “I see. This is indeed a dire consequence.”
Thoschei
•a date to remember By fluffysfics
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821081
Out on a date on a perfectly nice planet, the Doctor and the Master run into some...trouble, in the form of a mugging.
The thief gets a bit more than he bargained for, and the Master discovers some new powers.
•Good thing you're already wearing rainbows By Rae_Saxon
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26859013#main
The Master gets located in the middle of a pride parade and the Doctor gets worried. So they plan to go and find them. Turns out, he really just wanted to celebrate pride. And the Doctor learns a bit about herself and how she's seen in human terms.
• I Wouldn’t Wish It On My Best Enemy Byembarrassingresultofmyfreetime
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936935#main
"Just deserts appeared to finally be served for the Doctor. All her running had come to an end, all the lives she's taken or caused had finally been assigned a numerical value, and all the morals she had once believed in seemed to crumble to dust right before her eyes.
A life sentence.
She had JUST BEEN TOLD she would never die, and the first thing the universe does is give her a life sentence.
What kind of cruel joke is that?"
Basically: The Doctor reflects on herself while in prison, the Master rescues the Doctor and actually helps her, and idk read the tags
(Rated T for: Disassociation, sensory overload, heavy topics, brief mention of blood)
Everlark
•Fall Mark By MegaAuLover
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760514#main
In Panem au. There are no games because there was never a rebellion. There are still districts, in fact, there are fourteen. The Capitol is just a city located in District Fourteen. Seventy-six years ago the position of the presidency was abolished in favor of a senate run country. It was all done peacefully. Soon after, strange marks began showing up on young people's bodies, and the pull to be with the person with that same mark began.
Spideychelle
•Resilience and Other Heroes By thesemovingparts
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863441/chapters/65543875#workskin
“Whatever, half the applicants are dead and half of the rest of us gave up because life’s not worth it anymore, so I’ll probably get in anyway. But it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Dark, MJ,” Peter deadpanned. “Just. Morbid as hell.”
“Man, our entire lives are morbid,” she laughed. “You’re an orphan superhero with space-related trauma, Ned’s family worked their entire lives to be able to move to this country only for the world to end, and I’m living in Ned’s dead grandmother’s bedroom because my whole family ceased to exist. Morbid.”
*
Somehow, against all odds, the Friends of Spider-Man all survived the Snap. This is how they lived in the aftermath. This is how they tried to save the world.
Bellarke
•bet on it (bet on me) By griffenly
https://archiveofourown.org/works/27010792#main
They are, for all intents and purposes, kidding.
“If Bellamy and Clarke were both single,” Monty says loudly, swinging his beer bottle around with a flourish as he speaks, “how long do you think it would take for them to finally get their heads out of their asses and start dating?”
or: the group starts a betting pool about how long it'll take for our two favorite idiots to admit they're in love
•But if this man came up to me By changingthefairy_tale
https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146128
The one where Clarke and Bellamy accidentally go viral on TikTok. And maybe kinda sorta fall in love in the process.
Spuffy
•Off the Leash By Soulburnt
https://archiveofourown.org/works/27002161/chapters/65914591
Spike never has behaved the way Buffy expected... not even when he's a feral demon.
At the end of 'Lover's Walk,' instead of sending his goons to fight Spike, Mayor Wilkins sends them to capture him. When they return with the vampire and a bonus Slayer, Wilkins injects them with some new drugs he got from Professor Walsh over at the university. With Buffy stripped of her strength and Spike stripped of his human traits, all the Mayor has to do is lock them in a room and let the Slayer of Slayers do what he does best.
Buffy wakes up weak, injured, in chains, and at the complete mercy of her mortal enemy. Yet instead of torturing and killing her, Spike frees her and tends her wounds. She can't ask him why, because he's nonverbal. The two of them form a bond, depending on each other to escape. By the time Buffy and Spike get free of the Mayor's clutches, everything between them has changed... as has everything Buffy thought she knew about demons.
Descendants
•Subtlety is not his middle name By idontwantperfection
https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538089#main
Doug just wants his best friend to admit he has a new girlfriend.He doesn’t expect her to crash Royal Ascot, the highlight Auradon’s social calendar.He didn’t expect her to be a demigod either.
#fanfiction recommendation#fanfic#aos#sousy#dousy#daisy johnson#daniel sousa#fic rec#spydoc#thoschei#doctor who#everlark#hungergames#MCU#michelle jones#spideychelle#bellarke#bellarke fanfiction#the 100#Spuffy#spuffy fanfic#buffy the vampire slayer#btvs#buffy summers#spike#disney descendants#mal x ben#mal#ben descendants
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What The Experts Aren't Saying About Fish Garden Tank And How It Affects You
June 20 - An revolutionary fish farm mission in South Africa helps poor communities discover new methods to make a residing by growing fish for sale in transport containers. These farms supply jobs and contemporary, native meals to the immediate neighborhood and to the eating places and markets Aqua Culture who help the local meals motion. Concept: I've also heard of an idea for chinampa aquaculture with grates and rooster wire between the islands, then chickens are purported to eat insects by the raised beds and their droppings fertilize the water. In a development that brings aquaponics to a whole new degree of food production, Nelson and Pade, Inc.® provides extremely productive business programs using their patented Clear Movement Aquaponic Systems® with ZDEP® (Near Zero Discharge Additional Production). And, regardless of a thriving Sockeye salmon fishery in Alaska, which might feed all of America after which some, seventy-9 per cent of the fish is exported as a result of we desire bland, Filet-Fish substitutes that act as a car for tartar sauce.
A RAS is a sequence of tradition tanks and filters the place water is continuously recycled and monitored to keep optimal situations yr round. With our innovative filtration programs, the annual output of fish and vegetables from these systems is very excessive for the space, Aquaculture Farms and energy. An astute fish farmer could make this domestically by binding the fish feeds with starch after which steaming. If achieved proper, this new technology of green aquaculture is poised to turn into essentially the most sustainable form of farming on the planet. There are about 200 fish farmers statewide raising aquatic animals in ponds and indoor tank systems for meals, sport, bait and ornamental use. Altering shopper life-style owing to hectic schedule is prone to positively affect North America frozen meat demand. One staunch opponent of the aquaculture trade is Bruce Sandison, chairman of the Salmon Farm Protest Group, based in Scotland. Study their AquaBundance house-scale techniques and the thrilling work occurring within the Analysis and Improvement Develop Lab. Antibiotics and growth supplements are a couple of of these additives that ultimately seep into the ground soil beneath and around the fish tanks.
The nice and cozy start to winter in North America hurt demand for road salt, deicing and pure gas, the company mentioned. If you'll be able to succeed at this scale you might think about a completely Fish Farming industrial unit of fifty tanks that can generate a helpful income for the complete time operator.Nevertheless for me this can stay a pastime! In a new twist, one San Francisco based firm, Inka Biospheric Systems , has united the science and expertise of hydroponics and aquaponics with the art of fabrication to create water-clever and power environment friendly vertical growing techniques. There must be some very clear definition of what techniques we're speaking about. Our system packages are manufactured from the very best high quality components, food-grade (or equivalent) tanks and liners, excessive effectivity water and air pumps, and embody all plumbing and aeration components. A hatchery/fingerling production operation can do effectively with smaller acreages (10 acres and up), nonetheless, this sort of fish tradition usually requires extra technical knowledge and experience with fish than either price fishing or meals fish grow out enterprises.
Subsequently, they're much extra prone to get sick than those in various different aquaculture systems that might have chemicals that leeched within the water. For these capabilities rearing tanks are vital along with bio filters, units for waste elimination, a Fish Garden and a sump. Marine aquaculture within the United States: environmental impacts and coverage options. The F5 has a single 110-gallon fish tank to avoid wasting on area and a pair of—3' x 5' plant develop beds. That afternoon, I fished with Terry Warrington on the North Department of the Au Sable. In recent times, NOAA Fisheries scientists have labored to scale back potential boundaries to sablefish aquaculture. David will likely be presenting innovative information on biogas, bio digesters, and applicable technology related to aquaponic programs. Wadsworth is the oldest and most dependable environmental control company in North America.
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hii so lighthouse au sounds cool and all but i think dreamling is sooo the wrong pairing for that, it just doesnt work. would be fun with our flag means death tho cause it actually has lighthouse symbolism ;)
I haven’t seen OFMD so sadly I will just have to make do with Sandman IP! Also I’m about 20K deep into it so I think the window for changing the pairing and fandom might have passed us already.
#asks#the sandman#dreamling#seventies san francisco au#aka#lighthouses#which is just the title#they are not lighthouse keepers#although frankly i think that WOULD work#loneliness isolation sea-rugged hob etc etc
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Hey there. I drove past the White Horse Inn in Berkeley today and snapped a pic for you. Any chance Hob and Dream frequent this establishment in Lighthouses?
Oh, how fun! Thank you! Perhaps they shall. It's got a really interesting history.
#asks#the sandman#dreamling#lighthouses#seventies san francisco au#literally spent a full sickday immersed in the B.A.R. archives earlier this week so v prescient <3
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I'm dying (thirstily) to hear more about the 70s San Francisco AU... the bits you've posted so far have been delicious
Thank you so much, anon! Gonna take the 'about' literally:
I haven't had a chance to work on it in ages but after this next Oaths chapter I might turn to it and see if it's ready to be finished!
I think it'll be over 15K all-told
This came from the prompt 'listen to the [#] song on your Spotify Wrapped 2022 and describe the fic you'd write for it'. Well, I am describing thoroughly, gang
I'm starting to believe I've accidentally written a fluff fic despite it being filled with bonkers levels of pining and some real angst
(the fluff is their friendship)
There is an incredibly self-indulgent scene where Hob brings a sick Dream soup and jokes he's not allowed to die because he'd be shit at elegizing him like Shelley did Keats in Adonais
It happens on Tuesdays in 1974
It features real historical events! And I find that HOT
It also has (what I think is) the hottest and most unhinged sex scene I've ever written in terms of dirty talk but that sort of thing is WILDLY subjective so. The kind where you write a sentence and then reflexively think no, no, I can't say that, that's INSANE
The biggest thing holding me back from finishing it might be that I'll have to stop writing it and it's SO delightful to write. I'll have no more excuse to go through incredible digitized editions of Bay Area Reporter from the mid-seventies, which contain spectacular ads for bathhouses and gay bars shouldering up with Harvey Milk's politics column and astrology. The personals are horny and banal and heartbreaking. Look at this page. Just one page. Look at everything it holds.
Which is to say I might make an entire post for like...queer ephemera I have gathered and now cherish but cannot actually force everyone to look at. Would people be into that?
I normally love titling but I have never gotten this deep into a fic without one in terms of wordcount or closeness to completion and I am starting to panic
#asks#seventies san francisco au#the sandman#dreamling#to think i named san francisco and 70s arbitrarily#and it took me here#sorta grateful for that#yanno?#all the things i've gotten to see and remember that i wouldn't have otherwise#just in my queer feelings and history feelings and queer history feelings
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