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writers-potion · 3 months

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International Slang, Slang, Slang!

I'm sharing this list of slang in different languages (English, British English, French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Malaysian, Russian, Hindi) to use for dialogue:

English Slang

LOL = laugh out loud

OMG = oh my god

Noob = newbie

LMAO = laught my ass off

SFW = Safe work work

HMB = hit me back

XOXO = hugs and kisses

Txt = text

msg = message

cuz = because

kinda = kind of

outta = out of

'bout = about

C'mon = come on

'em = them

lil = little

lotsa = lots of

nope/nah = no

wanna = want to

dunno = don't know

lemme = let me

TBH = to be honest

gotcha = have got you

jack around = waste time

jillion = an immense number

nuke = destroy, delete

bushed = extremely tired

fab = fabulous

chicken = coward

grabbers = hands

grub = food

vanilla = plain

peanuts = very little money

British English Slang

skive = lazy or avoid doing something

knackered = tired

nicked = stolen

bugger = jerk

zed = equivalent to zzzzzz

nosh = food

dog's bollocks = awesome

bog roll = toliet paper

nutter = crazy person

punter = customer/prostitute's client

fiver = 5 euros

toff = upper class person

taking the piss = screwing around

pissed = drunk

wonky = not right

gutted = devastated

Tosser = idiot

Cock-up = screw up

Bloody = damn

Wanker = idiot

Fancy = like

Lost the plot = gone crazy

Kip = sleep or nap

Bee's knees = awesome

Dodgy = suspicious

Wicked = cool!

Know your onions = knowledgeable

Chuffed = proud

Bespoke = custom made

Give you a bell = call you

Hoover = vacuum

Tad = little bit

French Slang

Spanish Slang

Tu (me) fair chier) = (literally: you make me

shit) You are pissing me off

Ca me saoule = I'm sick of this

J'en ai ras le cul = I'm sick of this

Fringues = clothes

Grailler = to buy/steal/take/eat

Crever = to die

Crevant = exhausting

Gerber = to throw up

Defonce = stoned

Glander = to procrastinate/to do nothing/to

lay around

Va craver = go die

J'ai la dalle = I'm hungry

Avoir la flemme = not wanting to do

something

Japanese Slang

Tio = dude or guy

Guay = cool/great

Currar = to work

Fome = boring

Value = okay or sure

Colega = buddy or friend

Pasta = moneu

Majo = nice or friendly

Flipar = to be shocked

Bocachancla = gossip

Raro - weird

Papear = to eat

Resaca = hangover

Plomazo = boring

Loco = crazy

Chafa = Lame

Baka (ばか) = Stupid or idiot.

Bucchake (ぶっちゃけ) = To be honest or frank.

Chiruru (チルる) = To chill or relax.

Chō (超) = Very.

Dame (だめ) = No good or not allowed.

Dasai (ダサい) = Uncool or out of style.

Disuru (ディスる) = To disrespect or talk down about someone.

Egui (えぐい) = Awesome or incredible.

Gachi (ガチ) = Serious or real.

Ganba (がんば) = A short version of “ganbatte,” meaning “do your best” or “good luck.”

Guguru (ググる) = To Google something.

Gyaru (ギャル) = A fashion-conscious young lady with tanned skin and long nails.

Honto (ほんと ) = Really or for real.

Ii kanji (いい感じ) = To have a good vibe or feeling about something.

JK = High school girl.

Kimoi (キモい) = Creepy or gross.

Kira kira (キラキラ) = Sparkling, cute, or beautiful.

Kireru (キレる) = To snap or lose your temper.

Maji (マジ) = Seriously or really.

Moteru (モテる) = To be popular or attractive.

Mukatsuku (むかつく) = To be irritated.

Nampa (ナンパ) = To chat or pick someone up.

Sugoi (すごい) = Amazing or incredible.

Uzai (うざい) = Another word for annoying.

Wakannai (わかんない) = I don’t know.

Yabai (ヤバい) = Anything from “awesome” to “oh no.”

Russian Slang

Долбоеб (dolboyob_) = Fool, Idiot

Иди на хуй (idi na hui) = F*ck yourself

Сволочь (svo lach’) = Trash, Scum, Jerk

Жопа (zho pa) = Brat (typically used towards children)

Гавно (gav no) = Sh!t (used more when speaking to yourself rather than to insult someone)

лох (loh) = Stupid, Idiot, Sucker

Гандон (gan don) = Condom (Whilst calling someone a condom in English is just not a thing, it’s quite common in Russia. Used to refer to someone weak or just plain irritating)

Чушь собачья (chush’ sobach’ya) = Bullsh!tter

Malaysian Slang

Трахни тебя (trakhni tebya) = F*ck You

Ти дегхенераат (ti degheneraat) = You’re a degenerate

Отыебис от меныа! (otyebis ot menya!) = Move your ass / Get the f*ck away

чертовски дно (chertovski dno) = F*cking bottom (would be used when referring to hitting rock bottom.)

Bo jio = use when referring to friend who didn't invite them to a gathering (e.g. 'why you bo jio?)

Ýum cha = hang out over drinks or food at local coffee shops

belanja = I got you covered

Potong Stim = killjoy

Boss = waiters refer to their cusomters as boss, and customers call out for waiters using the same term!

Tapau/Bungkus = take-away

Ang Moh/Mat Salleh = "Western foreigners"

Kantoi = being cuaght red handed

Paiseh = shy or embarrased

Walao Eh! = brother

Macha = good friends (equivalent to "fam" in English)

Alamak! = shock, surprise, or frustration (punctuate with 'face palm' for dramatic effect)

Lah = This one really has no meaning, used to add "emphasis" and "flavor" to sentences. It is rather addictive...

Kawan baik = best friend

Jom = let's (inviting someone to do something together)

Best gila = crazy good, crazy fine (like "amazing!" in English)

Kantoi = busted

Fuyoh = WOW or OMG

Cincai = whatever

Italian Slang

Ma Dai = come on, imagine, stop it (express surprise, amazement)

Chi Se Ne Frega? = Who cares?

Scialla = stay calm

In Bocca Al Lupo = Good luck

Come Il Cacio Sui Maccheroni = like sheep's milk for the macaroni

Come Te La Passi = How is it going?

Trescare – Have a flirt

Camomillarsi – Calm down

Sbalconato – Be out of your mind

Incicognarsi – Get pregnant

Citofonarsi – Call someone by surname

Tirare tardi – To be late

Inciucio – Intrigue, a cheat, a mess

Un carnaio – Many people together in the same place

Abbioccarsi – falling asleep unexpectedly

Bordello – Problematic, confusing, and chaotic situation

Fottìo – Something that has happened or occurs in large quantities

Svalvolare – Loss of control

Rosicare – To be envious of something

Scazzato – A state of mind of malaise

Che pizza – a boring or bad thing

Sbroccare o sclerare – Getting angry and making a scene

Raga – Guys

Tranqui – abbreviation of the word “calm,” it means to stay calm

Che Figata – Cool

Meno male! – Luckily or thank goodness

Che schifo – How disgusting

Vivere alla giornata – Live in the moment

Pisolino – An Italian slang word that means “afternoon nap”

Hindi Slang

Yaar = Friend, used at the end of sentences for casual social interactions (including shopkeepers/autorickshaw drivers)

Achcha = good/okay/really?

Thik Hain = okay (+ head nod)

Arre = hey (with a higher tone = surprise, lower tone = exasperation)

Bas = that's it

Chakkar = dizziness

Funda = fundamentals

Ghanta = Yeah right

Jugaad = hack

Bakwaas = nonsense

Chalega = That will do

205 notes · View notes

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

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when your love reaches me (iii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 7.5k

warnings: angst, language, yearning for a man in his 70s (c’est la vie, i guess), over-describing a moment i’m very passionate about (sorry, not sorry! ten points to the person who can tell me what moment it is LOL)

a/n: wow—this gif? yeah, match made in heaven. thank you all so much for indulging me in this mini-series. i really am very proud of this silly little thing & i’m sad that it’s over because i enjoyed writing it so much. thank you to @im-an-adult-ish & @deacyblues for helping me work out the rough spots in this one. would love to hear everyone’s thoughts because i’m very ~emotional~ about this mini-series!! xoxo.

part i, part ii

in this final chapter: you must adjust because it’s not in your cards to be with him, is it?

you run your hands down your face, feel the ring on your finger catch along the end of your nose, and sigh. two months—two months without him. two months to adjust to world you once knew but happily left behind. two months to gather the pieces of the life which cruelly slipped through your fingers like water.

each day is the same. you rise early and take your coffee on the postage stamp terrace outside your flat. you watch the sun climb higher in the sky with each passing moment and let the warmth of your drink soothe the ache in your soul. you wash your breakfast dishes, mumble a good morning to rachel when she exits her bedroom to make her way to the shower, and dress for the day. you walk to campus if you have a class or take the underground to the museum if you have a shift. you come home, eat dinner, go to bed. repeat.

if rachel notices a change in you, she doesn’t say anything. in her mind, no time has passed between the morning where she asked you to come to the pub and the same evening you tumbled into the flat, drenched and sobbing.

but you—you’ve lost a year of your life. there’s no getting it back, and the only thing that proves it really truly happened is the ring on your middle finger, the necklace hanging by your heart, and the undeveloped rolls of film in your bedside table.

there are few words to describe the unbearable pain in your chest. anything and everything reminds you of brian: the whisper of the breeze in the autumn-heavy trees; the feeling of your warmest cardigan around your shoulders; the sound of someone laughing in the museum.

but there’s more:

the scent of cigarette smoke reminds you of roger. the sight of two friends ribbing one another in a grocery store reminds you of crystal. a colorful jacket makes you think of freddie, a whispered snide remark takes you back to john, and two girls giggling reminds you of giddy moments with anna.

around every corner you turn there’s a memory you cannot avoid, and it hurts—desperately, keenly, deeply.

so you push it all away and soldier on, quiet and downtrodden. it’s easier that way. maybe, if you forget, you can move on and make it through life without him.

six months after you’ve left brian behind, you’re approached by your boss at the museum with an opportunity you’d only ever dreamed of: the chance to create and prepare your own exhibit.

monica is firm when she offers you the south wing to reshape as your own. “blow this out of the water, [y/n], and there will be a job as assistant curator waiting for you after graduation. i want something fresh and exciting. think you can manage?”

you agree without hesitation.

for the first time in a long time, you can’t help but smile to yourself. this is your chance to put everything you’ve learned to good use, to put something tangible in your portfolio, to make a name for yourself.

you’re buzzing with excitement and have to practically hold rachel hostage as you spout your myriad of thoughts and ideas. she’s your sounding board, even if she doesn’t want to be, but she’s honest where it counts most, and you’re grateful for that.

she glances over the kitchen table, laden with open magazines, cutout photos, and history books. her brow puckers. “this is... really boring, [y/n],” she says with a cringe, looking up with her blue eyes and freckled face.

your shoulder droop. “that’s it? that’s all you have to say?”

she shrugs and reaches for a photo, inspecting it with a critical gaze. “i mean, ancient textiles might be interesting to you and maybe five other people, but it isn’t exactly blowing me out of the water.”

dropping to the seat across the table, you huff. “well, we’re a photography museum, rachel. it’s not like i can whip up a few outfits and put them on mannequins.”

“excuse me, but fashion design is just as artistic as curating a museum—if not more so.” she sighs and puts the photo of a thirteenth century chinese table linen on the table. “there must be something else you’re interested in? something that other people will like just as much?”

you don’t mean to, but you let your eyes trail to the camera sitting on on the tv stand. you’d left it there after your return, uncertain where to put it. sometimes you catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of your eye and then you remember the tubes of film in your bedroom, undeveloped and unseen.

rachel follows your gaze. “you know, you never told me where you got that.”

“it was a gift.”

“oh really? from who?”

you’re slow to answer. the truth sits on the tip of your tongue—the man i love, the man i was going to marry—but you bite it back. “my great-aunt. she left it to me... in her will.”

you aren’t sure what compels you to retrieve the six rolls of film from your bedroom, but you do. the tubes feel heavy in your palm and clang against the table as you put them down. rachel looks at them then back at you, waiting.

“she gave me these, too.”

“i didn’t know you had a great-aunt.”

“we weren’t close.”

“obviously you were close enough to get these things.” rachel lifts one of the tubes, turning it over in her palm. “wonder what the pictures are.”

“i’m not sure,” you lie. “maybe they could make an exhibit.”

“i think you’d have to develop them first then make that decision.” she rises from the table and shrugs on her coat. “i’ve got a date, so don’t wait up. and try not to let this consume you too much? you’ve been down and out lately. i think the work will do you good, but don’t let it take over, yeah?”

you nod and wish her well on her date. she leaves the flat in a flourish, leaves you to the tubes of film and the growing curiosity in your stomach.

you really should get them developed. if not for an exhibit, then for yourself. an entire year of your life is in those tubes, and you deserve to see the photos you’d taken to preserve that time.

it’s been six months. you’ve purposefully distanced yourself from anything and everything related to queen, be it a simple news story, a song on the radio, or any of roger or brian’s social media posts. it hurts to see them, to know that they’re so close yet so far away, that they have no idea what became of you all those years ago in japan.

still, it’s been six months. developing the film might be your first step toward a sense of closure. you don’t want to stay in your rut forever. though you’re comfortable with the idea that brian might be your great love and you’ll never find another, you know you can’t stay as you are, sullen and despondent. it’s like a break-up, really. you’re sad, heartbroken over the loss, but you know it’s time to step out of the hurt and into something different.

before you can stop yourself, you grab the rolls of film, your purse, and your jacket, and you head for the nearest photo shop.

a few hours later, you return with a heavy packet of freshly-printed photographs and a usb drive full of digital scans. there’s over two hundred photos to sort through, and you’ve yet to see one.

flipping on the light to your living room, you sit down beside the coffee table, a glass of wine at your side, the table cleared of any lingering books or empty teacups. before you open the packet of photos, you open your laptop and type your search into the search bar. if you’re going to quell your curiosity tonight, you might as well quell all of it, and you’re dying to know what happened after you left.

a simple internet search confirms what you already know: your presence within the group on the jazz tour did not alter any significant events. freddie still passed away, john still retired. a further search yields at least one previously nonexistent queen song written by brian may: “into thin air.” it was released in the album following jazz. you can’t bring yourself to listen to it, not yet. a deeper search unearths an interview brian gave a year or so after you left. the interview was published in a magazine editorial covering of each of queen’s band members and their lives when not on tour or recording. after freddie’s bit, there’s a photograph of brian at the top of a new page. he’s smiling, but he looks weary and he mentions you only once: “i was engaged for awhile, but that ended in an unfortunate circumstance, so to answer your question: no, i’m not looking for love. not right now, anyway.”

you close the laptop and lean back against the sofa. the ring on your finger feels heavy. your eyes fill with unshed tears, and you decide the photos can wait to be seen until tomorrow.

the packet of photos ends up sitting on the coffee table for two weeks before you invite your co-worker, shamik, over for wine and cheese and museum gossip. shamik is kind, a first-generation immigrant from india with personality to spare and an exuberance for all things american. he claims it’s his greatest curse that his parents brought him to britain as a baby instead of america, and it’s something he can never forgive them for. you’ve only interacted with shamik at work, but when you mention your exhibit project, he’s eager to offer his help. with no new ideas outside ancient textiles, you’re willing to take whatever advice or ideas he has.

sitting beside him on the couch, you spread your collection of papers and pictures on the table to explain your vision. he listens dutifully, nodding along, his eyes scanning the 3-d projection you’ve made of what the exhibit might look like once completed. when you’ve finished your spiel, he sets his wine glass down and nods to the packet of unopened photographs on the edge of the table.

“what’s that?”

you frown, shaking your head at the sudden turn in conversation. “sorry?”

he reaches for the manilla envelope. “oh, it’s hefty! what’s in here?”

you sigh and take the packet from his hands. it feels solid in your lap, like a brick. “photos from my great-aunt.”

he points to the sealed flap. “it’s unopened.”

“i haven’t gotten the chance to look through it yet.” setting the packet to the side, you raise your eyebrows. “well, what do you think? about the exhibit?”

“honestly? it’s dull. monica won’t be impressed.”

you throw yourself back against the couch with a groan. “what the hell,” you whisper. “i’ve got no ideas then.”

you know ancient textile photography would not be the most enticing exhibit, but it’s been an interest of yours for some time and would be easy enough to complete. shamik and rachel’s reactions do not bode well, you have to admit. having a job as an assistant curator right out of the gate would be beyond marvelous, and you desperately don’t want to screw it up with a boring first exhibit.

“let’s have a look at these pictures from your aunt!” before you can stop him, shamik reaches across your lap for the photo packet and rips open the top. “maybe that will spark some ideas?”

you lean forward, blush already rising to your cheeks as he pulls out the first picture. “oh no, shamik, i don’t know if—”

“holy shit!”

you shut your eyes, wincing.

“that’s fucking freddie mercury!” shamik grabs your shoulder, his fingers digging into your flesh. “did you know about this, [y/n]? that’s your aunt with freddie mercury!”

forcing your eyes open, you look at the photo trembling between his fingers. it’s a picture of you sitting beside freddie on the tour bus. (you think john took the photo in an effort to get you to stop taking photos of him when he was asleep while roger and crystal placed as many items on his head as they could before he fully awoke.) your head is against freddie’s shoulder, your eyes droopy with sleep. a lump rises in your throat, and all you can do is shake your head in feigned disbelief as shamik continues to shuffle through the photos.

“oh my god, your aunt was a groupie,” he cries, passing you another photo.

“i guess—” you clear your throat. “i guess she was.”

“you know”—shamik sets the pile of photos down and spreads them across the table, obscuring your vision of an ancient textiles display—“this would make a great exhibit.”

“shamik—” your voice is a warning, a sudden surge of anger rising in your chest, but he continues.

“no, really, [y/n]! there are so many photos here that tell such a cutesy little story. i mean, come on? freddie and this cat?” he lifts the photo in question. “it’s stuff people have never seen before from a totally different side of queen. it’s a fucking goldmine!”

“absolutely not,” you say. “i will not put my aunt’s personal affairs on display.”

“think of monica, [y/n]! think of the job!”

“no, shamik!” you stand from the table and drop your plates in the kitchen sink with a resolute clatter. “i barely knew my aunt, but i know enough to gather that her time with queen was private. she didn’t say anything about it until she died. that’s got to mean something, and i don’t want to air it all out for everyone to see and speculate and gossip about just for my own personal gain.”

you’re shouting, fists clenched at your sides, by the time you finish. shamik just stares at you, his face blank and unreadable. he glances down at a photo.

“she looks a lot like you,” he says, his voice even.

you huff and take the wine glasses from the table. “we’ve got strong family genes. now, please, i’d appreciate it if you just drop the whole queen thing. we can find some other idea.”

you gather the photos, shove them back in the folder, and toss the envelope in the nearest drawer you can find. the drawer slams shut, and you leave the photos there to gather dust.

you mull over shamik’s idea of an exhibit based on your photos for a month before you finally relent. monica’s riding your ass daily with questions about your progress. you need to get something down on paper for her to give to the contractors, so you begrudgingly type out a response to her most recent email:

monica,

i’ve landed on an exhibit topic at last. took me long enough, right?

i’ve recently come into possession of a series of photographs taken by my late great-aunt. turns out she was a groupie with the band queen in the ‘70s. my exhibit will be centered around those photos. i’m thinking the exhibit will be titled “queen: unfiltered.” do with that what you will. :)

monica, much to your dismay, loves the idea and sends you right to work on gathering and laying out your vision while she begins the necessary promotion.

it hurts at first—looking at all the photos you took, remembering the way you felt so unearthly happy during that year. you cry each time you sit down to sort out the best of the pictures. the ones which capture a moment of levity amongst the band or are particularly well-shot go in a pile on the left. the ones which didn’t develop well or are too intimate for you to ever consider putting on display go in a pile on the right. your bedroom floor is a mess of drafted captions written on slips of printer paper, photographs with notes scrawled along the back, and used tissues. more than anything, you wish you could step into the world behind those photographs. you want to be back there—with him, with them—until you grow old and gray. knowing you can’t, that you won’t ever see him again, tears you apart inside.

but it helps. the exhibit forces you to acknowledge the time you spent with brian, with queen. instead of leaving the photos in a drawer, they confront you everyday as you sit down to work, and everyday it gets a little bit easier to face your past. as the tears subside, you find yourself laughing whenever you find a new photo of roger’s antics. your heart doesn’t clench as much when you run across another photo of you and brian. you can smile now when you look at his face. he really was so handsome...

you go so far as to frame your favorite photograph of your time together and place it on your dresser. he’s got his arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin settled on the top of your head. you’re laughing, your hands folded on his arms, legs crossed as you tilt to the side. he’s making a face, his tongue stuck out at the camera, and every time you pass by the picture, you can’t help but chuckle.

you love him still. you’ll love him always.

with three weeks before the opening of the exhibit, the stress is starting to get the better of you. you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, there’s heavy bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, and you can’t remember the last time you consumed something other than coffee. despite the stress, you feel lighter. working through the photos, laying them out in order, writing the captions, pouring over the faces of the ones you love so dearly—it’s all helped ease the burden in your heart. for the first time in a long time, you slip out of bed in the mornings with a newfound sense of energy and purpose.

life will go on. just as you did when you fell into the past, you will find a new future.

arms laden with exhibit proposals and mock-ups, you brush into your local coffee shop—pretty bird—intent on getting some real work done on choosing the final photographs before you send them off to be printed. you order your usual and take a seat by the front. the air which wafts through the open window at your side is warm with spring and rebirth, and you breathe deep, cracking open the lid of your laptop. you manage to pick a total of twelve of the seventy-six needed photographs before you’re interrupted.

“whatcha workin’ on?” matthew, barista extraordinaire and casual acquaintance, sits down on the bench across from you. he has his own cup of cold brew poised between his lips, and the piercing in his eyebrow wiggles as he moves his brow up and down.

“an exhibit for the museum,” you say, pausing to roll your tight shoulders. “it’s my first.”

“do tell!”

you explain, briefly, how to came to acquire your dead aunt’s photographs and the general theme of the showcase. he nods in approval then snaps as if he’s remembered something.

“hold on. stay right there. i’ll be right back.” he puts his coffee down, scoots off of the bench, and darts to the back of the coffee shop. you wait and listen to the sound of the birds twittering outside before he returns with a framed picture in hand. “i just learned about this,” he says, taking his seat again. “this building used to be a disco back in the 70s.” he hands you the frame and points to a collection of people in the middle of a disco bar. “that’s queen. they came here once and somebody had the smarts to take a picture.”

your hands shake around the photograph, eyes darting from one corner of the picture to another.

matthew keeps talking. “the place was called climax. can you believe that? the 70s were fuckin’ wild, mate.”

you nod, lips parted, and skim your fingers over the incredibly tall and recognizable form of brian in the center of the photo. you can see your shoulder, jammed between freddie and crystal, but the rest of your body is obscured. you lift your eyes from the frame and glance around the coffee shop, at the exposed metal beams and vaulted ceilings, at the disco ball still hanging in the center of the room.

makes sense now. why the building had felt so eerily familiar back then.

handing matthew the picture frame, you sit back in your chair. “wonder if my aunt ever came,” you say.

“maybe? sounds like she was in pretty tight. you know who you could ask?” you shake your head, uncertain of matthew’s question. “chris taylor. he was a roadie back then. he’s a regular here. comes in at least twice at week.”

you can’t stop the hand that flies to your mouth in surprise. you try to smother your gasp with a cough, but matthew still stares at you like you’ve sprouted another head.

“you okay?” he asks warily.

nodding, you take a sip of your drink. “yeah, yeah, sorry! wrong pipe.”

“so, do you want to meet him and ask about your aunt?”

everything in you screams to say no. it’s too dangerous. you will surely break the moment you see him. crystal became your lifeline apart from brian during that year. he was your brother, your partner in crime, the one who kept you grounded when things got too wild. just knowing that he’s frequented the same coffee shop as you for the last six months brings tears to your eyes. you could have run into him. hell, you might’ve already. still, you aren’t sure if you’d be able to make it through a proper meeting without spilling your guts and apologizing for the way you left.

“[y/n]?” matthew pulls you from your thoughts. “what do you think?”

you hesitate before shrugging. you speak before you can stop yourself, before the rational and reasonable part of you can take over. god, you need this. if it’s your only opportunity for true closure, you’ll take it. “if he’s up to it then... sure.”

matthew grins. “come in tomorrow. i’ll introduce you!”

that night you toss and turn. you’re plagued with anxiety. will crystal recognize you? if he does, what will he say? will he be angry? what if he tells brian and then—

your bedside alarm goes off just as you fall asleep. it’s a struggle to drag yourself out of bed, but you must. there’s closure somewhere around the corner, and if you just move your ass, you’ll find it. you have one class this morning then your meeting with crystal. you’re jittery by the time you leave class, but you chalk that up to drinking two cups of coffee before leaving your flat and one in class.

it’s drizzling as you make your way to the coffee shop. you hasten your steps, head bent against the rain and fingers curled around the strap of your bag. when you enter the shop, it’s nearly empty aside from a few lonesome students studying in far off corners. you can hear the faint thrill of music over the loudspeakers, but the blood that’s rushing to your ears blocks out most of the melody.

crystal’s already here, leaning against the counter, in conversation with matthew.

you stop in your tracks. he’s bald now, slightly pudgier with age, but he looks every bit as devilish as you remember.

you swallow past the fear in your throat and the anxiety in your veins and step forward. you voice wobbles when you speak. “matthew?” you direct your entrance to your friend because if you come right out and say crystal’s name, you will surely fall over in a puddle of emotion.

“there you are!” matthew jumps over the counter in one easy leap and lands to the floor beside you. he drapes his arm around your shoulders and motions to crystal. “[y/n], i’d like you to meet chris taylor. chris, this is [y/n], the girl i was telling you about.”

crystal’s staring at you through his blue-tinted glasses like he’s seen a ghost. his jaw has gone slack, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to formulate a sentence.

you shove your hand into the space between you. “nice to meet you, mr. taylor.”

looking between matthew and yourself, he gathers himself, clearing his throat, and shakes your hand. “you too.”

“should we sit?” you motion to the same table you occupied the day before. “i can buy you a coffee for your troubles.”

he shakes his head and lifts his cup. “already got mine.”

“all right, well...” you glance at matthew.

“do you want your regular?” he asks.

“yes, please.”

“comin’ right up.”

crystal follows you to the table and sits down, his movements slow. for a moment, you sit in silence and allow his eyes to roam your face. you can’t tell if he knows it’s you or if he thinks it’s just a coincidence. you want to reach out and take the hand he rubs across the bridge of his nose, but you fold your fingers in your lap.

“thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” you finally say.

“you aunt,” he starts.

“yes, my aunt.” you pull a photograph out of your bag. it’s one of the few you took with crystal all those years ago. he’s got you in a headlock, his opposite fist grinding into the top of your skull. you slide the picture across the table. “you knew her?”

crystal lifts the photo, inspects it, before putting it down. he sighs, shaking his head. “i loved that woman. broke my heart when she left.” his gaze lifts from the table. “you look like her, have her name too.”

you look away, out the window at the side. there’s bird fluttering in a puddle on the sidewalk, and you watch it for a moment before turning back to him. “i think my mother loved her a great deal. i didn’t get the chance to know her, though. we only just found these pictures recently.”

his eyes narrow. “i mean, you really look like her.”

you force a smile. “thank you. that’s kind of you.” shifting, you tap your finger on the table. “i know her leaving wasn’t exactly...” you struggle to find the proper word, but he jumps to assist.

“natural?”

“well, i was going to say easy, but—”

“she fuckin’ disappeared! excuse my language.” huffing, he drops back against his chair. “one minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. i swear, i’ve never seen anyone skip town that fast.”

“she didn’t say anything about leaving?”

“why would she? she was engaged! she had no reason to leave that i know of.”

“was she happy?”

“hell yes. her and brian—i’ve never seen two people more fit for one another. brian just about lost his mind trying to find her, but it was like she never existed. strangest thing.” he pauses to take a sip of his coffee, looking askance, before his eyes whiz back to yours. “oh my fucking god.”

you look up, fear sparking in your belly. “what?”

“[y/n]?”

you blink. your head feels dizzy with the way he’s looking at you, like he’s about to jump across the table and throttle you or hug you so tight your insides might squeeze out of your body.

“fuck,” he breathes. “it is you.”

“i don’t know know what you’re—”

“don’t play dumb with me!” he leans across the table and lowers his voice. “i was the one who got you that phony passport, remember? i always wondered why i couldn’t find your credentials. had to lie my way through it until i got the damn thing. you’re lucky everything was so lax in the 70s.” he shakes his head. “how’d you do it?”

there’s part of you that wants to deny, deny, deny.

but it’s crystal. you can’t lie to him any more than you already have.

“i had no choice in the matter,” you say plainly. “one minute i was here, the next minute i was there, and the next minute i was here again.”

his jaw works back and forth as he processes the information. “does brian know?”

“no—and i’d like to keep it that way.”

“i thought we might lose him after you left.”

you twist the ring on your finger. “if i’d had the choice, i would have stayed. i hope you know that.”

crystal nods. “yeah, i do.” he holds your gaze then motions to your bag. “so, this exhibit matthew told me about. you’re publishing all those photos you took?”

“yes. there are some pictures i’ve saved for myself, but my boss, monica, she got permission from the record label to go ahead with the others. it opens in three weeks.”

“i’ll be there if i can. i’d like to see those pictures.”

you smile, your first earnest smile of the day. “you feature many times.”

he ducks his head like an embarrassed schoolboy. “we were thick as thieves, weren’t we?”

“you and roger were thicker, but i’d like to think i had a part to play some of the time.”

he lifts his head and heaves a heavy sigh. “you know, when i said i loved you, i meant it. not in the way brian did. you were like a kid sister to me. i cared for you a great deal.”

before you can stop yourself, you slip your hand across the table to grasp his worn fingers. his shoulders shake on another sigh, and he lifts his opposite hand to wipe at his eyes beneath his glasses.

“oh, crystal. i’m so sorry,” you whisper. it hurts to see him cry, to know that you’re the cause behind his pain.

he waves your apology away, sniffing hard. “i’m just glad to know you’re okay. we thought you might’ve gotten picked up or—” he shakes his head and pats your hand over his, meeting your eyes. “you’re okay, though. that’s what matters.”

“will you really come to my exhibit?”

“anything for you, kid.” he thumbs the underside of your chin with a lopsided grin. “even after all this time, i’m putty in your hands.”

you grin and hand him a business card, which he tucks in the folds of his wallet. rising from his seat, he opens his arms and you practically trip into his hug. he holds you tight for the briefest of moments before pulling back. he pats your cheek.

“i’ll see you in three weeks, yeah? if i stay any longer i’ll end up a sobbin’ mess on the floor.”

you nod. “yeah. and, crystal?” he turns at the door. “don’t tell brian. please.”

he leaves without another word.

the day of the exhibit opening you are equal parts thrilled and a nervous wreck. everyone’s here—your family, rachel, shamik, even matthew. you haven’t seen crystal amidst the crowd mingling in the lobby, but you trust him to show. he’s always been reliable, and you doubt he’ll fail you now.

monica squeezes your shoulder as she passes you by in the staff hallway. “it looks wonderful, [y/n]. consider yourself hired,” she says and hands you a keycard. “i’m going to give you a piece of advice i got when i completed my first exhibit: go have a moment by yourself. look at your work, be proud of it. you deserve it.”

with trembling fingers and a racing heart, you make your way down the corridor to the south exhibit hall. due to a celebratory lunch with rachel the day before, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see the room in its final state. in retrospect, you’re thankful for the chance to see it for the first time alone. at least this way, if you cry, no one will have to know.

the door beeps as it unlocks, and you slip inside the room. you descend the handful of stairs which lead into the showroom floor and suck in a deep breath.

before entering the exhibit, there’s a wall to the side with a simple explanation written in a white font:

queen: unfiltered — this exhibit preserves and presents never-before-seen images of the popular band, queen, through the eyes of an unnamed woman who spent a year traveling the world on queen’s jazz album tour. her images are intimate yet distinctive and offer a personal glimpse into the lives of one of britain’s most well-known bands.

at the far end of the room hang four banners spanning floor to ceiling. the banners wave gently in the air blowing throughout the room, illuminated from lights on the ceiling and floor. each banner hosts an oversized photo of one of the band’s members in an image that best captures their personality. it took you hours to find the right photo for each man, but you stand by your choice for each one.

there’s john on the far left, head bent as he strums the bass across his knee. his lips are pursed in thought, a line of concentration on his brow.

there’s freddie next to him. he stands in a spanish alley way, cradling a stray cat in his arms. he looks serenely on at the camera, a rare moment of simplicity.

there’s brian sat in an overstuffed armchair, his gangly legs crossed, a book open on his lap. he has the corner of his thumb in his mouth, and if you squint you can see the edge of his tongue.

there’s roger on the far right. he’s smiling at the camera, his eyes bright with mischief and joy. there’s a party hat snug on the crown of his head, pulling the skin of his forehead taut.

on opposite sides of the room, two parallel rows of twelve photos hang in neat order. you decided to have every photograph in the exhibit printed in black-and-white and, in all, you painstakingly picked the forty-eight photos featured in their simple white frames. you walk along the wall, hands clasped at your waist, eyes running over the memories you hold so dear.

the afternoon crystal taught you ride a bike in barcelona: you’re sat on the handlebars after a hard fall, mouth open in a squeal of delight as crystal whips toward the camera.

roger and john tossing an apple back and forth in an ottawa grocery store: john’s smile is broad, the apple caught on film midair.

brian sitting on the floor of your hotel suite: there’s a tray of sushi at his feet, and he’s smiling at you, his hair wet from a shower.

freddie playing the piano in the airport in yugoslavia: he’d been so excited to see one, his shoes had slipped on the slick floor as he ran to it. he’d played dramatically, conducting those around him in a horrible rendition of “god save the queen.”

your eyes sting with tears as you glance about the room. you’re proud of your work. it looks good, professional and elegant, but more than that, you’re proud of yourself for the work you’ve done in mending your broken heart. though you will never live the life you’d once dreamed of, you will always have the memories—and that’s got to count for something.

when the double-doors open and monica ushers the first of the patrons in, you slip into the closest bathroom to wipe at the makeup smudged under your eyes. you’re happy, truly so, and you want to celebrate—celebrate both of your lives as they finally come together.

the room is crowded when you reenter, conversation and gentle laughter mingling in the air. you accept a tight hug from rachel when you see her and the congratulations of your parents. you can’t stop smiling, and you’re sure your face will hurt come morning, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

your parents float away, hand in hand, and you find yourself alone in the center of the room, watching in awe as people you’ve never met look at your photos, at your memories, and nod in appreciation. your chest swells with an emotion you can’t place.

“i think this calls for a congratulations. you’ve outdone yourself, dove.”

you whirl on your heel, lip caught between your teeth in a poorly-concealed smile. “you came.”

crystal grins. the tie of his suit is rumbled and askew, and you reach out to straighten it. old habits die hard. “i said i would.”

“what do you think?”

“i think it’s fantastic. the lads would be proud.”

“maybe.” you shrug. “guess we’ll never know.”

“are you really so intent on staying hidden forever?”

you nod. “yes. it took everything in me to even talk to you. i don’t want to ruin their lives again by popping back up, especially because i’m not exactly old, am i?”

crystal laughs, shaking his head. “you must think you’re hot stuff if a simple hello could ruin a life.” his laughter fades into a simple smile. “now, i know you’re going to hate me and i’m willing to take that, but i did tell a certain someone about the exhibit.”

you can feel the blood drain from your face. “crystal, you didn’t.”

he winces. “i might’ve.”

you slap his arm and curl your fingers into his bicep. “you bastard!”

he holds up his hands in defense, decent enough to plaster a look of contrition on his face. “look, i didn’t tell him the context or what tipped me off. i just told him there was a new exhibit about queen and he was eager to come see. that’s all!”

you swallow hard, uncertain how to respond. “i—” your head twists back and forth in utter confusion. “i don’t know what to do.”

crystal’s face softens, and he nudges your shoulder. “go talk to him. he deserves that much, doesn’t he?”

you can’t argue with that.

giving crystal’s arm a grateful squeeze, your legs shake beneath you as you turn and see him—brian—across the room.

you don’t know how you didn’t see him before. even now, forty years later, he’s still unmistakeable: still tall, still gangly, but his hair has gone white and his strides are slower. the overwhelming urge to tear across the room and curl yourself around his back nearly overpowers you, but you shove it down and manage to cross the floor in slow, even steps. you keep your eyes glued to his back, your hands twitching at your sides. when you reach him and catch a faint whiff of his cologne, the same he wore all those years ago, you have to push back the tears that rise unbidden to your eyes.

you tap his shoulder. “dr. may?”

he circles around, as does his wife anita, her arm snug in his elbow.

brian blinks hard, his brow furrowed in confusion. for a moment, you let him stare at you as you stare right back. his eyes are the same. you’d thought they’d be different, but they aren’t. the realization stuns you silent.

anita glances between you both before smiling sweetly. “good evening, sweetheart,” she says, and her voice is so kind you can’t even summon the slightest bit of jealousy. “i’m afraid i didn’t catch your name.”

“oh, i’m sorry!” you laugh and find that smiling at anita isn’t hard. “my name’s [y/n] [y/l/n]. i created the exhibit. i thought i might come and introduce myself.”

“oh, how lovely!” anita claps her hands together. “what you’ve done is so beautiful, [y/n]. it’s nearly brought a tear to my eye.”

“that’s very kind of you, ma’am.”

“brian likes it too. don’t you, brian?”

he still can’t seem to formulate any sort of response. he’s frozen in place, and your heart lurches for him. to see the woman he’d once asked to marry him, the one so cruelly ripped away, while standing next to his wife... precisely why you never wanted to meddle in his current affairs.

finally, he seems to collect himself. he sucks in a deep breath and nods in agreement. “yes, i do. very much.”

“that means a lot,” you say, easing your smile back into place. “thank you.”

“i’ll leave you two to talk to for a moment. i see crystal hovering in the corner over there, and i’m sure you both have many questions for one another.” anita presses her hand on your arm as she passes. “lovely job, dear.”

she leaves, and you’re left alone with the greatest love of your life.

you wait for him to speak.

“you’re... alive?” it’s a question, not a statement.

“yes.”

“you’re the same age?”

“yes.”

“how did—” he shakes his head. “i don’t understand.”

“neither do i.”

his chin quivers slightly, and he looks away. “i thought you’d been taken or decided to—”

you dare to touch his arm. a spark jolts through your fingers at the slightest touch, but you hold firm. “nothing happened,” you explain. “other than nature righting her mistake.”

“i think—i think i need to sit down.”

“yes, of course. my office is down the hall. it’s quiet there.”

he nods and leans against your arm as you lead him down the hall. in the silence of your dimly lit office, he collapses to the loveseat beneath the window and drops his face to his hands. you hesitate in the doorway until he looks up. tears shimmer in his eyes, and you swallow hard, your smile wavering around the edges.

he stands then, crosses the floor, and cradles your face in his hands. “my god,” he breathes. “it really is you.”

with a laugh, you hold his wrists. “in the flesh.”

“how long’s it been?” his thumb works over your cheekbone and, though you know he should stop, you can’t bring yourself to step away from his touch.

“about seven months.”

he snorts. “try forty years.”

“you seem like you did well for yourself, though.”

he shrugs. “i suppose.”

“you’re happy?”

there’s a heavy pause before he says, “yes.”

“that’s all i want to hear.”

slipping out of his grasp, you put a modicum of space between you both. the air is thick with emotion, and your heart beats wildly against your chest. the love you thought you’d put to bed flares at the mere sight of him, even after all this time.

you drift your finger through the sand of your tabletop zen garden. “i told crystal not to tell you about me,” you admit.

“he didn’t—not in so many words.”

“i know. i’m glad he said something, though.” you pause, meet his gaze. “it’s so good to see you, bri.”

quiet falls over the room as he stares at you. you don’t squirm. you’re comfortable under his gaze, always have been.

“i hope you know i never stop looking,” he says. “even after anita, i kept trying to find you. just to know.”

“and i hope you know that i would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant i got to be with you even for a time.”

your phone vibrates on the desk, skidding across your oversized calendar. you reach for the phone and flip it over before slipping it in the purse hung over your desk chair.

“i’ve got to go,” you admit, crossing to his side. “i’ve actually got a date.”

to your surprise, his eyes crinkle with amusement. “i’m happy to hear it.” he lifts a hand and smooths back the hair from the side of your face. he looks at you with all the love he did forty years ago, and you wish you could take a picture to remember forever.

but then you remember: you have dozens of photos at home, and it doesn’t seem too hard to let him go now. not after the work you’ve put into mending your heart. you can face this, face saying goodbye for good. you have to, for his sake and your own.

rising to your tiptoes, you place a hand on his shoulder and kiss the corner of his mouth—one last touch, for you both. you wind your arm around his neck and whisper in his ear, “i love you, brian may. i always will.”

he squeezes you hard against his body, sucking in a ragged breath. “i love you too, [y/n].”

dropping back to your heels, you huff a breath and smile wide. “well, i’d better go.”

“yes, you’d better. don’t keep the lad waiting.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, your hand lingering on his. “okay, well... goodbye, brian.”

he smiles, and it’s the loveliest sight you’ve ever seen. he brushes you cheek with the back of his hand, whispering, “see you later, love.”

dipping out the back of the museum, you walk down the street, purse slung over your shoulders. you think you’ll be able to sleep well for the first time in a long time tonight.

you hope he can, too.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan @just-my-sickly-pride @perriwiinkle @ubernoxa @anunknownnebula @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @captvinswaan @ineloqueent

#brian may #brian may x reader #brian may fic #brian may x you #queen #queen fic #queen x reader #j writes

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oldfritz · 4 years

Photo

this was surprisingly hard because half of them I wanted to throw in f, but then felt guilty about it so here’s where we are. explanations under the cut to be nice (fair warning: I’m writing this while tipsy so this is a journey)

S-tier

Old Fritz: look me in the eyes. look at me. are you looking? good. where else was I was going to put him? where? in C with the other losers? foolish. I am ruining my life for this man, I’m going to go into debt so I can be moderately qualified to write books on him so Tim Blanning and Christopher Clark don’t boo my off the stage. I sit here sometimes and I’m like ‘y’know, I would start a podcast to talk about his life’ as if I’m some straight white guy who thinks any of you want to listen to me for an hour. he’s a bastard, a smug bastard, and is the epitome of self-destructive tendencies. and, honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t so fucking misogynistic all the time. ‘oh women aren’t fit to rule’ shut up Fritz before I time travel to fuck your wife and make her have one night where life feels worthwhile. but he’s funny, I enjoy how he does foreign policy, and he’s unfortunately relatable to me. cheers, Fritz. here’s to never being satisfied from one gay disaster with anger issues to another. may we burn in hell together

A-tier

Friedrich iii: “Suzanne, he was only on the throne for 99 days!! how can he be this high up when some of these bastards refused to die?” I hear you, my friends, and I have answers. I’ll tell you two words you’ll be shocked to hear put together: liberal Hohenzollern. a rare breed, isn’t it? imagine, friends, a world where he got over his throat cancer because he listened to a doctor and we get through the 1910s, 20s, even the 30s without Wilhelm II Electric Boogaloo being in power. Prussia is still on the map, the Anglo-Prussian alliance is strong, and I live in peace. but no. this stupid man had to keep smoking. because he’s selfish and doesn’t care about my needs. you know, he actually loved his wife. rare in this family. loved her and wasn’t abusive. the bar is so low, guys. and his wife is amazing too, Victoria. the world would’ve been in competent hands if they’d been in power longer (and Bismarck would’ve been out of a job still but at least these guys are smart. their son inherited grandma Vicki’s IQ). I would sleep with both of them and would thank them for the honor (when it should always be the other way around, remember that)

B-tier

Friedrich I: if your name is Friedrich and only Friedrich, we’re buds. that’s my rule. I have to give him credit where credit’s due. he was the first. while I agree with Fritz in his proscription that he was ‘small in big ways and big in small ways’ (I may have flipped that around), he wasn’t a bad guy. he just was born into the wrong job for him. I appreciate that he rode on his father’s coattails of proving useful to the Habsburgs and did a little himself to get that sweet, sweet kingship. smart move. I also like that he saw Louis XIV and said to himself “I stan, I kin, on God we’re gonna do that’ and tried. only for have his stupid, ungrateful, unclassy son to do away with that. I, too, am a woman of luxury and self-indulgance and if I had all the riches of Brandenburg and Prussia at the time (not much), I would spend them ridiculously on outfits and music and art. now, what did he do as king? what policy legacy did he leave behind? that’s a good one :)

C-tier

Friedrich Wilhelm III: now as a king he sucks. and I stand by this because, you know, he lost to him *imagine me pretending to be short and saying ‘oui, oui’ in a bad french accent*. and as any proper Englishwoman I can’t support a monarch who goes around losing to the French unless their name is Mary I. but, he’s a pathetic little man. he really is. so indecisive, so unsure of himself. what are you doing little guy? you think because your last name is Hohenzollern, God thinks you’re a good king? well it is like 1805 and, while divine right isn’t really being used as much, it’s as good as any reason on why you’re the chosen one and my family is eating dirt in Sicily and on the Scottish border. he’s really just a dude, nothing extraordinary about him except that his wife was the only one with brains and was the first to establish that (sorry Wilhelm I). he cried when he found out that his children didn’t call him ‘papa’ and went into a deep depressive state when his wife suddenly died. he’s an average man, of average abilities, but of big heart. and the big heart is what bumps him up, for me, from his old place as an F to a C. though, his moralizing is tedious

Friedrich Wilhelm II: this man should have partied with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. everyone’s got that one ruler whose all about sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. for the US it’s JFK, for the UK it’s Margaret Thatcher Charles II, France has Louis XIV. Prussia has this guy and we should thank him. so many mistresses, so much sex, so much revelry and debauchery and sin! this guy’s personal life is like a treasure trove of political and sexual intrigue. if you’re into that - as I am as a town gossip - you’ll love him. I am constantly amazed by the fact that some STD didn’t kill him. syphilis, herpes, crabs. something, man, anything. but he didn’t. he’s a shit king though. absolutely horrible. all he did was whine that he didn’t get taught anything by Uncle Fritz and, yes, that’s not good if it’s true (but it’s not completely because the treatises are detailed but I guess he didn’t have time to read) but c’mon. actually apply yourself and learn on the job. I know that would’ve required him to not be balls deep somewhere, but unfortunately he’s not Dorian Gray. there’s work that needed to be done and he didn’t do it. boo!!

D-tier

Wilhelm I: apparently he was a good guy, unlike the other 3 who populate the lowest rungs of Prussian kinghood. so I give him that and I can respect that. but what did he do? what were his own ideas? I thought about putting Bismarck as king instead because, really, he was. Bismarck was a minister who ran around the king’s back to set things up exactly as he liked and it fucking worked because he was the brains. his wife was intelligent too, but theirs wasn’t a wamr and loving marriage. and Bismarck worked to get Wilhelm to distrust her because she was liberal and the fact that Wilhelm would listen to Otto even if it meant allowing himself to be drowned in the Rhine is pathetic. fun party at Versailles though. hope it was worth the war reparations

F-tier (bastard time) I’m going in a different order because I want to go from the ones I hate least to most xoxo

Friedrich Wilhelm IV: “I won’t accept a crown from the gutter” then you won’t accept a crown at all, stupid idiot! god, the smugness. the authoritarian impulses. I know it was the cool thing in 1848 to put down any revolts/protests with as much force as possible, but man, at least the Habsburgs were transparent. homie was like “yeah guys lol I’ll make a constitution and it’ll be epic! you’ll have so many rights! xoxo gossip girl” and then...nope. and AND he wanted the Habsburgs in charge of things too! Mr. ‘I’m Nostalgic For When HRE Was Great And We Blew Austrian Dick!’ grow up man. it’s Prussia time buddy, Austria is beginning to fall apart. don’t look to the past, look to the future, but you didn’t have that vision did you?

Wilhelm II: *banging pots and pans* I blame this man for everything! now, intellectually, does Germany take all the blame for WWI? no, that’s foolish and propaganda of the Allies only. if you’re a European power in 1914, you get to share the blame (ex: why did UK need to make this a naval arms race? Austria should’ve declared war on Serbia sooner if that’s what it wished to do. Russia, please stay out of the Balkans then and forever). but does my irrational hatred of Wilhelm blind me to this truth when I see his stupid face and that ugly fucking mustache that I wish to yank off? my god, yes. I see him and Rule Britannia and The Yanks Are Coming start playing so loud in my head and I’m like ‘yeah, the kaiser’s gonna pay.’ I’m sorry that Bismarck’s ego was bigger than yours but did you have to prove him right by getting incompetent buffoons who were playing checkers when he set the board up for chess to replace him? Did you have to prove Freud right by displacing private problems onto public life with your little tit-for-tat with George IV (VI?) because his mummy loved you more? Why did you need to fuck every naval vessel you saw like an inferior of Peter the Great who believed he was Sir Francis Drake? but that’s just the first war and he lived to see things setting up for the second. wasn’t in convenient for you to be close with the N@zis when you thought they might want a king back on the throne and you could reclaim your little tyrant. like every goddamn Prussian conservative or Junker, you thought you could play the tyrannical cockroach. sure, you figured out earlier that he was no pal, but you still collaborated and you still allowed yourself to get played like the weak man of conscience you are. cheers!

Friedrich Wilhelm I: ladies and gentleman, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! the biggest bastard straight outta Berlin, FW1! and who doesn’t love an abusive father? who doesn’t love a man, so insecure and pathetic, that he needs to terrorize children to be able to look at himself and have a little pride. I understand that it was because he wanted his kids, specifically Fritz, to be best. but being best and perfect meant being miniature versions of him and aren’t we supposed to want our children to be better than a carbon-copy of a small man? honestly, I could live with the occasional smack for this time period. it’s within the norm and, while horrible, isn’t irreparably damaging. this guy really had to beat the shit out of Fritz and Wilhelmina and I’m sure Augustus and Henry and Amalia and all the others (so many kids) didn’t get spared either because if you hit one, you’ll hit ‘em all. and I judge them for their flaws all the same but, for some of them, it gets hard to. because what fighting chance did they have when their father was telling them how worthless they were and beating them senseless and threatening death and life imprisonment on some? I’m constantly impressed by Henry and Fritz and Wilhelmina for amounting to any semblance of maturity, even though it’s always fleeting, because this man didn’t give them the tools to be functioning adults. but each of them managed to be greater than their father, as did Amalia managing a really cool coup in Sweden. and what did FW1 get? he built up his army, had a tall guy fetish, increased the treasury, and made the cabinet and executive offices more efficient. there used to be this one guy on here that would argue that that was all a good king made and that this lowlife didn’t deserve the contempt he got by some on here (an obvious vague of me) for his behavior as a father. and maybe I’m a crackpot, but I believe the quality of a man outshines all those other achievements and that that’s meaningless to me, in my personal life. and when I get to hell, before I go to any of these other men, I’ll go to him and ask him how hell’s fires feel because, if his God was real, it would never love him. and that’s beautiful

#i just wanted to give you guys the mental image of ol maggie doing lines of coke #i dont like her i just like to give nicknames to all my enemies #makes them uncomfortable #im very tipsy so this is weird #i apologize #but i hope its kinda funny and enjoyable #frederick the great #old fritz #the name frederick officially looks meaningless to me #frederick william i #frederick i #frederick iii #frederick william ii #frederick william iii #frederick william iv #wilhelm i #wilhelm ii #prussian shitposting

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maudanouk · 3 years

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ACT I - ABOUT VEIL AND IMAGE

EXT. GARDEN - DAWN

LENNY arrives at the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE. Here is the garden and around it some flower beds, a space cultivated for flowers for Margot, to make a spray for her hair, to perfume the sheets.[2] The WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE embraces him warmly with its garden.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

Every man must create it new and different out of himself: new and different. [3] Once on a June evening, in those long gone years when the ends of days sank into silence, I was waiting for a total eclipse of the sun on a terrace facing a garden, overlooking the foliage of a maple tree. [4] And I thought of you Lenny. In the sudden darkness I saw you, hidden behind a veil, the massive walls of the Vatican Palace. A faceless silhouette.

LENNY

I have no image [...] because I am no one.[6] To become like everybody else; but this, precisely, is a becoming only for one who knows how to be nobody, to no longer be anybody. [9] And so, for my first adress the lightning was so dim, no photographer, no TV cameraman, and not even the faithful saw anything of me but a dark shadow, my silhouette. They did not see me because I do not exist.[10] The prim speech imposed upon them, the lessons in good behaviour, the veil of mystery you profess to hang before their eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity. [7] In being everywhere and nowhere I was [...] the object of much social curiosity; people payed attention to this, spoke about it, remembered it.[8] Now that I am pressed on all sides, I maintain my equilibrium, because, no longer attached to anything, I depend on myself alone.[10]I love the immediate presence of him who is in possession of no space other than that in which I exist.[11] I keep praying for You to make something happen so why this awful, crawling feeling that nothing ever does? [11]I either hardly feel it, or don't feel it at all.[12] God does not shout. God does not whisper. God does not write. God does not hear. God does not chat. God's infinite silence...[13] I said to myself: Why should I strive to find what does not exist? [14] By extending myself precariously I exist, outside of the stability where the other subject remains asleep or dead. [15] And in the end I only thought of her[16], my Margot. I don’t know her yet but you will help me find her.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE (hesistates)

The new is born of the old; the new is only the repetition of the old.[5] What you’re looking for is a complete inversion. Again a mystery, a face that is not yours but this time it will not be no image but all image. The new self is constructed from a triple contingency: faith and doubt; hope that will be happy at an indeterminate time; bonds of unconditional Love.[18] When i watched the total eclipse of the sun that summer evening it soon became dark and an eclipse wind, like a wave, had risen when suddenly from the neighbouring house burst forth a sort of wild dance, with the strange, biting, astringent sound of Pan’s pipes. Young people were celebrating some festival, they had confused shadow with twilight and were playing as night fell. However much one knows about it, the veiling of the sun’s light is disturbing and transports one to another world. [18] I saw you cover up in darkness and now i see you longing for the unveiling of the sun. And in this twilight a party shall rise so that the heart, that obscure, celestial flower, undergoes a mysterious blossoming. 19]That is the only way great loves stories are born and I don't want any more part time believers.[20]

ACT II - ABOUT BEES AND HONEY

EXT. GARDEN - MORNING

LENNY discovers a garden in this Genesis, naturally, and in this garden only the apple tree interests him, tempts him: he can see its flowers.[21] He walks towards the tree. The WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE is observing him. As LENNY reaches for one of the blossoms a bee flies out of it.

LENNY

But how can i find my Margot in this city still so strange to me?

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

You have to understand what she likes. Margot is the bee and you are her honey. What does Margot like?

LENNY (looking at the flowers)

Margot likes wind in her hair and salt cristals on her skin, lace and hoodies, rings on her fingers and flowers in her hair, black panthers and partridges, walking barefoot on wet grass and wearing mid calf boots, day dreaming and ADHD, dancing underground and sleeping in white sheets, birch trees and skyscrapers, gel nails and knitting, smocking and drinking tee, equal rights and mini skirts, her birthday and celebrating christmas with her family, a Ferrari Portofino and umberella pine trees, Fellinis Roma and Mario Cart, Los Angeles and Palermo, seashells and pinecones, Zorra by Bad Gyal and playing the Bach Suite Nr. 1 on her Cello, passion fruits and rough fights, oranges and jeweled persian rice, fig trees and Coke, dry white wine and soft cheese, creaky parquet and soft carpets, stone basins and hot springs, ....

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

The mask does not hide the face, it is the face.[21] Your new face should combine all these elements to a story. You become invisible by making, on the contrary, a lot of noise.[22] [...] the veil of mystery you profess to hang before their eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity[23]. In being everywhere and nowhere [...] the object of much social curiosity[24] people will pay attention to it, speak about it, remember it. And I will be the embodiment of your story the place where all elements manifest in a happening. A great feast Margot will want to attend.

ACT III - THE INVITATION

INT. MARGOTS MURCIELAGO - AFTERNOON

A downpour of summer rain patters on the front window. MARGOT is waiting at a red light. Her phone buzzes and she opens the message.

TEXT ON SCREEN

My darling friends, there’s one spectacular party in the making! Join us tonight at the Wittgenstein House to another glass of white wine under the fig trees, eating fresh fish on soft carpets next to blossoming anthuries. Glowing cheeks from dancing till dawn. Bring a delicate, floating, spring bouquet of florets in new leaf green, cherry blossom pink, and marigold yellow[25] and we’ll serve everything else. XOXO EROS (Gossip Girl, Prince Charming, SHY GIRL, haha)

ACT IV - THE PARTY

EXT. THE CITY INT. AVAS FERRARI PORTOFINO - SUNSET

The rain had stopped. The water evaporated on the hot asphalt and left a sultry summer evening air. AVAs car is speeding down the Ringstrasse. The roof of the cabrio is folded down and the wind blows through their hair.

AVA (lost in thought)

Do you think EROS will attend the party today? I wish we’d find out who’s behind all this uproar. Maybe it’s one of our friends hiding behind a second persona. It would make sense because EROS seems to like all the things we do.

MARGOT

Some weeks ago we’ve never heard about him and now he's everywhere. Noise, ruckus, rumors spread.[27] I’ve heard the parties are supposed to be unique in its kind and his face, enveloped by a more or less dense veil[26] has sparked many suspicions. (sighs) I think he looks like Hauru, wearing drop earrings made of rubies and emeralds combined [...] dripping down[27] his lobe, a radiant boy [...] his blonde chin length hair making him the cynosure of all eyes.[27]

AVA shakes her head and starts laughing.

EXT. THE SITE - RADIATION INTO NEIGHBOURHOOD - SUNSET

It’s dark but the garden is enlightened by the colourful lights emerging the windows. The WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE is radiant and reaching in all directions, emitting visual, audible and perceptible vibrations. The air smells of Un Jardin en Méditerranée. The Ferrari Portofino enters the SITE. AVA and MARGOT step out of it. Instantly they are surrounded by an electric atmosphere. People get chauffeured around in Mercedes Benz with Cristal champagne.[28] On inspecting the entrance facade, you can discover a series of metaphors and symbolic signs.[29] It would be too strong to call this fantasy a portal to Hell, but it is surely no entrance to a Heavenly Jerusalem[30]. AVA and MARGOT join the stream of guests walking through the garden towards the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE greeting, kissing, hugging.

INT. THE ENTRANCE - APERO - THE FIRST IMPRESSION - SUNSET

The party begins as people are moving in, gathering in the entrance hall and taking a stand up cocktail.[31] There is champagne, caviar and fireworks.[32] Ahead, some distance from the entrance, is a great mural of brilliant color.[33] Opulent Ornaments, heavy textiles, reflecting surfaces. The materials come from the everyday domestic sphere, much having to do with ornamenting the body: copper and brass wire, buttons, beads, baubles, hooks, eyes, straps, false fingernails, makeup, hair, ribbons, lace, thread, shells, feathers, and bones. The amulets are fetishes, beautiful ornamental objects, and they are connected to the fetishism of architectural representation.[34]

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE (whispering to the YOUNG POPE)

This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. First Impressions are made. About me as the entrance always affects the following impression of the whole house and about you. Especially Margots first impression of you. I am preparing you, bit by bit, so that, at the desired moment, I can give you the final instructions and have it all fall into place.[35]

MARGOT (whispering)

Ava! Look at this man sitting on the seashell sofa in the garden. He’s knitting all alone while everybody else is clinking glasses.

AVA (teasing)

Why don’t you bring him a glass of Prosecco. I know it, I feel it, and you will say it.[35]

MARGOT (concentrated)

You just know me too well and yes, he is cute.

EXT. THE GARDEN - THE TALK ABOUT LOVE - SUNSET

MARGOT walks over to the LENNY carrying a glass of prosecco. Rising up in a warm haze, the innumerable modern statues towered on their pillars half way up the golden webs of sunset.[36] The garden is a collection of living beauties, rare Plants, exotic Flowers and Fruits. The trees are old and high and in between long white cotton cloths are hanging in the trees, blowing in the wind, rendering shadow plays. LENNY is sitting in the seashell sofa sheltered from the wind, warm sunbeams began to play, streams to flow, and groves of pines diversified the rocks. [37] MARGOT hands him the glass.

MARGOT (laughing)

Hello strange man, what are you knitting?

LENNY

Some of the more exotic plants have to be taken indoors for protection from the cold night air and swaddled in thick woollen garments.[38]

MARGOT We have, indeed, become a flower growing people.[39] So you’re actually a textile and dress designer[40] for plants of all kinds. (laughs)

LENNY

When, on a summer evening, the melodious sky growls like a tawny lion, and everyone is complaining of the storm, it is the memory of the Meseglise way that makes me stand alone in ecstasy, inhaling, through the noise of the falling rain, the lingering scent of invisible lilacs.[41] Or when I reach out to touch a fragile tree and blossoming spicules float downwards and fade, each with its clear, tiny tinkle.[42] These are the moments I cherish most. I am in love with them and that is why I take care of them.

MARGOT (hesistating)

But for me love is not only loving and caring. It fun when it starts getting way more complex. It is raucous, low, full, pleading, vulgar, sharp, cutting, jovial, harmonious, commanding, harrowing, seductive, explosive or irritated[...] noble, high pitched, servile, majestic, ample, sick, affronted, clothed in silence, echoing with the sea or forest, undercut by the twittering of birds, howling like a wild beast, [... ]asking questions and saying come here, an alarming voice, broken, sobbing [43].

LENNY (sighs)

Until now I’v only got to know a more one-sided monotonous love but thats another story. I’d be excited to get to know your kind of love.

MARGOT (excited)

Oh look over there! It’s a real black panther prowling through the peach trees!

EXT. WINTER GARDEN - DAWN

People are appearing in the open doors of the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE following the excited call of MARGOT. People start bringing out plates with all kinds of foods. The WITTGENSTEING HOUSE opens all the windows that all the curtains flow in the summer breeze. A stone basin appears and now the air is filled by lapping and cricket chirping.

INT. SALON - DANCING AND TEASING - NIGHT

After eating the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE starts playing Promiscuous Girl by Nelly Furtado. Slowly the dancefloor is filled with curiously dancing people. Tossing their hands in a wanton and lascivious manner, rolling around, twerking. MARGOT catches LENNYs eye and they dance towards each other.

SPEAKERS

♪ Promiscuous girl You're teasing me You know what I want And I got what you need ♪

MARGOT (smiling)

Feeling a little afraid is normal when facing something new, in a place or in a way you’ve never experienced before.[44] You don’t look like you’ve ever danced before. SPEAKERS

♪ Promiscuous boy Let's get to the point Cause we're on a roll Are you ready? ♪

LENNY (laughing)

You’re not that wrong with this assumption but you dance the way you love, it seems. Raucous, full, pleading, vulgar, sharp, cutting, jovial, harmonious, commanding, harrowing, seductive, explosive.[45] SPEAKERS

♪ Wait... I don't mean no harm I can see you with my t-shirt on ♪

LENNY takes MARGOS hand and twirls her around. SPEAKERS

♪ I can see you with nothing on Feeling on me before you bring that on ♪

[2] Serres, The Parasite

[3] Deleuze, Francis Bacon The Logic of Sensation

[4] Serres, The Five Senses

[5] Serres, Hermes Literature Science Philosophy

[6] The Young Pope

[7] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[8] Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 2

[9] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

[10] The Young Pope, (Grammatics changed)

[10] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[11] Serres, The Five Senses

[11] The Young Pope

[12] Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations

[13] Aquinas, Summa Theologica

[14] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[15] Serres, The Five Senses

[16] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[18] Serres, The Five Senses

[18] Serres, Branches

[19] Hugo, Les Miserables

[20] The Young Pope

[21] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

[22] Serres, The Parasite

[23] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[24] Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 2

[25] Kassinger, Slime

[26] Deleuze, Cinema 1 The Movement Image

[27] Serres, Troubadour of Knowledge

[27] Rand, The Fountainhead

[27] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Quantum City

[28] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Quantum City

[29] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[30] Frankl, The Gothic

[31] Schumacher, The Autopoiesis of Architecture Vol 2

[32] Carter, Anthony Blunt His Lives

[33] Ockmann, Architecture Culture 1943 1968

[34] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[35] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[35] The Young Pope

[36] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol IV Sodom and Gomorrah

[37] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works

[38] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol II Within a Budding Grove

[39] Gothein, A History of Garden Art

[40] Callan, Dictionary of Fashion and Fashion Designers

[41] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol I Swanns Way

[42] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[43] Serres, The Five Senses

[44] Del Toro, Cabinet of Curiosities

[45] Serres, The Five Senses

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