#that’s interesting. because Patroclus was really upset for the men and Achilles just didn’t care enough to put aside his pride and ambition

[lumosinlove]

The Mark of Aphrodite 

part ii

The Greek Camp

“Where did you get that?”

Remus ignored Peter’s question when he entered the tent, making a straight line to his cot and setting the helmet beneath it.

“Where have you been?"
 He ignored this one too.

“I thought you’d been killed!”

Remus sighed, stripping off his armor. His limbs felt like lead, “Well, I haven’t, as you can now see.” He flopped onto his bed, the one he hadn’t slept in for a few weeks now, “Just give me a second to breathe, alright?”

“It’s a spoil.”

Remus sat up on his elbows, surprised by the voice that came from beside Peter. Patroclus was crouched there, folding washed gauze into neat squares to be re-used. He looked up from his work at Remus, “Yes? You’ve killed and taken your prize.”

“I—“ Remus thought of grey eyes and sarcastic smiles, “Yes.”

Peter sat down with a huff, looking utterly defeated, “I didn’t get anyone.”

“I think the real point is that no one got you. Don’t pout, Petros.”

“Peter.” Peter said stonily, glancing at Patroclus, “I go by Peter.”

Patroclus tilted his head at him, “Why?”

Peter narrowed his eyes, “Would you like to be as round as I am and have your name mean ‘stone’?”

Patroclus suppressed a smile and looked down.

“Yeah, really funny.”

“I’m not laughing to be cruel. It is just that you seem very upset all the time. Whenever I am in here, tending to soldiers or, times like now—“

“Peter gets upset about most things.” Remus sighed, throwing the last of his armor aside and laying back. His heart was still racing.

Peter sighed, “It’s true.” He picked up a jug of water, taking a sip, “You know, we have to fight again tomorrow.”

Remus looked at him, startled, “What?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not like we gained men today.”

“I— I know.” Remus stared at the ceiling of the tent. He wouldn’t have an enemy soldier to drag off this time. He’d actually have to fight. The thought caused a whole new wave of panic to swell through his chest. He grabbed his pillow, swinging his legs off the bed and scooping the helmet under his arm, “I’ll be outside again, Pete.”

Peter just nodded, but Remus didn’t really want to stay in the tent anyway. He wasn’t sure there was much more standing between him asking Patroclus why Achilles was refusing to fight, really. It was dishonorable, it was causing more deaths on both sides, didn’t he realize this?

But most of all, it was fear. Remus didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to die. And he felt like he had already been saved once. He sat down on his mat and held the helmet to face him, the empty eyes staring up at him. He touched his skin where the Trojan’s knife should have sliced it clean open.

“What is this?” His mouth barely moved, and he didn’t dare address the goddess out loud. Aphrodite, “What has happened?”

The air was quiet, full of nothing but the sea breeze.

~

Sirius watched the servants bustle about his new chambers. He no longer would sleep with the other soldiers, given his new position, and instead was moved to a large room, completely his own. It had windows looking out over the sea, and he could see the glimmering fires of the Greeks. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, a constant reminder of war.

“They are pleasing, I hope.” Sirius turned to find the slave master, Kallias, who had be charged with overseeing Sirius’ move. He was standing primly, motioning to a collection of slave girls holding an array of richly colored tunics and jewelry, “Gifts from his majesty Priam and Hector.”

Sirius was glad he could easily concur that he was referring to the clothing and jewels, and not the girls. He smiled, “Very appreciated, yes. The rooms, too.”

“Very well.” He motioned to the girls to put the clothing in the dressing rooms, then turned to Sirius, “Unless…you’d prefer one of them stay, of course. Or perhaps I could fetch one of the boys.”

Sirius turned away, looking again to the fires in the distance, “Not tonight, no.”

Sirius remained still until the door shut, then, turning around to check that it was closed, rid himself of his sandals and sword, anything that was heavy or might hinder a climb, and climbed nimbly atop the open window sill, looking down. The breeze lifted his hair. He wasn’t high, or that high, and the stones of the palace would make for good footholds. It was stupid, really, and he’d probably end up waiting alone for hours only to be tired in battle tomorrow. But he swung his legs over the wall anyway, thoughts only of a certain tree and a certain Greek.

He’d achieved status. he’d achieved rank and money and he felt the change in the way people looked at him, spoke to him, when he entered the room. He began to be the first served at dinner and the first voice Hector looked to for guidance. He felt godlike, almost, all day. Until he came back to his room, and he was alone again. He didn’t want a servant’s compliant company. He wanted bite and grit and someone to talk to him through the money and the status.

And he wanted answers, maybe most of all. The stone wall was rough on the skin of his feet, and he thought he might call for a warm bath and oil later, if this didn’t pan out. He suddenly wished he had brought his sword along, or maybe a small knife, just to test the theory, to see if the blade, again, would simply skimp off of the boy’s skin. Not that that would inspire any form of companionship, especially not the kind Sirius was after. James, for he had had to tell James, had made a large deal out of the boy’s Greekness. But Sirius didn’t particularly care. This wasn’t his war he was fighting in. He was here because his father had sent him, all those years ago, to train and no one said no to his father. He was here because he had fallen into one sided love with this war’s father, this war’s prince. And Paris would never love him. Paris barely looked at him, he was probably the one person in the palace who’s demeanor hadn’t changed with Sirius’ promotion.

So, Sirius climbed down the palace like an escaping fugitive. And, really, maybe that’s what he was. A very rich one. The sand was soft and still warm from the setting sun when he landed, feet firm and planted in a fighting stance. He’d have to go around the long way, away from the fighting field, keeping in the olive groves. He, again, felt stupid for leaving behind his sword. If he met any Greeks, he’d have to fight fist to blade. Not that he couldn’t, but it wasn’t ideal. He took off at a gentle run, feet light and slipping against the grassy sand, ignoring the pull in his side. The sea breeze got stronger as he approached the olive trees, crouched low and soundless. It felt good against his skin, a pleasant contrast to the throb in his side. Maybe that could be an excuse—

There was the sudden chatter of voices and Sirius dropped next to a tree, steadying himself against the bark. Two Greeks on patrol, talking far too noisily to be expecting to actually catch anyone. Sirius waited silently as them and their twin torches faded away.

An excuse, he had been thinking, to get a little closer. A change in bandages, perhaps. He’d even offer to let the boy rip his shirt again, now that he had so many finer ones waiting for him. He was stepped carefully into the clearing, familiar even under the cloak of darkness, and pushed aside some branches only to freeze.

The boy stood there, frozen too. Sirius was unable to stop the smirk from crossing his face.

“Interesting.”

The boy seemed unable to stop the scowl from crossing his, “What are you doing here?”

Sirius stepped further into the grove, smile growing at the way the boy too a step back, “What are you doing here?”

The boy gestured downward and Sirius looked to see his helmet there, settled between two thick roots in the sand, “Returning this. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Sirius crossed to the boy in two long strides, ignoring the way he stiffened, and looked down at the metal crown with its blooming crest, “I thought I told you to trade it for food.”

The boy scoffed, “It doesn’t work like that at an army camp. This isn’t an agora, there are rations. Otherwise men would be selling their share for drink.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow and sat down in the sand, leaning back against the tree, “They don’t do that already?” He looked up at the boy, at the moonlight coming through the olive leaves dappled across his skin. He really was very fair and, in this light, Sirius could see the faint sheen of thin lines of scar tissue that littered his face and shoulders, his arms and hands, really anywhere his thin, dirty tunic didn’t cover. Sirius felt an odd sort of sinking in his stomach.

The boy, much to Sirius’ surprise, sank down to the sand as well, a good number of inches between them. He nodded towards Sirius’ side, the outline of the bandage visible beneath, ignoring the question, “Did you have the palace look at it?”

Sirius grinned, “I was hoping you’d ask. I didn’t. Why, do you care to?”

The boy's eyes widened a little, maybe at Sirius’ tone, and a flush covered his cheeks, visible even in the dimness.

“I was only asking. It’s a deep cut.”

Sirius hummed, “Yes, it is. Probably not one that was helped by me scaling a wall.”

“Scaling a what?”

“Well, I couldn’t just waltz out of the palace and down to your camp, could I?”

The boy stayed quiet, studying Sirius like he was a foreign sort of food that he wasn’t sure he was keen on eating or not. Sirius smiled back and took the opportunity to admire the boy’s eyes. They were like the gold he currently had circled around his biceps, and he reached up to feel the cool metal, watching the golden-bronze eyes follow the motion, then flick back.

“You’ll be fighting tomorrow?” Sirius asked, and the boy didn’t respond. Sirius continued, taking it as a yes, “Do you think all blades can’t touch you or just mine?”

Again, the boy remained silent. Sirius ducked his head a little, trying to catch the boy’s eye, “Are you going to answer any of my questions? What if we start with something simpler. A name, maybe.” Sirius felt heat along his skin at the prospect of knowing the golden, silent boy’s name, “Mine is Sirius. Son of Orion, house of Black.”

The boy looked up then, “I don’t know it.”

“I didn’t say you should.” Sirius raised an eyebrow, prompting.

The boy pressed his lips together, and spoke with his eyes cast down again, “Remus. Son of Lyall. House of Lupin.”

Sirius sat a little straighter, “House of Lupin.” The name was familiar, it would have been familiar no matter what land one was in, “I know your family. You are the high priests of Apollo, you’re healers. You’ve saved millions, your father saved my own brother. Regulus, the plague of Artemis, last year.”

A strange sort of smile crossed Remus’ face, and his long fingers reached up, subconsciously tracing one of the thicker scars on his neck, “Yes.” Was all he said.

Sirius, feeling the wall that Remus had already built between them growing higher, worked quickly to keep him talking.

“Could that be…” He wet his lips, “Apollo, could he be protecting you?”

Remus, eyes still on the sand, shook his head, “No. Not now. I am not with the priesthood anymore.” Feeling Sirius’ eyes on him he looked up, just for a moment, “I left.” His fingers were still rubbing at his scars, now at a shining one that ran the length of his forearm.

“You left? Permanently, you mean?” Sirius, trying to ignore the throbbing in his side, attempted to subtly press his fingers to it, “Does that not hinder you in your occupation as a healer?” His last word was part hiss as his palm did nothing to ease the ache.

Remus’ eyes flicked up instantly, “You’re bleeding again.” He let out a small sigh, and produced from a small sack tied to the rope around the waist of his tunic gauze and a few various vials, “You must let me see.”

Sirius, feeling suddenly rather light-headed, just nodded in consent and leaned his head back against the tree. Cool hands lifted his fine linens from his skin for a second time, and he sat there, bare in the sand, as Remus laid out his supplies.

“Do you have that because you knew I’d be here?” Sirius liked that idea.

Remus was carefully pealing away the soiled bit of tunic that was currently acting as a make-shift bandage, “I have it because this is what I do all day. This is war, you think we always have time to get people to the medicine tent?”

Sirius, liking that idea a bit less, remained silent, letting his eyes close until he felt something being pressed against his lips.

He opened them to find the hazel eyes very close indeed, “For the pain.”

Sirius, forgetting to be wary of an enemy’s food offering, opened his lips and let Remus place the small blossom on his tongue.

While Sirius’ heart sped at the taste of the salt on Remus’ fingers, Remus was already looking back down to his work, “It will take a few moments.” Then, a few beats later, “You still do not need stitches, but I would not climb any more walls.”

“I have to get home some how.”

Remus opened the largest of the vials and sprinkled oil onto a piece of gauze, making it pliable and adhesive to Sirius’ skin. He repeated the action a few more times until the knife wound was completely covered. Then, from a smaller bottle, Remus dabbed honey onto the edges of the bandage, smearing it along Sirius’ skin to keep the protection in place.

“I see the lack of Apollo’s favor has not hurt you.”

“A god’s favor is not everything.” Remus sat back on his heels, using the sand to scrape the honey and oil from his hands, “Sometimes its better they don’t notice you at all.”

Sirius, again, looked at the scars, “A god has wronged you?” Sirius knew the myths of the strings of lovers that Apollo in particular was famous for taking. Girls and boys, Daphne and Hyacinthus. His stomach tightened, heart picking up, “Or you have wronged a god.”

Remus looked at him stonily, “Are you afraid of me now?”

Sirius tilted his head a little to the side. If anything, the only new feeling he was experiencing was a strange hint of protectiveness over this scarred boy, “I didn’t say that. I don’t believe either of those things.”

Remus placed the vials he had brought carefully into the bag at his waist, “No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“If you were at war with a god, why would they protect you?”

Remus handed Sirius his tunic, eyes cast away, “You can fall out with one person and in with another, can’t you?”

Sirius pulled it over his head slowly, just to give himself time to respond. Who was this boy who dealt with gods? Why would he not speak of it?

“Aphrodite.” Sirius suddenly recalled, re-tying his tunic at his waist, “You asked me about Aphrodite.”

Still, no eye contact, “Because you prayed to her.”

“Out of love for life, not out of any favor.” Sirius sat forward, “Aphrodite does not favor my family, we have sworn fidelity to Hera, to purity and tradition. Aphrodite wants none of those things.”

“I don’t know—“

Sirius sat back at the bite in Remus, tone, blinking.

Remus finally looked at him, “I know that’s what you’re getting at. The knife.”

Sirius laughed, a little disbelieving, “Don’t you want to know?”

“I—“ Remus sighed, “You prayed to Aphrodite.”

“I already told you—“

“And I prayed to Aphrodite.”

Sirius blinked, swallowing, “Oh.”

“That’s it. That’s all I know. I saw you’re knife coming and I prayed to her for life.” When he looked at Sirius, his eyes were moonlight turned the color of the sun, “I don’t know why she listened. I don’t.”

Sirius took a breath, “And… And then…”

Remus nodded, “Then she listened again. With you. Do you think its ever day one enemy helps another?”

Sirius went to speak when the wind picked up, blowing with enough force to tumble Sirius’ heavy helmet in between them right into Remus’ knees. Then the night was as it had been, still. The two boys stared at Sirius’ armor, glinting the stars back at them.

“Aphrodite.” Sirius said quietly, “Goddess of love.”

Remus was standing suddenly and it made Sirius jump up too. He felt like he should say something, or maybe Remus should say something, but they just stood there, looking at each other.

Finally, Remus, with his thumb pressed to the same scar on his forearm, spoke through a tight jaw, “I don’t deal with the gods. Not anymore.”

Sirius, at a loss, shook his head a little, “I’m not a god.”

Remus shook his head, kicking the helmet away. It rolled at Sirius’ feet, “You might as well be.”

Sirius stepped over the helmet, “I—“ He put his hands up when Remus took a step back, “I think you survived for a reason. I think I survived for a reason.”

“Manipulation.” Remus bit back, “That’s all.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, “Then why did you come back here? Who manipulated you to this place again? To me again?” Sirius pointed at the helmet, “This is a sign, we are experiencing something god given. You came back because something pulled you back, just like me.”

Remus took another step away, “I already told you—“

“I don’t believe that.” Sirius took another step forward, “Not for a moment.”

“I didn’t ask you too.” Remus’ fists were clenched at his sides.

“Why,” Sirius didn’t miss a beat, not letting Remus get another step away, “can’t this be an omen? A good one?” The words sounded desperate, and far-fetched, but it was true. Sirius felt the tug in his chest. He felt it in his heart, in some deep space at the base of his soul, like strings on a loom that led straight to—

“Because this is a god’s work, and this is war.” Remus’ chest heaved, nails digging into his skin, into the scars that laced themselves even across his palms.

Sirius, again, watched Remus storm away, disappearing into the night, his words ringing in the still air.

“No one is on our side.”

#the mark of aphrodite #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #wolfstar #wolfstar au #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #wolfstar fanfic #the marauders era #the trojan war #greek!au #trojan war!au #writing #wolfstar fluff #wolfstar angst #wolfstar slow burn #soldier!sirius #healer!remus #hp #wolfstar headcanons #sirius x remus headcanons #harry potter headcanons

[moritzstiefelwiki]

It's Called Peacocking and I Will Have None of It

Hernst | 1748 Words | AO3

In which Ernst loves guys with nice abs and loses control of his mouth while trying to prove how not-gay he is.

This started as a joke and kind of? Spiralled a bit? I'm havin fun tho. Shoutout to @melgayiorgabor for beta reading and @alloftheus-es for helping me Keep Things Moving,, I lov u guys. Ab rant taken from here

Ernst loved Instagram. He wasn’t following a lot of people, outside of his friend group he followed 7 or 8 artists and a few photographers. He spent plenty of times in the tags so it didn’t matter, and besides he needed his feed to be as uncluttered as possible for a very important reason.

See, here’s the thing about his friend group- it included Hanschen Rilow and Melchior Gabor. They were both intelligent, insufferable (though in entirely different ways), and easy on the eyes. Of course, he had to follow Hanschen, the two of them were quite close and that’s what friends do. They follow each other. Melchior, of course, was close enough to Ernst that it made perfect sense to follow him as well.

Ernst would never admit it but the only reason he had gotten Instagram in the first place is because of the amount of times he caught Hanschen taking shirtless selfies- you can’t just stare at someone’s abs in real life, but it’s perfectly safe to do so through a screen. And, as he found out, Hanschen wasn’t the only one. He was looking through the accounts Hanschen followed, checking anyone with a familiar username or icon and found Melchior did the same thing. As did Bobby Maler.

Ernst didn’t have any reason to explain why he followed Bobby, the two of them had spoken maybe twice in the past year, but he had to. Bobby, Hanschen, and Melchior were all well-built and had no problems with showing off.  

And god, he was glad that they did.

Ernst was scrolling lazily through his feed as he ate his lunch. Wendla was leaning against his shoulder as she chatted with Ilse. He put his phone down so he could rummage through his bag for his water bottle, not bothering to lock the screen.

“Why does Hanschen post so many pictures of his abs?” Ernst turned to Wendla as she spoke, she was looking down at his phone where one of Hanschen's many pics of him lifting his shirt up just so was displayed.

Ilse laughed, “He’s an asshole, it’s probably the only way he can get anyone to go out with him. Hey, Ernst do you know why he likes to post so many shirtless pics? You’re his best friend aren’t you?”

“I think he just likes the attention- look at the comments on this one,” he pulled them up and held his phone out to show her.

Wendla rolled her eyes, “I don’t think it matters why he does it, he posts way too many of these.”

Ernst disagreed, Hanshen could post a new one every hour and he would be more than happy to see them.

God, he sounds gay. Ilse is practically a mind reader, what if she suspects he likes Hanschen- she wouldn’t be wrong but- oh god-

“If I want to get a girl, I don't need to show my abs- mainly 'cause they don't exist. And I don't want to have to do this but I'm gonna. Why do people show their abs on the internet?” Why was he speaking? “Why is it that when I go on the internet I have to weed through so many photos of guys just- lifting their shirts up to expose this part of their stomach, which is rock hard by the way,” he cringed internally a little bit, that sounded gay, oh hell, “I don't know. I don't get it,” he paused for a moment.

“Why? What good does it do? Are they doing this and taking the photo thinking  that ‘maybe if I do this just enough, somewhere in Africa a young child will get to the watering hole knowing that I was thinking about them.’”

The girls were laughing. Why can’t he stop?

"'I need people to know that I've got a flat stomach because I don't want them thinking I've got some sort of weird torso hole because they're going to start putting things in it’"

What is he saying, what on Earth is that even supposed to mean?

"'If the internet knows that I have a flat stomach, we will win the war on terror.’"

He heard a third laugh, this time from behind him. “What, is that supposed to be me?” Hanschen. Perfect, just what he needed.

He could feel his cheeks start heating up a little bit.

Ernst didn’t think before continuing, he couldn’t afford to, “Look, it's called peacocking and I will have none of it, you animalistic fuck.  Maybe you should try working on something that matters instead of your lower torso-- where those lines go that point to your dick like a weird, subliminal message. If you want people to know about this whole area of your body, just put it on your business card. You could say like-  ‘Dick Johnson, ab enthusiast.’"

Ernst could see the concern creeping into Hanschen’s expression, tainting his amusement. “Are you alr-”

“That way they know they don't want to hang out with you.” Ernst hated himself for being responsible for the hurt look that flashed across Hanschen’s face.

For reasons unknown, he continued talking.

“You can usually tell that people have abs just by looking at them, nobody is ever surprised to find out that somebody has abs. Woah Dickhead Jones! I didn't-” he faltered for a second when he saw the way Hanschen's jaw clenched, “would have never guessed! Never in a million years would've known that you have a flat stomach.” He didn't love the look in Hanschen's eyes. “You only tweet about going to the gym all the time and you wear a t-shirt that's kinda like saran wrap"

Hanschen laughed again, this time it almost sounded forced, “you love it.” He did. “Look,  ladies you don't want a guy that has a flat stomach because the whole time he's with you he's gonna be thinking ‘Jeez, this might be good for my abs.’” Jeez, he really needed to stop talking. "'Oh, I wonder what my abs think of this.’" Oh, why is he still going on about this?

“And guys like me, we're only thinking, y'know, ‘I really hope this doesn't make me fart.’” Ernst wanted to curl up and die, “and that's for you really, that's all for you 'cause I don't care where I fart.”  He really needs to stop. “If my pants are off, it doesn't matter where I'm farting 'cause the whole front row is getting wet.”

Oh, God.

The girls were laughing but he paid no attention to them.

Hanschen wasn't laughing. His face was suspiciously neutral.

“We’ll huddle over the Homer, maybe do a little Achilles and Patroclus.”

Ernst hadn't missed the innuendo when Hanschen approached him after school and asked him if he wanted to study, he just hadn’t thought anything of it. It wasn’t unusual for him to say things like that- he’d been “flirting” and using pick up lines on Ernst for as long as he could remember. Sometimes he was cheesy, sometimes he was clever, sometimes he was dirty, and sometimes he was just downright terrible. Ernst had figured it was just practice- just Hanschen’s way of keeping his mind sharp for when he was actually flirting with someone.

He felt awful about the things he had said at lunch earlier that day and nearly declined Hanschen’s invitation to study, but he took the pick up line as a sign Hanschen wasn’t (as) upset anymore (not that he would ever admit to being hurt in the first place) and Ernst really needed help with calculus, he was dangerously close to falling behind again.

The walk to Hanschen’s house started fine, but it wasn’t long until they fell into a tense silence.

Hanschen was the one who broke it.

“You're very passionate about abs, aren't you Ernst?”

Somehow this threw Ernst off more than any of the things Hanschen had said in the past week- including the time he punctuated a breathy “I like to keep my hands busy” by squeezing Ernst's inner thigh.

“No.” What was the point in lying, if he couldn't talk to him about this then who? “Yes? Maybe not passionate but-” He shook his head before continuing, “I'm really sorry about what I said earlier. It's just-” He stopped walking. “I just really like all those pictures you post.”

Hanschen stopped as well and turned to face him. “Oh?”

“I didn't want the girls to know, I'm sorry, I got nervous and just started talking and I couldn't stop. I'm gay, Hanschen.”

“You're gay? You like men?” Hanschen looked incredulous. “You mean to tell me you're attracted to men and none of the flirting, none of it, had any kind of effect on you?” This time Hanschen was the one shaking his head, “Christ, I thought you were straight. Am I really that bad at hitting on you?”

“You- what?”

“Surely you must have noticed, I've been far from subtle about this for how many years?”

“I didn't? I mean, I did, I didn't think you meant any of it.”

“You can't be serious.” Hanschen sighed, “what on Earth would make you think that? You know I'm not straight.”

“Yes, but-”

“What's the problem then?”

“Why would you want to flirt with me?”

“Why would I- because I like you, you moron!”

“You what?” It was Ernst's turn to look incredulous. “But you're-” he gestured vaguely at Hanschen “-you.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know?” He paused for a moment as his mind caught up with the conversation, “hold on did you just say that you like me?”

Hanschen laughed, “how much clearer do I need to make myself? It's not a problem, is it?”

“A problem?” Ernst's hands were suddenly very interesting. “No, definitely not a problem.”

“So then wha- mmph!”

Ernst had, in a brilliant moment of definitely not thinking, all but lunged at Hanschen and kissed him.

He pulled away from Hanschen after he realized exactly what he had just done and looked at his (surprisingly flushed) face. He had a feeling his own face was pink as well.

Oh god, he really shouldn't have done that.

Hanschen brought his right hand up to gently cup the back of Ernst's neck and pull him into another kiss, this one brief and gentle.

Or maybe he really should've done it sooner.

“Let's go Ernst, this is hardly the place for Achilles and Patroclus.”

His calculus grade was about to drop, wasn't it?

#my writing #hernst #why do i only write goofy bullshit like this?? who cares its Fun