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juniorgman187 · 3 years

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The Bones (Reid Series) Part 2

Summary: After doing an even deeper dive on Valerie’s past, Spencer finally meets her, but his invasiveness isn’t the worst part ... the worst part is he might actually like her.

Playlist: “The Bones” by Maren Morris & Hozier (BONUS: song includes major foreshadowing) Category: Series, Fluff, Soft Angst, Eventual smut and *NSFW content Pairing: Spencer Reid POV x Fem!OC - Valerie Content Warning: invasion of privacy, allusions to Maeve’s death, arrhythmia Word Count: 3.4k

Part 1 |

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

After firmly deciding not to weave Penelope into my tangled web, I was met with the arduous burden of conducting my own research.

Firstly, I would need a computer - yeah ... a computer. That’s how far I was willing to go for this pursuit. I once vowed never to fall victim to modern technology’s clutches, and yet here I was, doing my research on a public library’s computer. To my credit, I hadn’t gone out and bought one, I was merely using my resources.

With the need for a device out of the way, all that was left was the knowledge of what to look for. But that didn’t pose a problem either.

Funny enough, with as many rules and restrictions as there are regarding patient privacy and confidentiality, all it took was matching dates of news stories with hospital records to complete my research. I was fairly certain I was only scratching the surface of information about Valerie as opposed to the sea of things I could’ve uncovered if I asked for Garcia’s help, but there are only so many lines a person can cross in one week.

This was my limit.

Call me naive, but I was actually quite surprised with just how expansive the internet is. To an almost relentless degree, I would open an article and it would lead me to ten more about the same topic. It was this never ending rabbit hole that seemed to spiral on forever. I kept digging deeper and deeper until I could no longer dig.

I’d officially hit rock bottom.

It took me a grand total of just two hours to unearth all the ‘dirt’ I could on a young Valerie Bishop.

Local 16-year-old Wins Nevada’s Statewide Art Contest! Published by Henderson Press.

Valerie, just a sophomore in high school at the time, was donning what any experimental teen girl would’ve worn in the early 2000s - bootcut jeans and a sequin blouse over top of a plain camisole. And if I zoomed in close enough, I could spot the evidence of a sparkly blue shadow coating her eyelids. Surprisingly, though, that wasn’t the first thing I noticed.

It was that smile. That tooth-achingly sweet smile.

Though I never got the chance to see Maeve truly smile, that’s what I imagined it would look like.

The photographer must’ve caught her midway through a laugh, at least that’s what the image of her slightly open-mouthed grin told me. Meanwhile, her two tiny hands were clenching her overbearingly large trophy while her artwork stood behind her as the background.

It didn’t take me long to figure out why her painting won. Simply put, there was no need to see anyone else’s art to know that they couldn’t possibly compete with hers.

Hers was an abstract rendition of what I believe to be a forest of some sort. The detail is what I was most drawn to. It would’ve been unbelievable on its own but the fact that she was 16 when she painted it? That’s what was unbelievable to me.

If that’s how talented she was at that age, I could only imagine how much more talented she became with time. However, I lost the chance to investigate the current state of her skill before a related article from The Cleveland Gazette about Valerie succeeded this one.

From Award-Winning Artist to Henderson’s Hero

Read my interview with 17-year-old Valerie Bishop to find out more about her struggle with arrhythmia and how she turned her pain into a project!

By Kelli Gallagher from the Cleveland Gazette.

Gallagher: Thank you so much for letting me interview you, Valerie.

Bishop: Of course! I’m happy to.

Gallagher: You’ve become somewhat of a hero in Henderson, Nevada, haven’t you?

Bishop: I wouldn’t call myself a hero ... but if everyone else wants to - I’m fine with that. (laughs)

Gallagher: Don’t be so modest! I mean, what you’ve done is so incredible, and you’re only what? Seventeen?

Bishop: Yes, ma’am. I just turned seventeen this past August.

Gallagher: Wow, I can’t believe how young you are and yet you’ve already accomplished so much. I saw that you won a statewide art contest last year. Tell me more about that.

Bishop: That’s a funny story actually. My Grandma Sheila was the one who entered me in that contest. I didn’t even know about it until I won it. She’s always surprising me, though. In fact, she’s the one that surprised me with my first ever art supplies, when I was about eight or so. They were these super expensive oil paints, and I knew she couldn’t afford them, so I told her we should return them and get something cheaper, but she said, “Nonsense. When the bones are good the rest don’t matter. A house don’t fall when the bones are good.” That was kind of her saying.

A house don’t fall when the bones are good.

The bones.

Gallagher: I’m interested to know more about your relationship with your grandma. If I’m remembering correctly, she was also diagnosed with arrhythmia a while back too, right?

Bishop: Yes, she was, but that’s never slowed her down. And as for our relationship, my grandma and I have always been close, but arrhythmia, in a weird way, has brought us even closer. She has always been my biggest supporter and the fact that we’re both on this journey together makes her my biggest supporter even more so.

Gallagher: Absolutely. Now, I also heard that you’ve started a fundraising program to possibly start a gallery and studio in Virginia Beach. If you don’t mind me asking, why Virginia Beach? Is there any special significance?

Bishop: Actually, that’s where my grandma met my grandpa, and they got married and started a family there, too. So if Grandma Sheila hadn’t been there to meet him, she wouldn’t have had my mom, and that would mean I wouldn’t have been here either. I like to think Virginia Beach is where it all started. In a way, it’s where my bones are. That solid foundation in Virginia gave me everything I have today.

Gallagher: That is just incredible. I’m so glad to see your fundraising project is thriving, but I can’t imagine any of this has been particularly easy for you. You were diagnosed right around the time your senior year was starting right?

Bishop: Yes ma’am.

Gallagher: So what brought you from Henderson to Cleveland?

Bishop: Well, actually, I didn’t want to move, especially not before I graduated, but Cleveland has the best cardiovascular hospital in the country and my health is far more important than graduating in the same state I grew up in. So when my parents were willing to move me and my sister out here, I saw it as a privilege rather than something to be sad about.

Gallagher: I am so inspired by you, Valerie.

Bishop: (laughs) Really, why?

Gallagher: Despite everything that’d been thrown at you, you are still so grateful. I hope you never lose that.

Bishop: I promise you I won’t.

Gallagher: So one last thing before I go, what is one hope you have for your future self?

Bishop: I hope, future self, that your ‘bones’ are still strong.

Gallagher: Beautiful. Thank you so much again for doing this, Valerie. I sincerely hope you reach your goal and you get to open up that gallery and studio in Virginia Beach.

At the bottom of the article, there was a footnote from Kelli Gallagher.

Exactly 10 years later, Bishop was able to move to Virginia Beach and open up her gallery and studio.

By the end of the article, I felt a genuine sense of pride for Valerie, and I know I had virtually no right to know these things about her, but I could still be proud of her for them right?

I would never fully get my answer to this question before I crossed the final boundary.

After exhausting all that I could gather from the internet without Penelope’s assistance, the only thing left for me to do was actually meet her in person. However, this would prove to be a bigger obstacle that it seemed. I decided to delay the daunting task until the next day. A decision partially influenced by the phrase, ‘sleep on it.’ I prayed I’d gain clarity on what to do when I woke up the next morning, but even with a night’s rest, I was still undecided as I drove to Virginia Beach once more.

To sit in my car that was conveniently parked right in front of the gallery was a poor choice. Because with every passing second, the temptation to walk in grew, but the fear of regret dampened those impulses. The more I thought about it, the more I psyched myself out. Between my two choices, to freeze or to fight, I should’ve taken the third - to flee. But I was here now and I couldn’t leave empty-handed for a second time.

After a moment’s indecision, adrenaline coursed through my veins to give me the courage to get out of my car. When I felt an outdoor breeze blow over me, I knew there was no going back now. Right when I walked in, the little bell above the door rang, solidifying that I was officially crossing the threshold, and whether I liked it or not, she was going to see me after hearing me walk in.

“I’ll be right with you!” A small voice called out from somewhere in the back. She was hidden from my immediate sight, and somehow that made it so much worse. It was now I that was waiting for her, instead of her unknowingly waiting for me.

As though I were prey getting ready to escape a predator, I stayed put by the door. It gave me a full view of the entire place anyway.

Scoping out my surroundings, I spotted the paintings that were carefully measured and placed on the walls, almost to perfection. I had no time to notice anything more before the person in the back walked out.

Immediately when I saw her, I knew.

“You’re … not Valerie.” I couldn’t help sounding so disappointed but luckily, the woman that came out took no offense to my observation.

“No, I’m not,” She laughed. “But I can get her for you-”

“No wait!” I uselessly leapt forward to stop her from saying, “Vee! There’s someone out here to see you!” But that’s precisely what she did anyway. Evidently oblivious of my previous protests, she politely smiled back at me. “She’ll be right out.”

For the second time that day, I waited with bated breath, anxiously anticipating the arrival of Valerie. And I was almost too focused on subduing the pounding of my heart to realize that she was actually walking out of the back right now.

“Hi, sorry about that!” A new voice chirped.

Valerie.

The moment I laid eyes on her, it became clear to me that the pictures in her files hardly did her justice. Nothing could compare to the real sight of her. I was only able to catch the profile of her face when I saw her in the cafe, but in her entirety, I began to wax nostalgic. Though her face and hair and body had transformed into that of a grown woman’s features, I could still identify the same tooth-achingly sweet smile that a younger Valerie once wore on the front page of the Henderson Press. She was no beast to conquer, she was just a girl, smiling at me in that same gentle way.

Her expression just as well showed no indication of recognition, not that she would recognize me, considering my letter was anonymous and unless she pulled the same stunt I did, she wouldn’t ever recognize who I was.

“I’m Val,” She made her greeting to me while untying her dirtied waist apron, and it was merely the action that caused my gaze to fall to her hips, but when she shed the apron, I was still staring. There was something sort of mesmerizing about the way they swayed as she approached. It wasn’t until they stopped swaying completely that I realized they did so because there was no more distance to advance - she was already right there in front of me, patiently watching me stare.

“Val?” I blinked hard to revert my gaze while also playing into the part that I had no idea who she was.

“Mhm. Short for Valerie,” She confirmed happily. “Like the Amy Winehouse song.”

This time, I genuinely didn’t know what she was referring to, and my confused countenance prompted her to clarify, “You don’t know that song?”

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she began to playfully sing, “Well, sometimes I go out by myself and I look across the water ...”

While she watched my face and waited for the recitation of the song to jog my memory, I was just as much studying her face. I could tell she was only kidding when she sang, evidenced by the laugh that followed her rendition, but it sounded so unironically good that I had to question what other talents she possessed.

“Um, I was actually thinking more like Valerie, the martyred medieval saint, whose name stood for strength and health.” No sooner than the words spilled from my mouth did I recognize the freudian slip - the simultaneous coincidence and confession. The coincidence was that, now, with Maeve’s heart beating in her chest, she lived up to her name - she was newly strong and healthy. But I worried, she would see the correlation I drew between her name and her successful transplant and would realize that I knew more about her than I let on. Did I just give away too much?

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier. What was it?” Her casual dismissiveness of my previous statement did nothing to ease my worries. Was she beginning to piece everything together?

“Oh, right!” I said dumbly. “S-Spencer. I’m Spencer.” I was such a blubbering bundle of nerves that I actually reached out to shake her hand - a stranger’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Spencer,” She softly laughed, which was hopefully not out of the enjoyment of seeing me squirm. “What can I do for you?”

A loaded question, don’t you think? What can you do for me, Valerie? Well, for one thing, you could’ve answered my letter, but to say something as bold as that would require me to admit the real reason I was here, and how could I do that without mentioning how I found you in the first place?

“Um ...” Whose birthday is the soonest? “My friend Emily’s birthday is coming up and I was wondering if I could possibly buy a painting from you as a birthday present.”

There was the faintest perceptible skepticism in her expression, but that could’ve just been my paranoia talking because in the next breath, she didn’t suggest a proclivity to my deceit. “Yeah, of course! Do you know what her favorite medium is? Or her favorite artist? Or her favorite style of art?”

For every addition to the question, I wordlessly shook my head no. Was my lie already unraveling? Could she see right through me?

“No worries. If you want, you can walk around the gallery and tell me if you see anything you think she’d like.” She made her offer to me sweetly, then disappeared into the back room again. I tried to follow her with my eyes for as long as I could, but from where I was standing, I couldn’t see very far into it. I wandered a little further into the center of the gallery to possibly catch a glimpse of what was occupying her time back there, but when I heard the chattering of two voices, Valerie and the other woman, coming from the same general direction, I realized I was completely alone in this part of the studio.

With no one around to bear witness but these portraits, I could’ve easily slipped out and made my escape, and I might’ve even done it had it not been for the unmistakable gravitational pull forcing me to stay here and walk about the room.

Making my way throughout the gallery, I would pause every now and then when a painting would stand out to me, which was often, considering each picture was impressive.

But there was one painting in particular that piqued my interest. It made me feel something I’d never felt before.

It wasn’t special by any means. By rights, I shouldn’t have even noticed it, for it wasn’t the largest painting, nor the smallest one - it wasn’t even the most average painting. But it felt exceptionally ... Valerie. I had no doubt in my mind that she painted this one - in fact, I had a good bet that she painted most of these portraits, if not all of them - but this one. There was just something about it that I couldn’t put my finger on.

“So,” A draft was created from where Valerie swiftly and unexpectedly joined me at my side. “What do you think?”

“Um, there’s definitely something,” I struggled to find the word. “appealing about this one.” Almost as soon as the word came out of my mouth, I knew it was only a matter of time before she called out the inadequacy of my answer.

“Appealing?” She repeated in mockery. “That’s the best you got? Come on, you’ve been standing here for like ten minutes. There must be something about it you like.”

“I’m not sure.” I honestly admitted with a shrug.

“There’s no wrong answer.” She assured me, but I found that hard to believe.

“So if I said I see a grizzly bear attacking a UFO, that wouldn’t be wrong?”

“Nope,” She popped the p. “If that’s how you interpret it then that’s how you interpret it. Just because someone else sees it differently, doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” It would’ve sounded like complete bullshit or nauseatingly cheesy coming out of someone else’s mouth, but her delivery felt so genuine. It actually moved me.

As she said this, she turned her head in my direction to look up at me, causing her shoulder to brush my upper arm, sending a wave of goosebumps all over my body.

She was so close.

But I was so unbothered by her proximity that I didn’t even notice exactly how close she really was. If someone else had invaded my personal space like that, I would’ve moved in the opposite direction just on instinct, but I didn’t even think to do that with Valerie. I was so comfortable with her being there.

But was that just because a part of her was once Maeve’s? Was the entire foundation of my likening to Valerie built upon that single attribute?

Was that my bones?

“Um,” I began fidgeting with my hands to self-soothe. “I like it. I don’t know why. But I like it. How’s that for an answer?”

There was a pause before her response that compelled me to look at her, but when I did so, she was already looking at me. “I’ll take it,” She nodded. “It’s the biggest compliment to me if my art can make you feel something.”

Was it the art that made me feel something ... or you?

“I’ll tell you what,” She walked over to grab something from the front desk. She came back with a small piece of cardstock. “I’m going to an art exhibition next weekend. Why don’t you come with me and see if you can’t find something for Emily there?”

She handed me the paper, which was actually her business card. “You don’t have to have an answer for me today, but call me when you do.” She seemed to think that was the end of the conversation, but I still had more questions.

“You’re inviting me?” was the first question that came to mind, albeit the dumbest one.

“Yeah, you can be my plus one.”

I gulped to dislodge the lump in my throat. “Like-like your date?”

She furrowed her brows with mild confusion. “Um ... sure, if that’s what you wanna call it,” which was the last thing she said to me before vanishing within the back room again.

I peered back down at the card and tapped it gently on the palm on my hand as though to register its presence really being there.

For all intents and purposes, this card was meaningless. But to me, it was the formal consenting - nay, invitation - to reach out to her again. She was willingly extending this line of contact to me.

No more public library computers. No more files. No more ‘research.’ Just her number - a way to reach her without veering off my moral compass.

Despite this, I still had no clue whether or not I was going to accept her offer.

All that I did know was that I wanted to see her again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

PART 3 COMING SOON!

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ashenburst · 4 years

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Diffido

Fyogol angst! 4553 words. Something that happens to be largely liked by the audience, and honestly, for a story that’s almost a year old - this aged well.

This is probably the only BSD oneshot that I genuinely like as well, so I’m transferring it here. BSD is what originally got me into diving deep into fanfiction. It would be only right to share some of my works here. Anyway:

'tis but despair. Sickness unto death. The illness of the worst kind.

His will was strong, resolve unfaltering; his health, however, was not.

Blame it on the poor constitution, on the years of neglect, and the current numerous diseases his body was burdened with. Fyodor's state was horrendous, such that the doctors of the modern would certainly get cold feet from treating this ailing man. No matter his mental strength, he would soon crumble, ill, bed-ridden - maybe even dead.

What good is a brilliant brain left with no power supply? He was aware of his condition. This was a pending task, to have his health improved - but other assignments were due, and they were more important than his very life.

Numbers and codes, and the goddamned malfunctioning. Displayed on those low quality displays whose radiation marred his nerves. All of it tired him, yet all of it was essential to his plan - and he had to keep his focus unwavering, his gaze searching for any error or pop-up that might appear on screen. He had to make sure everything went smooth, thus fast. Time was little, and luck was none.

He was still in the race, although they believed to have long surpassed him - he was still there, he was on his feet. And as long as he could move, he would! He would without any doubt crawl his way back, and reach the goal. Others may had mocked him - no, others certainly were laughing at his failure and celebrating their delusional victory. The man in the back did not care. The goal was one, the goal was his purpose, and the goal was good.

However, he was betrayed. His senses slowly abandoned him, one by one - at first it were the eyes that couldn't focus. Curse them! The tiniest specks of his willpower were now redirected to that one problem - his dying sight. He could no longer see clearly, everything became a pleasant blur that he sinfully enjoyed - it invited him to close his eyes, take a moment of rest, ease his strained optical nerves...

But he couldn't! Even when his typing began to cause many mistakes in the codes, the bones of his fingers aching, he didn't want to rest. Even when the faint sense of balance abandoned him, when his head slowly fell closer to his shoulders - he did not, for even a moment, think of taking a rest, much needed rest.

He ignored his bodily cravings and continued the work, sloppily, in some slurred haste. He would soon pass out, he knew, and he intended to make good use of his consciousness while it was still present. He had to think to himself at one point: "Yes, yes! Look at me, those who try to stop me! Look at me! Fear me! Dedication booming, defying desperation. I would cause the envy of -"

And then the inspirational thought would get forever lost, reduced to naught. His concentration would bolt to some rampant mistake that occurred on screen, or simply - die off as well. Now, both his mind and body were screaming murder, ready to kill their owner and put him to sleep. He was somehow still up, but struggling, soon to succumb to these mortal forces.

So it came as no surprise that one blink later, evening became noon. And Fyodor was deeply disappointed.

Having been hit by that awful stench, he was quick to come back to his defective senses. The odor, evidently, originated from him - and although he was used to it, now, it began suffocating him. The dense air of the room was pressing him. There was little to no oxygen left.

He felt as if he was underwater. The restriction placed on his lungs caused his entire body to be perceived as mush by his nervous system. Then, the inability to move struck him as a sign to stay put. He had to gather faith before he'd once again make sense out of his surroundings. For he needed his mind to wake up first, before his body, as it was lulled by the inert predicament. It would take him more than mere devotion to get up, rather - an introverted, silly pep talk.

One would say he had fallen low, and one would certainly be right to some point, but so long this pathetic monologue remained unheard, nobody could deem him broken.

And it remained unheard, and it served its purpose.

The dim lights of the computers broke through his eyelashes, hurting his bloodshot eyes. More and more red lines filled in the white - no, the yellow of his optics. An unsightly sight indeed, such that it forced him to move his head around, and stare at something more pleasant, more... calming. He made sure to place the entire room under solid darkness. That was what blessed his sore eyes.

Yet, as some hair strands fell over his face, he once again was at trouble. Once again, he was reminded that he couldn't breathe. These hairs that tickled his nose with each exhale and inhale... tickled him - and as he took in a deep breath that would turn into a sigh, he reached a realization, more profound than any other.

He had to move. Some deep instinct told him to go out, or he'd die, right then and there. As if death herself took his breath away - he got alarmed, and at last, did something.

Legs wobbly, he stood up - a bad move, as he got dizzy and almost fell. He found some leverage on the table, his elbow almost hitting the burning desktop. And he groaned - the closest thing to a wail that could be heard from him.

Per se, overworking wasn't bad for this young man. He always had someone to take care of him, at least one servant to make sure he had his meals and some normal sleep. He couldn't take care of himself - as if he were handicapped of the ability, God knew why, let alone how. He was now at his lowest, mere moments away from blacking out. This "rest" he snatched did not help him one bit, and in his mind, in those colorful Russian curses, he cursed, for he wasn't productive for hours and did not gain anything from it. Why was the organism so difficult to please? He did not know, and he did not try.

So if sleep couldn't help, he'd have to do something else to bring his state back into... normal, so to speak. But what was it that he wanted, no, that it, his body wanted - he couldn't deduct. He closed his eyes, a long sigh making his aggravation audible, and he slid down to the floor. His arm, once on the table, now covered his face. He breathed into it, into the sleeve of his shirt - and the air there too was sickening, musky. It reeked of stale. Just like everything else in that cursed chamber.

What was he hoping for? This touch he bestowed himself with, what was the meaning of it? He'd laugh if it were actually funny, but - he was hoping to comfort himself.

He opened his eyes to be met with the same black. Comfort? All he needed was to get himself going, and the comfort would be found right there. The demands were clear - he had to get his body in shape, just for a bit, and get back to work.

He barely got back on his feet, the support once again found on the table. His head was held with his other hand. It did not quite throb this time, but he hissed nevertheless. Illness was all around him. The air itself - one great pestilence that poisoned his lungs, the darkness blinding his already awful vision, and the room, a trap, a trap from which he had to escape if he were to continue living.

Strangely, once he felt his forehead, he sensed his body temperature was alright - he believed he had a fever, but nothing was out of the ordinary. But the motion itself tired him, and he moved his hand away, interested to see if it would tremble. If he were to play doctor, then he might as well examine some other body parts. And as the sight was illuminated by the monitors, he gave himself a wry smile: his spread fingers, ah, the entirety of his hand was shaking, and he, as the patient, felt much pain.

A chuckle was what should have come out of his mouth, but his dry throat turned the sound mute. He did not know what was so amusing about this diagnosis, but so long it livened his soul, may he laugh, and may there be a hand to cover his smile, just like that very instant.

He delved deeper into movement, and began walking. Somehow he did not fall. The wall was there, but he tried to venture on his own, arms free by his side. He had always been independent. That word could easily define him.

Because, during work, the forming of ideals and ideas, he was be independent. During dismissing his well-being, he was independent. And even as he kicked some unfamiliar, heavy rubbish, he was independent. He would pride on that one trait of his more than any other.

The object he almost tripped over was some bottle he did not remember bringing in. He ducked, but oh, he was supposed to duck, he however ended up falling on his butt - and examined it. With his both weak arms, he brought the bottle closer - the liquid was transparent, apparently. He couldn't deduct what it was, as he was unable to focus on the kanji. The strokes began dancing right in front of his eyes. And he, he grew agitated.

He lifted the bottle just a little, comparing it against the light of the monitors. And he hoped that, what he laid his gaze on, was water, for he opened the bottle and drank all of its content.

The gamble was fruitful - this clean, pure water gave him life. Filling up his dry throat, then his empty belly, he found another strength to fuel him. Refreshed, with his mind a tad more explicit in thought, he was ready to venture forward.

Rags that covered the windows didn't offer much light to come in, but enough to reveal him his position, along with the position of the door. Next on the door, on the floor, laid his coat, and inside perhaps all of his current material worth. His phone, shut down, the keys of the apartment, and some money. That was what he remembered, at least.

He put on the heavy coat on his shoulders, the unfamiliar burden making his back arch just a bit. This only added more pain to his already hurt spine. The keys were taken by his trembling hand and used to open the door. And Fyodor was met with another dimension he had probably forgotten existed - the life outside this cavern of his.

It was the fresh air that tempted him to move out, forced him to step outside with much rush. He greeted it with a frown, shyly glancing around the hallway. He did not allow his excitement to be shown.

So as he walked, his steps long, calculated, and above all - slow, he thought of what to do, where to go, what to take - ordering food was out of question for sure, since he had to move himself. So why not connect the two, make it both sweet and profitable. He'd go sit down in a restaurant somewhere and order whatever. Something healthy for sure. A salad, perhaps? With a fruit smoothie. Proteins and vitamins combined. Yes, a great pick.

He then walked outside, and the Sun blinded him without holding back. He lifted his hand and winced at its harshness, his eyes rolling upwards to meet the blues and the whites. Could a simple stroll get that unpleasant? He hadn't even started yet, he hadn't even started yet...

He hadn't even started yet, and he was about to fall. A single gaze directed up was what caused him to feel uneasy, light-headed. His head followed the motion of his eyes, swinging backwards. Nothing was felt underneath his feet - the floor disappeared, no - he no longer felt his legs in entirety. He lost control, he was falling, he barely realized - and once he finally immersed himself in that fleeting moment, he was glad.

But his relief was interrupted, of course it was, as a pair of arms yanked him from behind. He let his body weight rely on them, as he closed his eyes, letting his consciousness drift far, far away... and he was, without any remorse, happy. The satisfaction of learning this one fact soothed him, the very fact he came to understand, through which he met himself better, and discovered, he was indeed no more than man. Name him a God, a Demon, or any eternal deity you may figure, but he remained a human being.

He was mortal, and he was weak. He couldn't bear the weight of the world on his sickly chest. He did not surrender to his responsibility, no - he decided this for his own sake, for once, he thought of himself. His grand heart turned selfish - he was no God to love eternally. What a preposterous realization! This fact, that emerged at the edge of his existence, this fact stated:

Fyodor gave up. Fyodor wanted to die. Fyodor wished nothing else but to abandon this horrid world.

"Dos?"

He smiled at the Sun, and the Sun smiled back.

Fyodor couldn't even fathom the scene he presented to Nikolai. He was far more than a sorry sight - to name him so would be an understatement of the worst kind.

If only he could peek into Nikolai's mind, he'd discover a shocking mess. Thoughts running about, rampant, unable to connect with each other. No sense could be made in such a fuss, yet Fyodor would know: he was the one to cause it.

And he loathed it, with the remnants of emotion that were left inside of him. He loathed to look up, and see and feel the rays on his face. He loathed that he wasn't alone, when death seemed to have taken him by his hand. Nobody was supposed to disturb his final waltz into oblivion!

Because, after experiencing attraction to suicide, in that one bleak moment, he got bored of it, and he knew, he would never again sense it that way. He was jealous of those who could keep this ideal going, for he, he would never belittle himself to worshiping death, and he would never be able to view life from that angle.

His thoughts could simulate it, but his emotions couldn't. He tried to grasp that sensation once again, his fingers twitching, barely moving - yet nothing reached them but still air. His smile did not abandon his lips, no - it seemed to curl up even more in self mockery.

The man in the blonde's arms was no more. The smile Nikolai was welcomed with was a sorry sight, and it brought even more sorrow unto Nikolai's heavy heart. This weight inside his chest forced his breathing to a halt - and as a choke captured the words of worry in his throat, he too, much like Fyodor, went mute due to problems with respiration.

Again, how ridiculous, but they were the same.

But unlike Fyodor, Nikolai could move, he still had life - and he was vigorous to use it for his friend's sake. Had he lost consciousness, he couldn't tell, but he knew he had to do something soon.

"Dos?" He once again called out, his voice broken with a single crack. And his dear friend responded with a faint nod, dreary gaze lost in something above, but most certainly not Nikolai. At that particular instant, the Sun seemed especially warm to Fyodor.

Nikolai brought Fyodor back to his feet, his arm wrapped around his friend. Truth be told, Fyodor could black out at any given moment - and he wouldn't be aware of it, he was sure that if he were to blink, the black would swallow him for hours. So long he was awake, Nikolai would help him, and he would be there to witness. Eventually he was carried back into that sullen apartment of his.

The blonde was appalled by the silence. Fyodor would usually acknowledge his presence in... a dull manner, yes, but at least he would be greeted properly. Now however, Nikolai knew, something awful had happened, for he had never seen Fyodor in this state before.

Hands nervously moving around, he opened the door, brought Fyodor into the stench of that darkness. He searched for a futon, for any kind of bed, but he found none. The apartment was a single room, and the room was comprised of three things: the desk with the laptops, the abused curtains, and some sickening stench.

"Why did you pick this place, out of all the hideouts we have..." Nikolai mumbled, disapproving of his friend's methods in vain. Fyodor responded with a sigh and a petite shrug, and the blonde rolled his eyes. He took off his jacket and threw it on the floor. "There, lay on that."

Fyodor didn't object. Nikolai was glad to see that happen, but along with that, he couldn't help but notice - the speed and direction of Fyodor's movements, they were abnormal, characteristic to that of a man under fever or any other severe pain.

It shouldn't have happened. Fyodor would never allow himself fall this low. Both of them were aware of the fact, yet the impossible happened, furthermore, devastated. Both of them had their own flux of emotions streaming through agonizing disbelief.

The weary man cradled himself. Ill vision did not aid him. He longed to look at his old friend, but his eyelids turned into lead, threatening to murk the scene before him. That which he had seen, appeared as an illusion - a young man whose coat danced along his firm movements. That was supposed to be Nikolai.

It could be, a disgusting film of exhaustion did not let him see better. But he heard clearly those mutters, vexed proclamations and horrified realizations, all directed to Fyodor, all concerning him. He was found guilty in front of Nikolai, and he for once felt remorse.

Now would be a good time to sync with his thoughts, and reveal his confusion at all to which happened. It was disbelief that was expressed so: some detached wandering through his memories and scarce connection with reality. The manner forced Fyodor into concluding that he was indeed in a process of sorts, and the more he tried to turn on his consciousness, the more he was horrified.

Physiological reactions followed. His heart contorted in grotesque he did not deem possible.

He would call it a farce and resort to reason to lull him back into apathy, but the present moment was far from farce. Not even once had his friend, the both sad and joyful jester, shown outright spleen.

"Do you have any idea what were you doing?! You literally look like a corpse, you -"

Yes, Fyodor knew, he knew he hadn't eaten for days, he knew he had only water in the apartment. He knew he certainly didn't leave the apartment. He knew he overworked himself. He did not know, but he felt, he pushed himself beyond boundaries. Fyodor let Nikolai number those assumptions, one by one, each and one of them followed by a harsh question.

Fyodor had no intention, nor energy to deny. There was nothing to go against, after all - Nikolai was right in every sense. He could only do him the honor of listening to his tirade.

All that Nikolai accused him was stained with despair, and this deep emotion did not go unnoticed by Fyodor. This Russian's mind worked on the lowest frequency possible, yet it was more than enough to pick out Nikolai's concealed wails.

Whenever the blond's voice would pitch a tad higher, Fyodor would twitch, and his crucial organ would bend and twist more in hopeless attempts of escape. It was far too beaten up, both physically and emotionally, to withstand any more blows.

And as if Nikolai knew, and as if he knew Fyodor's turmoil, he had to grab him by his shoulders, bringing his horrified expression right in front of Fyodor's, and he had to emphasize the one thing his friend did not understand:

"How could you do this to yourself?"

Fyodor was thoroughly arrogant, but strangely, he did not care about what happened to him. That was why his existence was reduced to saving the world, and that was why, when asked that question, he bothered not to respond in any other way than: "It had to be done."

A croak - he shouldn't have spoken up, for his throat itched, and the answer did not seem to satisfy his friend. Then Nikolai certainly shouldn't have asked:

"Do you know how much I care for you?"

Fyodor did however have a heart. Its content wasn't meant for anyone in particular, no - although Fyodor seemed to have lacked the responsible organ, it ticked its pulse for mankind only. It was a strange love, one could say, or a grand lack thereof, but he wasn't selfish, and his apathy was no ordinary.

If he was apathetic, he wouldn't care. If he was at peace with death, he wouldn't see the living. If he had no heart, he wouldn't feel it break. None of it would have happened if he didn't hurt Nikolai.

Yet it happened. He was falling apart from the inside, just like Nikolai was falling apart from the outside. Throughout this senseless torture, Fyodor finally felt alive.

"I do." Fyodor's lie came in form of a wheeze.

"You're lying! You have no shame, you really don't, do you? If only you knew how much you mattered! If only... if only you..." Nikolai fumbled his words rather clumsily. "If only you knew how much you mean to some people. If only you realized we're selfish and that we value some things more than humanity itself! If only you knew how much I care for you. Do you... do you not understand, Dos?"

One wipe later, and the glass was washed off his eyes.

"Your sacrifice isn't worth it."

"Worth what..?" Fyodor smirked in defiance. "I'm fine with losing myself for a better world."

"Well I'm not! I'm not!" Nikolai pounded the fact into Fyodor's blank face, although all of his hits probably missed the point - there was a possibility, terrifying but existent, that Fyodor's empathy wasn't meant for Nikolai.

"I thought we agreed on this... a long time ago," the man beneath began, "that we would be willing to die... for this cause."

"Yeah, yeah. But you don't get me, do you?" Nikolai shook his head. "No, you get me. You do. You just act oblivious." That, yes, and perhaps Fyodor didn't care for him, but the blonde did not wish to inquire. He did not wish to hear the answer.

A huff came, an angry huff, and nothing else. Fyodor surrendered.

Nikolai cupped his cheeks, fingers almost retracting from the dryness of the white skin. "You can't do this to yourself. You simply can't. There's another way. We'll go through this together, I promise. I promise we will."

"Does it matter..?" Fyodor started, soon to be cut off.

"It does! You can't do this alone. You can't expect to... build the organization from ashes on your own. That's too much, even for you."

"It..." He exhaled loudly as Nikolai's words sank in. "It is."

"There, you see? You made a mistake. But, but! Everything is going to be okay. I'm here now. I'll help you get better..."

Fyodor's relief manifested as a softened expression. Nikolai's thumbs caressed him, each and every movement like bliss. He was undeserving of this care, yet it came, yet it didn't abandon him. Fyodor had his very own angel to protect him! And he neglected him!

Who was selfish there, he wondered - he, for ignoring this pure love Nikolai offered him, or Nikolai, for loving a monstrosity Fyodor presented? He couldn't decide, but he knew one thing for sure. The both of them were clowns in this maddening folly, but they were together, and they would be together.

And Nikolai's apparition turned pleasant to Fyodor's bleak gaze; a comforting smile, that was indeed the right picture to fit the frame. A single sympathetic act, rustling his senses, bringing him the warmth of fondness - he did not know it, but he craved it.

The turmoil was gone! The Sun shone upon him, and if only he allowed himself bask in its light earlier, he wouldn't hurt this feeble heart before him, this indeed fragile soul that sacrificed its freedom for him. Fyodor would never ask for a better companion.

"Kolya," he dared whisper, furrowed eyebrows from the strain of his thoughts. Kolya listened, he listened carefully, only to hear, "thank you."

"You're welcome," he responded, moving away from Fyodor, who in turn closed his eyes. He had to take a rest, even for a couple of seconds, even that much. He had seen all he needed, after all.

"I'll go get you something tasty to eat. Something I know you'll like for sure," Nikolai informed Fyodor, then proceeded to open the window. Once he moved the curtains, a splash of dust filled the air around them, dancing around like ghosts of snowflakes.

Strangely, they pleased Fyodor. He looked upwards, and right in front of Nikolai, through the newly introduced sun rays, he discovered some better times. Be they of the past or the future, they did not belong the present, yet they brought him delight. In their background, stood his dearest friend, he too a bright scene.

"Until then, don't forget to breathe. Pretty please!" The man in the light then chimed, trying his best to amuse his friend on the floor. He succeeded, for he lured out a weak, however sincere smile.

"I'll get going... and, Dos, Dos, remember this!" Nikolai stood by the door, his cape fluttering around as he halted his movements. Fyodor peered at him with interest - now what else would he offer, besides this endless love he possessed ?

"I love you," Nikolai announced, hand on his heart as he bowed just a little. Ah, so it was nothing else but a public exclamation.

"I know. I love you too." They exchanged smiles before abandoning each other all over again.

The Sun had a cataract. Another day would soon bleed by, soon to leave a dry corpse. Its sockets gaped at the star, jaw wide open, hollow skull directed to the sky ever since the carcass laid down. It awed, mute, at the celestial wonders above. The Sun could only warm it, for its vision was faulty. It could not see the decaying meat it heated. Its eye was long diseased by the Earth where he died.

#fyogol #fyodor x nikolai #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #bsd fyodor #bsd fyodor dostoyevsky #bungou stray dogs #bungou gay dogs #nikolai gogol bsd #bsd nikolai gogol #bsd nikolai #bsd fanfic #bsd oneshot #angst #death #hah #omg i actually like my writing #nikolai x fyodor

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nautiscarader · 5 years

Text

Prompt for billythesquid: “Something with Yugo's Wakfu vision- either accidentally (or "accidentally") spying on Amalia when she's having some private time, or Amalia talking him into spying on some other couple while she lets her hands roam. “

Duet, Yumalia&Tristeva, E

(Ao3)

Amalia rolled on her bed in the inn, unable to sleep, occasionally letting out contemptuous grunts. On one hand, she was furious at Evangelyne, that she has the audacity to make love to her boyfriend knowing how thin the walls might be.

On the other, she was angry at her boyfriend, sleeping peacefully next to her, that he was too well behaved and so far did nothing to her, knowing how thin the walls are.

After another faint moan from the Cra, Amalia had enough. She woke her boyfriend up, and gently placed her hand at his chest when he sprung up, thinking something has happened.

- A-Amalia? - he babbled - Wh-What's going on? - Ssh, listen. - she smirked.

Yugo pricked up his ears, and listened closely. It didn't take long for him to hear what Amalia had on her mind, as Eva apparently was a screamer as well. Yugo turned his head, and, unsurprisingly, found a sly grin on Amalia's face, as she leaned closer.

- How about we do it as well, hm? - she whispered into his ear, gently licking his earlobe. - A-Ami... - Yugo breathed, eagerly reaching her lips. - But not the usual way, Yugo. I want to do it the way they do. - O-Okay, but how are Pinpin and Eva doing it? - You tell me. - she smiled.

It took a moment for Yugo to realise what his lover meant, and when he understood it, his face turned more crimson than ever before.

- No! - he spoke, trying to conceal his voice - Ami, I won't spy on them with my powers... - It won't be the first time you've done it Yugo... - Amalia whispered, her low voice making all of his hair stand up - Remember when you watched me, under that waterfall...? - That-That was an accident! - Sure it was... - Amalia chuckled - But what if I tell you I will do to you whatever Eva is doing right now to Pinpin... hm? - she cut off her boyfriend with a hand already on his cock - We know she has way too many soft spots for Tristepin and is sometimes so, so submissive...

She gave him another kiss, her alluring, lecherous voice putting goosebumps on Yugo's skin. He swallowed loudly, and as Amalia kept producing more and more arguments for her plan inside his shorts, Yugo agreed. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the life energy around him.

Almost at once he was drawn to their friends on the opposite site of the seemingly sturdy, wooden wall: Evangelyne was bouncing on Tristepin's cock, arching her body as her boyfriend slammed her onto his massive length again and again. Thinking no one could see them, Eva's face looked nothing like the usually serious and stoic self: her tongue was stuck out, eyes rolled to the top of her head, and she was babbling the lewdest phrases Yugo every heard from her.

- Yes, Pinpin, destroy my cunt, please...

Amalia looked at her boyfriend, as a grimace of consternation drew on his face. She was about to ask him what their friends were doing, but then, he grabbed her by her waist, and before she could do anything, she found herself on top of him, her legs stretched and him already inside her. Though his eyes were still closed, Yugo could see Amalia, as well as his friends at the same time, and he tried his might to mimic Tristepin's frantic bucking. Amalia might not have been exactly prepared for Yugo diving balls deep into her, and especially not when he grabbed her arms and waist, effectively turning her into a puppet on his mercy, but that only brought more fun. She let out a yelp, and though Yugo filled her with his objectively smaller cock, her voice was getting as loud as Eva's.

- Talk... talk dirty... - Wh-What? - Amalia asked, her voice distorted by Yugo impaling her on top of him. - Talk dirty... to me... - Yugo grunted, trying to contain desire to scream himself

Amalia found his command oddly arousing. She smirked, and fuelled by the pleasure he was delivering her, started mimicking her friend.

- Yugo... my king, please fuck me... Please, I am mere princess in... in need of your cock!

She cried when he slammed even deeper into her, bringing his hips into action as ell, and she threw her head behind, as the familiar yearning between her legs started radiating around her body.

- Yes, please, Yugo! Wreck me, I'll do anything for your cock!

The world around her started spinning and at first, Amalia thought she has hit her orgasm already, but then her face met with her pillow, when Yugo changed their position in a split of a second, shoving her against the bed.

- Y-Yugo? What's going on? - You asked yourself... everything they do, right? - Yugo spoke, and a faint smirk appeared on his face.

Before Amalia could protest, she felt Yugo's cock invade her ass, splitting her less favourite hole seemingly in two. She screamed into the pillow, just like Eva on the other side, though only Yugo was able to see how similar, and yet odd the girls reacted to anal experience. Evangelyne evidently must really enjoyed it, squirming and writhing as Tristepin rammed himself in her asshole. Amalia, though has done it with Yugo before, always found it a bit unfit for her, though she nonetheless enjoyed Yugo's rough treatment she was receiving.

- You're... You're mine, Ami. - Yugo grunted, mimicking Tristepin's words, his words mingling with Amalia's cries she let out every time he hilted himself in her. - I'm the luckiest guy in the world of twelve to have you every night... - You... You certainly are... - Amalia gasped, imagining Eva listening to those words. - Do you want me to call you a "noble warrior"? - Uh, actually, Eva... uh, she called Pinpin "daddy". - Yugo explained through his grunts, his face turning crimson. - Well, then... keep... keep it up, daddy! - Amalia cried out when she felt her body shaking with first signs of her oncoming climax. - Yugo, I'm-I'm close! - So are they!

The two women, only partially aware of each other's actions, climaxed around the same moment, their body twisting and quaking as much as they could with their boyfriends' strong grip on them. Amalia cried Yugo's name, as her mind went temporarily blank from pleasure. Unable to move, she could only unleash her orgasm through her voice, and she did not feel ashamed one bit.

Once again she felt the room around her spinning; she was rolled to her back, and saw Yugo's tired, but content face, towering above her and then leaning towards hers. She closed her eyes and puckered up her lips for a kiss, but instead, a sudden splash of warm, gooey liquid broke her moment of bliss at once.

- Yhugo! Whath the hehll? - she cried through a mouthful of his cum, and sat up coughing just as Yugo stopped coating her face with his seed.

Even underneath the thick layer of his make-up, Yugo could see the unmistakable grimace of anger, giving him only a few seconds to think about an escape plan.

- Uh, you know, Pinpin a-actually did ass-to-mouth, so I think this is, uh, a bit, uh, b-better? - Yugo stuttered, wondering if he should also tell that Tristepin's cock was still climaxing inside Eva's mouth, despite lasting for a solid minute already.

But it seemed that all arguments would have been futile anyway, since a moment later, the door to their room opened, and Amalia threw her half-naked boyfriend to the corridor. She came back to her bed, cleaning Yugo's spunk from her face beforehand. The worst thing was, she couldn't even get angry at Eva for her unwittingly sharing her kinks without revealing what she and Yugo have done. She was about to go to sleep when a very familiar voice spoke "Round 3, baby!", and Amalia put her pillow around her ears when she heard her friends resumed their love-making in the exact, unabashed manner as before.

#yumalia #tristeva #wakfu #nautisca #lemon

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literateape · 7 years

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The Jason Chin Model For Socio-Political Revolution

By Peter Kremidas

If you knew him, and a lot of people did, ahead of time fair warning; This isn’t a story about Jason Chin specifically, nor is it some elucidation of a complex political model he once explained to me. He’s a guy I and a lot of people remember fondly, and he’s an important part of the story, but I don’t want you to feel baited and switched as if this essay’s title was the trailer for ‘Across The Universe’. Great trailer, by the way. Trailer. Among the stories I could have told to illustrate the same point, I chose this one because A.) I’ve never told it before, and B.) I think his part in it is illustrative of one of the really important and cool things about him. C.) I think he would have liked it. He’s a small character in a larger but still itself small story. If you indulge me with your patience I think you’ll see that there is a point to that.

So. Let’s start with getting the specificity of our scene out.

It was New Year’s Eve ‘07 to ‘08. I was at a party at the home of two friends who now in '17 have had paths uncrossed with mine for quite some time which, as you probably already know, is part of having friends while also existing in linear time. Long term and short term friends, fondness for, in my experience, never being the quality of distinction between them.

A classic rock playlist of a at-least-every-third-song-is-a-sing-along quality played loud enough to be heard while still loudly talked over. My excitement to be there was a battle of my heart’s want to just sit in the quiet part of the house and listen to and smile with my friends versus my young obsessive comedian’s brain’s need to be seen and laughed at by the hilarious and popular people I admired in the Chicago improv/comedy scene who were all there. I could feel the gestalt of those two sides forming into an as of now low hum of vague spazy nervousness manifesting as quick shallow breathing, clenched jaw, and acute awareness of how uncool I probably looked. I was too young at the time to recognize it, much less understand why it was there, and much much less that it was anxiety of the pathological sort.

I started drinking heavily.

Adding fuel to the gasoline to the mental health fire that was growing there anyway, I had had a recent breakup with someone who I had fallen way too hard in love with while she was barely slightly attached to me. Which is, of course, completely fine but needs to be pointed out as completely fine for those among my damaged theatre boy brethren who would read that and seethe against her heart’s wants as if they were the audacity of an entitled bitch. I know you, damaged theatre boy, I was you once and you are the problem.

Truth is that she was, and remains, in strong and well deserved possession of the adjectives strong, intelligent, creative, deservingly successful, kind, beautiful, funny, and several more, most of them synonyms for what is already written here. She was and is still a stand out in the world. However, amongst the directory of my exes she stands indistinct as just one of the many who has had put up with my ridiculous bullshit. The most recent example at the time of this new year’s eve; in a moment of weakness, the truth how I felt had come out of me, she felt weird about me having such strong feelings, I was hurt and angry and boy that was duly expressed, and that sure didn't make her feel any better and, in point of fact, worse. And that was that.

Side but relevant note: The pathologies of anxiousness and depression tend to drive their human hosts romantically to other hosts of the same. This is how the sad babies who become sad adults are born, along with some truly great music. In the rare instance where a host finds a healthy (See: <quotations present to denote “so called”. Not because they [the healthy] actually aren’t, but because at this point I don’t think I know what that word means but this seems like right word to use here? [Question mark to denote my voice raising with uncertainty at the end of that sentence as if it was a question even thought it is not.]> “cool”.) person, the sense of inferiority grows from palpable to literally tactile as progressively deeper fingernail indentations grow in the palms because hiding being an impostor gets harder and tooth-crackingly harder as someone that you are not good enough for and never will be continues to, for some deluded fucking reason, be kind to you.

Back in the past, at just a hair over two hours until 2008, obsessive comedian brain was in that moment winning out. I stood on the cusp of being sloshed while talking to two local funny dudes parked near the basement keg. They were holding cups both of which were boozeless as they had recently decided to become sober in the permanent sense. One of them had gotten divorced that year. We were laughing about how shitty and difficult life gets sometimes and landing on variants of “But hey, what’re ya gonna do? Fuck it I’m still here, ain’t I?!” Swapping stories the way little boys take turns doing devastating belly flops off the high dive and laugh their asses off at each other. You know, the way grown men do. There were back slaps involved.

Jaw tensity loosened, breathing into my belly, un-self-conscious, my buzz firmly getting on, I was having a good time. When then, of course, predictably only to hindsight and you dear reader, my recent break up descended the stairs into the basement with graceful head up posture she never had to try at, with just a little bit of charming clumsiness from step to step supported on each slight wobble arm in arm with her new beau, who she was apparently very much in love with, which I knew because I had asked. Of course. He also happened to be one of those aforementioned hilarious and popular people that I admired. Good looking too. Of course. She was dressed in a hipster's semi-formal oh-this-I-totally-woke-up-in-this dress that cut barely below the clavicle. She looked savvy. Coolly modest. An outfit that showed itself off rather than her with the exception of the absent back that revealed her tattoo that ran like liquid ivy clinging to her trapezius muscles down to a soft resting point at the little swoop of spine between her kidneys.

God damn did I ever think she was cool.

My insecurity, never missing a beat, reminded me that upon ending the relationship she had told me she needed someone stronger and was uncomfortable feeling like the man in the relationship. I forgot to mention the adjective ‘honest’. She’s that too. If that sounds harsh don’t blame her. I asked. Of course.

While the break up was a fairly recent development, my terrible handling of rejection was not. At all. Mid hearty guffaw at my perseverance and misfortune, my perseverance took a sharp never-saw-it-coming kick and shriveled up into my stomach cavity. Having been so suddenly abandoned by its friend, poor misfortune now found itself all alone with nothing to press up against to juice laughter out with. In a descending pitch from high to low, half a final ‘hah’ fell out of my mouth me like a cigar from the military general who just realized the world's first alien invasion is both unwinnable and the last. I swallowed the other half, going silent just as quickly as all forty three muscles in my face just gave up and my jaw went slack as I whispered ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me’ from the back of my throat where I was now hiding.

I didn't know she was going to be there.

Alcohol is an emotional credit card. And like credit cards I can’t think of many things more human than solving a problem just to create new ones. Consider the car, which I then proceeded to render operation thereof at minimum inadvisable for the next seventy-two to ninety-six hours along with any other heavy machinery I might come across as I started to drinking heavily made heavier by drinking in that too much too fast way you do because you're nervous and don't know what to do with your hands. Say what you will about the problems drinking creates, it does solve other more immediate ones first.

I don’t remember the rest of the party that well. The drinking didn’t help, but the real reason I don’t remember it well is because I wasn’t really there. instead I was firmly ensconced inside of my own (and only, which I sometimes find unfortunate) head where I was mistaking hiding for safety and safety for comfort and comfort for where happiness probably was. My body reduced to a mere transportation device for my brain. Of course at the time I had no idea I was making that series of mistakes.

I do remember at some point later I accidentally made eye contact with her and then starting acting (likely forcibly) surprised to see her like oh my gosh I had no idea. I must have said something stupid. Of course. Because I also remember her grabbing the new better guy’s elbow and speaking to him with her breath above her as she led him to the next room. He looked back, and ah shit I was looking at him and he saw it. In a brilliant move of spycraft I made my eyes do an instant dart away and I pretended to have been admiring the lamp.

I remember how I felt. Pressure kept growing as I passed by friends and acquaintances, comedy scene people that I just wanted so badly to like me. Forcing myself to talk to them. Anxiety making my mouth desiccated and paralyzed, me hating both everything forced out of it and myself for cowardly saying so little, anxiety being the nothing is ever good enough cunt that it is.

It makes you hyper aware, anxiety. It’s a spotlight pointed inwards cruelly scrutinizing every little detail, picking up on each little thought and action. Every movement. It grabs you by the back of your neck with one hand while it batters your face wet and broken with stone after stone of rock solid evidence of your constant failures with the other. It makes air tight cases for why and exactly how you will never be good enough. And it’s done with such passion, sometimes almost a sense of urgency. With calculation. And in your lowest moments it's done with a dark humor that you are on the far butt end of.

There have been times when I have tried to force the spotlight completely around so it goes through through my eyes instead. Maybe to utilize its intensity and intelligence towards positive ends, but the closest I could get out of my own head was awareness of a post nasal slide of excess mucus.

I remember at some point I was outside in the back, around the corner of the house where the smokers couldn’t see me. My friend the host was with me while I stupidly humiliatingly was doing the snotty hiccup cries. She comforted me, got me a tissue, said she was so sorry. She said would not have let this person come had she known. I said that wouldn’t be fair, but I knew what she really meant was that she cares, which helped. She's also a small character in this story. There's always more than you think.

She brought me inside to hang out where my aforementioned better desires of the heart were. In a smaller, quieter room. Upstairs. With friends. Every house party's late night close friend VIP area. After some time in company with the wine, the laughs, and of course alcohol’s booster buddy marijuana, I eventually started calming again. And after about three minutes of feeling better I was oh so sure that I didn’t just feel better, but that by jove now I was better. And stronger. My lesson permanently learned and immunity to fleeting emotional volatility granted. Falling for it. Of course. This is among the cleverest and oldest tricks of of self sabotage in depression’s book of spells.

While anxiety lives in the same neighborhood as depression they are never at the same place at the same time. Anxiety has too much energy to coexist with depression’s lethargic anhedonia. But they are teammates. Anxiety with all it’s punches big and small enervating you over time until you are knocked down. Depression then convincing you to stay horizontal so that nothing will ever knock you down again. Then they both high five and gloat. Don’t ask what you did to deserve this, they will tell you.

I remember being in the kitchen, close to midnight. I don’t remember how I got there, though I remember drunkenly trying to look like I knew why I was. As if I was a man with a confident purpose. I remember looking out the window over the sink and catching eye contact with myself in the reflection that darkness creates when you can't see outside.

So I have this weird thing where sometimes I will make faces I’m unaware I’m making. It’s usually because I’m really engaged in a conversation or scenario or something else that must be really important going on in my skull. This is apparently hilarious when I watch commercials. I’ve had multiple friends tell me they have secretly been laughing watching me watch commercials. They say I cock my head and look suspiciously at some commercials or nod approvingly at others, like I seem to be giving this unreasonable amount of expressive consideration to each one. As if I’m seeing commercials for the first time. In high school while walking the halls I was constantly told I looked lost. The running joke became to shout, slowly so I could understand it, "Your name is Peter Kremidas! You are at Carmel High School! It is third period!" And other pieces of hilariously obvious info. I don’t do these things so much anymore because while I totally get that it’s funny (it really is) I feel exposed when it’s pointed out.

So when I looked in (not out) the window I surprised myself when I saw that I looked just so...sad. Surprised both because I had been expending a lot of mental energy trying to keep that sad face hidden in my solar plexus where it belonged and also because I had expended so much of that energy that I had convinced myself that I actually was fine.

Laughter. My first instinct is that it must be about me. That I had been I had been seen doing something I wasn't aware I was doing again while starring out the window like a doof. Swift turn of the head and of course it was just two people were just having their own conversation. “Of course. Idiot. You think everything is about you.” I didn’t argue back.

I heard the cheering and sushes from two rooms away that always precedes the countdown. The only time annually I hear a command to silence just so we can then get immediately louder except together and in the right way. I ambled out of the kitchen to one room over, too crowded to get two rooms over, working hard to maintain a strong neutral face and upright stance. I was on the back wall by a bookshelf. I picked up a book and pretended to examine it, hoping nobody could see me while also wishing somebody would talk to me. The book was a series of poems or something. I think. I might have turned to Hawthorne’s 'Test of a Man' and had it fly right over my head just before realizing oh shit I’m at a crowded party reading fucking poetry put it back put it back put it back.

While I was distracted the countdown had started and was now at seven. I looked around. Keep your face normal, you’re fine. Five. Smile, damn it, smile. Don’t make this negative for other people too. They’re having fun. Keep it in. Two. I’m breathing very heavily. The room was so crowded that even with cracked windows in the Chicago winter it was hot. The air was heavy with the hot moisture of the all the breath coming from so many red heat and alcohol flushed faces with twice as many crinkled sentimental eyes all packed in and leaning into one another. People were hugging and cheering and I realized the countdown had finished a couple seconds ago and I was late to it. Arms around shoulders. Hugs. Meaningful cliches being slurred that are only cliches because we haven’t yet found better ways to express ‘I love you’ than the words and tones we typically employ on new year’s or during goodbyes after weddings. I'm surrounded with warmth and all the best promises of the theme song to ‘Cheers’ fulfilled.

And I felt

incredibly

alone.

....

I had a panic attack.

Its intensity was exacerbated by being the first one I had ever experienced and it was by far the worst of the only two I’ve had in my life.

I focused on taking deep breaths. They came out as gulps. I could feel tears coming in hot and then focused all my energy on not letting tears come up. I fought against that looming humiliation of being exposed as not actually such a funny confident guy after all. That I'm actually soft. I had to get out It was too crowded I couldn't move I was stuck planted where I was standing looked up at the ceiling because maybe gravity could help hold tears back just like a nosebleed god that's desperate hide my face hide my face they're all facing the other direction don't turn around think of something else you idiot your desperate childish need for positive attention caused this they're going to see you they're going to see you can't handle yourself they'll tell everybody they'll all know you're an emotional wreck nobody will want to be near you plus you come across as aloof to people you know that when you try to appear strong it makes you talk down to people you idiot you asshole you headcase this is why people hate you this is why nobody will ever love you this is why you will never be happy or successful or

“Hey, Peter.”

Jason Chin. He died a few years back. He was a long time Chicago improviser, teacher, coach, mentor, and friend of many. He put up a lot of cool shows. He had a great critical eye, wonderful and sharp as hell sense of humor. He was intelligent enough to be the best type of curmudgeon, as in not the shitty given up on life vindictive type. The kind that maybe had some idealism and hopes beat up a bit, but in the presence of a sense of humor that kept him smirking despite it. The type of dude who would see something dumb and snort a laugh at it not out of mockery but because he really truly gave a shit. That was my impression of him anyway, we weren’t terribly close. But I knew him. I liked him. I think I might have annoyed him more than a few times with all the ways I was young and dumb. And here he was, the only person turned around facing my direction, me pressed against the bookcase at the back wall of the room. He was holding his hand out to me.

“Happy new year.”

On auto-pilot I shook his hand and forced a smile. “Thanks, Jason. You too.”

He looked at me in the eye a little while longer than people usually do. He held a firm grasp on my hand. Maintaining eye contact he gave a nod with a simultaneous single assertive shake of the hand, his mouth in a firm line and the skin under his eyes pushed up giving a strong focus to them. It felt like “you got this”.

And for a moment and a little while after I didn’t feel so isolated.

I found the little oomph of strength to walk through a crowd and didn’t stay much longer. I remember glancing at the clock and it being eeking up to 12:10 as I walked out. I said as few goodbyes as possible. I kept the brim of my hat over my eyes on the bus and train home to hide my eyes from strangers. I was crying. To this day I haven’t been to a new year’s eve party since. I have, with the exception of the latest new year’s eve, always found a place to do improv instead.

I never spoke to Jason about that moment in any of the subsequent years I saw him. I still think about it sometimes. And it strikes me now, almost a decade later, as a good example for a model of politics and life.

I have been thinking lately that the best way to change the world is to just take care of yourself and people around you in a positive way. Break down any issue you care about and it always comes down to easing human suffering. I think the best that can be expected or asked of us is to simply make things easier for other people in our smaller personal worlds where and when we can. The way the ills of the world are presented to us make them seem invincible. I think people disengage and avoid the news and politics partly because it’s all so much bigger than us and the feeling of powerlessness is just so crippling. It's like being given a fishing pole and being told to plant your feet, dig in, and stop the rotation of the Earth with it. Do this, and keep in mind that the happiness survival of every single person’s world including those not yet born is at stake.

I think it’s all too much to ask any one person to feel responsible for. So let’s all just worry about ourselves and the relative few people around us. Stay informed, vote, be kind, and do the right thing in your little one eight-billionth of a world that we’re all sharing with you. The cumulative effect of enough people living in that mode is world changing, policy and personally wise, but not in a way that anybody feels like they’re bearing the weight for. You are powerful enough to do something so meaningful for even just a single person, every day. It turns out what you do matters. And it’s even easy. We collectively have the power to have any world we want, but I don’t think our simple nomadic mammalian brains are equipped to handle planetary scale stakes. What I’m saying is simplify.

The world is actually at present already better than we think it is, but the information we are given to digest about it is almost only ever grand scale horrible due to the things incentivized by national media such as how human eyes are so easy led by what’s just bled. It’s all terrible and we’re all powerless. This is a newer development in terms of the entirety of human history. It’s basically only since the telegraph that we’ve gone from predominantly and immediately local news we have influence over to national news we have relative little power over as individuals.

But it's also what is disincentivized to hear of, and even before the telegraph has mostly gone unnoticed. The little goodnesses. There’s no incentive to report on the millions of times every day somebody says ‘no you go first’ or ‘you dropped this’. Or smiles. I don’t think the road to a better world is a series of grand gestures. I think it’s in the billions of small and simple kindnesses.

Like giving a knowing reassuring handshake to a person who needs it.

Be a small part of someone’s larger but still small story.

#Jason R. Chin #improvisers #New Year's Eve #depression #breakups

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