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shachaai · 6 months

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WIP Wednesday with a twist!

Tell me your 5 favorite lines that you have written

I. Couldn't pick lines. So chunks? And more than five... orz

The Lindworm's Lullaby

“Tell me about your little one,” says Lecter anyway, and Will sighs. If the good doctor is so determined… “Lenore,” says Will. She whom the angels call - as she fusses back. “Lenore Graham. She’s six months old, and looks like the cross between a princess, a pixie, and a dumpling. I had her in March.”

Commencer par La Faim

Beverly falls in step with him, leaving the rest of the food in her bag. “I know, right? Good thing too - the morgue’s all corpses and fungi at the moment, which has pretty much put us all off everything Italian until at least next week, so we’re all temporarily embracing anti-mushroom pescetarianism.” Swallowing, Will squints at his burrito. Black beans. Seasoned rice. Cheese. Onions. Shredded lettuce. Sauce. “This doesn’t contain any fish though?” “Yeah, Jimmy’s been squeamish about the cafeteria seafood ever since a tuna sandwich from there gave him the runs.” Fair enough: Will usually doesn’t touch the fish options in the cafeteria either, although his avoidance is based on the fact he has plenty of - fresher - fish at home that he had caught himself. But if the cafeteria food made Jimmy ill… “You’re really not convincing me I shouldn’t’ve bought my own lunch.” “Too late, you started eating the bribe,” Beverly says ruthlessly, and snorts when Will only sighs pointedly down at his burrito. It’s ruined now. Sort of. Food is food, but now it’s food associated with Jimmy Price’s diarrhoea. “Oh, shut up and eat your fibre.”

---

“There are more species of fungi, bacteria and protozoa in a single scoop of soil than there are species of plants and vertebrate animals in the whole of North America. And yet, animals are more closely related to fungi than any other kingdom - more than 600 million years ago we shared a common ancestry. The branch of fungi that eventually led to animals evolved to capture nutrients by surrounding their food with cellular sacs: essentially primitive stomachs.” “We had stomachs before we had souls.” Abigail’s gentians have been shifted to the windowsill, the older bouquet moved to give way to the new. Will reaches out thoughtlessly, brushing light fingertips over bruised, tired petals. “Says something.” “Hunger is and always has been a primary drive throughout nature.” “And maybe fungi developed a more... efficient means of dealing with it than we have as a species.” Will catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over - Lecter, coming over to join Will at the window, step by openly curious step. “You said it yourself: fungi predates us, and it’ll probably survive us as well, devouring that which kills us and feeding that which forgets us.” “Rising from the rot,” Lecter muses, “consumed by that which will also one day rot.” “An ancient cycle of growth and decay,” Will says, and drops his eyes to the other man’s collar when Lecter looks at him directly. [...] “Fungi are the grand recyclers of our planet,” Lecter says, hands tucked almost casually into his trouser pockets like he’d pry open Will’s skull with his nails if his hands aren’t otherwise occupied, “the interface organisms between life and death.” Transgressive in Will’s mind’s eye, three bodies intertwined in the greater body of the woods, neither fully flesh nor fungi. He frowns, and Lecter takes it as prompt to go on. “Mushrooms, as you asked about them, are merely the visible above-ground protrusions of sometimes vast underground networks of mycelium. They’re quite remarkable: mycelial nets have been shown to share the same architecture as that of astrocytic brain cells, both networks creating neurological pathways for distributing information as efficiently as possible.” Will parses that. And then drops his hand from the gentians. “...Mushrooms are sentient.” “Mycelial networks are arguably sentient. Of which mushrooms are a minuscule but visible part.” Lecter’s voice turns thoughtful. “An intricate web of connections.”

---

Lecter manages to condense so much judgemental distaste for the peanut butter cup melting onto Will’s lips in one look, he might as well package up the solid product and sell it as a flavour of its own. Will very pointedly shoves the rest of the candy into the hollow of his cheek before acknowledging the other man. “Dr. Lecter.” “Is that your lunch?” asks Lecter, continuing to radiate the disapproval of genteel schoolmarms everywhere: don't talk with your mouth full. “I have three more in my bag,” says Will, who had been planning to supplement the peanut butter cups with a hot sandwich from the cafeteria but now feels almost committed to seeing if he can survive the rest of the working day fuelled only with coffee, filched Halloween candy, and spite. “Along with two giant sour gummy worms and a packet of candy corn.” “Truly,” Lecter says dryly, “a balanced meal.”

---

Price sets down his fork to carefully unwrap the poor thing. The doughnut isn’t terrible appetising after the many hands it has passed through to arrive in Price’s; it’s been battered and half-flattened by careless fingers and thumbs, and a great deal of the neon orange frosting that had been decorating the top of it has now stuck to the purple tissue that should have protected it. “You don’t want it?” Price asks - somehow without the slightest trace of sarcasm. Will grimaces. “Alpha-gift,” he explains. “Ahhh,” says Price with all the sympathetic understanding of a fellow omega, and then immediately tears off a chunk of the doughnut to pop into his mouth. Guilt-free. “Who’s the unlucky suitor?” “Professor Ericson -” “And you’ve given it away?” Beverly announces herself by slamming her lunch tray down beside Will’s mostly-forgotten baked potato, looking down at Will semi-reproachfully. Of course she knows Will’s feelings about Ericson, but she can’t help the little instinctive flash of hurt she must feel as an alpha watching an omega discard their gift. “He’ll’ve put his feelings in that.” “I wasn’t encouraging him by eating it,” Will tells her, and Beverly huffs at him as she sits down. “You hear that?” Zeller asks Price, hot on Beverly’s heels. (Will idly wonders what must’ve held them up in the lunch queue.) “You’re eating a man’s feelings.” Price, already halfway through the doughnut, doesn’t look at all bothered. “You want some?” Zeller puts his tray down beside Price’s and tears off a piece of the doughnut to chew himself. “...His feelings taste like artificial colours and preservatives.”

---

“You look put-out, doctor,” Will teases him, touching his fingers to the crease of Hannibal’s elbow for a moment to guide Hannibal around a fallen log as they turn back towards the house. “Did you get something nasty on your shiny boots?” “Strangely enough, I do not recall a warning about there being something nasty out here to step in,” Hannibal sallies back, taking the opportunity to step closer to Will and push Winston out just in front of the two of them. The dog gives him a dirty look, but Hannibal ignores him and turns his next question to a murmur close by the shell of Will’s ear. “Was I led out here under false pretences?” Will, delightfully, shivers, and tries to mask it by lifting his hand to that same ear, leaning away from Hannibal to tuck his hair back behind it. “I would think someone who is at least reasonably intelligent should already know that woods, in general, tend to contain many nasty things, and so, when planning to go for a trek in them, should be prepared accordingly.” “Putting aside the implicit remark about my reasonable intelligence -” Hannibal says, smiling when Will begins to laugh beside him, “I would remind you that physical, mental, and emotional preparedness are all separate considerations. An individual may be fully prepared in advance for anything the elements may physically throw at him, but only understand the full mental and emotional ramifications after the fact.” The white fangs of Will’s grin flash in the dark. “You need to be prepared emotionally to get coyote shit on your boots?” “If I were actually attached to this pair, I might never recover.”

---

Cold, creamy blue sludge slides against Hannibal’s tongue, heavy with cheap syrup, processed sprinkles and cream. Lemon-raspberry-marshmallow sweet and tart. “...It tastes like the Lucky Charms leprechaun just died in my mouth.” Abigail chokes whilst swallowing her milkshake.

---

“No rest for the wicked,” Price sighs as yet another grim-faced technician trundles down the Pagoda stairs and past them to convene outside, and God, if that isn’t the motto of the day. “But better this weekend than next, I suppose. I’ve got a two-day meet-up with the family.” Zeller eyes him dubiously. “You think the Chesapeake Ripper wants to keep his schedule free for the Black Friday sales?” “If it’s the Ripper,” says Will. [...] “It’s the Ripper,” Zeller insists, just as Price chimes in with: “What, you don’t think serial killers like discounts? Who doesn’t like a bargain?”

---

“Speechless as well as breathless,” Will says with a frown. His mouth still tastes sour from vomit, even after sipping some water and grabbing some mints from the nearest vending machine. “But the heart is unaffected?” “Wholly intact and in place,” says Zeller. “Seems like the Ripper doesn’t go for love.” “Struck, but not in the heart. Huh.” Price ponders for a moment. “Maybe it’s just a puppy crush?” Will’s frown deepens. “If the Ripper wanted to show us he had a crush, he’d’ve literally filled this man’s stomach with butterflies. No, this is a more ardent declaration than that.” “You’re a picky date, Graham,” Beverly says with a sigh. “Psychopaths aren’t renowned for their emotional intelligence. Maybe this is a case of delayed realisation.” “Maybe the Ripper’s aromantic,” Price says, and shrugs when the rest of them turn to look at him. “I’m just putting it out there.” [...] Beverly tilts her head. “Really don’t think the general ace community would appreciate adding the Chesapeake Ripper to their ranks, but I’m not sure if that idea is better or worse than picturing the Ripper as a lovelorn dumbass with issues of romantic self-understanding.” “I, for one, am deeply comforted by the thought that the Chesapeake Ripper’s love-life sucks more than mine,” says Zeller. “Not trying to woo people with corpses probably helps,” Price chips in. Will moves away from the body. “In some cultures and during some periods of history, it was a perfectly valid - and encouraged - courting technique. What’s a better trophy than the body of your vanquished opponent?” “Can’t say a corpse would win my approval,” Price sniffs. “What’s wrong with a bottle of tequila and a few tubs of Ben & Jerrys?” “Half Baked?” Zeller asks. “Phish Food, please.”

---

Hannibal - surprisingly - helps, sitting in a chair at Will’s side and folding Will’s hand closest to him between both of his own. His thumb running soothingly back and forth over the slight swell of Will’s scent gland. “You’d be surprised at the sheer range of items I was called upon to remove from the rectal passages of patients in my days as a surgeon.” Will’s head thumps back hard onto the bed behind him, and he turns his incredulous eyes on Hannibal. “Cucumbers were quite a popular choice,” Hannibal blithely continues, completely ignoring Will’s nails digging pointedly into the back of his hand, “but the top 10 list of rectal foreign bodies I was called upon to remove, outside of broken sexual aids, also included shampoo bottles, bottles of alcohol, carved root vegetables, beaded necklaces and barbie dolls.” “We had a gentleman in here not too long back who’d shoved three baseballs up there,” Dominic says, casual as he pleases. (This is what Will gets for actually introducing Hannibal as ‘the father’ for this ultrasound rather than just ‘the support’.) “It was worse than the one time my eldest shoved his favourite Batman lego figure up his nose. I don’t envy his surgeon.” “The worst I had of the kind on my table was a young artist who had poured Plaster of Paris up her rectum,” Hannibal says, simply squeezing back on Will’s grip on his hand at Will’s muttered oh my God. “She wanted a mould of her colon, but only succeeded in glueing her sphincter - and the rest of her lower passage - shut.” “This is supposed to be a touching moment,” Will says - perhaps a little bit louder than necessary - when it looks like Dominic is about to continue the disturbingly focused surgical conversation. The technologist clicking away on the computer beside them barely manages to mask his laugh with a cough, smile hid against his raised arm. Hannibal lowers his face to Will’s shoulder - where Will can feel the nuisance grinning against his arm. “My apologies, Will. It seemed as though you would appreciate a distraction.”

---

“In my defence,” Beverly says, looking up from where she is blatantly googling encephalitis on her phone so she can frown melodramatically at, first, the dog plushie with a bandaged head that she had brought Will as a get well soon gift and, second, Will’s own head - which is very much bandage-free -, “you just said ‘head injury’ on the phone.” “Pretty sure I said that I had a problem in my brain,” says Will, absently rubbing one of the plushie’s (extremely) soft floppy ears between forefinger and thumb as he watches Beverly tap through to wikipedia, her chair pulled up beside his hospital bed. God, Will misses his dogs. “Yeah, but you’re known for being self-deprecating and shitheads are always saying you have a problem in the brain due to Lounds and her readers,” Beverly points out - reasonably, annoyingly enough. “When have I ever taken that seriously?” “I’m touched by your support,” Will says - mostly - without sarcasm. It feels good to have someone in his corner. It feels good to see a familiar friendly face when he’s stuck in hospital, the long hours stretching out before him otherwise fairly bleak. “And the dog.” “He has your eyes,” Beverly says, cheerfully ignoring the burst capillaries in Will’s own whites from excess vomiting to nod at the machine-embroidered big blue eyes get well soon puppy is sporting. “Definitely no chance of your skull getting sawn open for a matching bandage?” “Don’t think that’s in the official autoimmune encephalitis treatment plan, sorry.” Beverly just snorts, still shamelessly browsing wikipedia for information on Will’s condition. In front of him. “...Only you could develop encephalitis just to wriggle out of a social invite. Good ol’ migraines too plebeian for you, Graham? Even your encephalopathies are rarefied. They only described your version of the disease in 2007.” “As you can see,” Will says dryly, with a gesture down the length of himself, cannula, hospital bed and machines around him all, “I am deeply committed to being on-trend.”

---

“Basics first then,” says Abigail, resigning herself to her fate. “Got it. Slicing, dicing…” “Washing up,” adds Hannibal - solely to see the expression that immediately slides across his companion’s face: disgusted teenager. “You will, I’m sure, be glad to know that I have a dishwasher to assist with most of that task.” “‘Most of that task’?” Abigail inquires - and then answers herself before Hannibal can. “Of course you’ve got a bunch of stuff that’s super old or delicate or isn’t dishwasher-safe. Who needs fancy flourishes when you can plate dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets on Count Dracula’s own dishware?” About to pick up a potato of his own to join Abigail in peeling, Hannibal pauses. “...I’m sorry to disappoint you, but none of my china is Translyvanian.” “He probably imported.” “...A valid supposition,” Hannibal concedes, bending his head to his own task with a knife. “I shall be sure to examine my dishware for any vampiric provenance. The dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, however, are still out of the question.”

[REDACTED - if you recognise the fic, shhh]

"Do you take your coffee with arsenic or without?"

[Vampire/Werewolf Universe]

"You just... slept through the British Empire? Two World Wars? The atomic bomb?" "You seem to believe these are things a person would wish to be awake for?"

---

"Please put the clothes on that I brought you." "I see no reason." "Common courtesy?" When the plea seemed to fall on deaf ears - "I will sit here and make unflattering comments about your mummified dick until you oblige me."

---

"I have loved others, I think. But, for so long, did not allow myself to be in love. Love brings pain." --- "Love always means loss eventually, and I had had too much of that already."

"And Arthur changed your mind?""

"My mind. My heart. --- "You think I was happy about it either? I told you I love him, but, ai… you have met him."

"Now I believe you."

#needcake

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mystmoon · 12 days

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🤍🖤 for hetalia?

Had to have a think about this because its been a while since I hetalia-ed!

🤍: Which character is not as morally bad as everyone else seems to think?

Aaah, this is hard just because of the premise of hetalia, every country has done stuff that means you can read them as morally bad and I'm struggling to think who gets hate most? I will admit I do steer clear of Arthur bashing though it is probably deserved!

🖤: Which character is not as morally good as everyone else seems to think?

I feel like Alfred is not as good and ditzy as the facade he puts up would have you believe, that boy masks like no tomorrow. He is cleverer than he gives off I think (or at least I enjoy when he is written that way!)

#hetalia #ask meme #onvs this is based more on the fandom interpretation of the characters #and not my personal opinion on geopolitics #hence the use of human names #needcake

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froggi-mushroom · 1 year

Text

Thanks for the ask!

25. “I don’t care that you’re hanging up lights, get off the roof!”

With the UK Brothers if that’s alright with you

Requested by @needcake

Dylan looked up at Andrew, precariously standing on the icy roof, holding a string of fairylights. He pinched his nose, restraining himself from strangling Arthur and Sean, who were currently keeled over on the ground laughing like a pair of asses.

“Andy–”

“I’ll be down soon,” Andrew said, almost slipping, managing to grip the ladder at the last minute, “Just need to put the lights up.”

Dylan felt like he was going insane.

“I don’t care that you’re hanging up lights, get off the roof! There’s ice up there, you moron.”

Beside him, he could see Arthur and Sean were now curled up on the floor together, still laughing hysterically and clutching their sides, and Dylan was tempted to let the lot of them freeze and finally have some peace and quiet.

Next year, perhaps.

#not a reblog for once #ask #hetalia #uk brothers #hws wales #hws scotland #hws england #hws northern ireland #this is vaguely inspired by that video of a Scottish person on a roof #always a favorite #needcake

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reallunargift · 1 year

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@needcake replied to your post:

Lunie give us more of the vrum vrum au pls i'm begging u

i promise i'm trying, pls accept these silly notes for a youtube video challenge comic until then 🙏

#replies #needcake #this is good arthur it increases your brand value!!#vroom vroom au

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oumaheroes · 1 year

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Ok ok you can't just leave it at that! Hahaha why didn't you like Bly Manor?

Oh Cake 😔 it's so sad

For one, for /me/, the accents are terrible. They're supposed to be English but they're just n o t and it's so grating. It's nitpicky, I know, but some of them are SO bad that I couldn't take the characters seriously and I was thrown back to reality, which made it impossible connect to the storyline

Same for the sets- again I'm aware this is VERY nitpicky but the house looked nothing like an authentic old English manor. It looked like a cobbled together American set of several different eras of history and fantasy which again made it hard for me to take seriously and broke all immersion. It felt very fake to watch and listen to, and it was hard to ignore these and focus on the story when there were so many things wrong and they were so /obvious/

Those two problems though I can see not being an issue for non-British audiences and I think they could be easy to overlook/ not care about

My other big grievance however was the story itself. It was so loose and wasn't very neatly tied together, but mainly I found it dull orz. So dull I don't remember much, other than me and my friend lamenting it as we watched.

I think that, on its own, it's probably not that bad for a ghost story! But compared to The Haunting of Hill House which came before, and /especially/ as all the actors were the same, the difference in quality was jarring. Hill House was so good, so well acted and written and designed that I had huge expectations and hope for Bly Manor. The actors were perfectly cast for Hill House, perfectly in their element, and in different roles, with different dynamics amongst them, I felt as though it was a lesser performance. They didn't quite fit.

Basically, high expectations from the quality for Hill House combined with Bly Manor being about an English experience made by an inaccurate American perspective, made it a sad experience for me 🥲

#heroes answers #boy that was a rant #i have feeling #and my love for Hill House is so strong #needcake #you opened pandora's box here my friend

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peonycats · 2 years

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penny for your thoughts on pre-Ottoman Türkiye?

THATS A TOUGHY.... pre ottoman turkiye and the various turkish groups running around always gives me a big headache when i try to think abt it too hard kjdkfdkskl

But I think at the very least, back in those days he was a kiddo with a lot to prove, and spent a lot of time kicking it with Iran/Persia, totally trying not to fanboy too hard over everything persian culture and then being totally aghast and #betrayed when Iran left the Seljuk Empire for the Khwarazmian Empire )-)o

#hws turkey #ask #hws iran #needcake #hetalia #hetalia headcanons

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hoofae · 2 years

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Hi, Hoof! ❤️

Can I bother you for some of your favorite hcs? Maybe some relating to Port's relationship with the other luso nations? Anything really ❤️

Hi cakes <3

Sorry for replying so late! This topic is not something I've explored a lot. So it gave me some thinking to do. It’s not incredibly organized but hey \o/

I like to think his relationship with luso nations is mostly positive nowadays. But of course it wasn't always so. Port may have had severe attachment issues despite trying to play it cool every time one of them decided to "storm out the door". Because that's what it felt like to him. 'Oh so you're leaving, then. Fine.'🙄 When in reality we all know he felt like shit for a while. He tried to keep his kids close to the very end of the 20th century (1999 with Macau!) always believing he was in the right. Think a little, Port. ;;;; I know living under a past glorifying dictatorship for so long did not help. Fortunately I think his mind started to clear near the 60s and since then he's been trying his utmost best to undo his wrongs even if he knows it’s not totally possible and that he'll never be 100% forgiven. He accepts this and moves on.

On a lighter note, he loves all of the luso nations equally but he likes to say Macau is his favourite because it makes Brazil pout melodramatically. You don't see any of the others have this reaction. He's just messing with you Lu. He's going to squeeze your cheeks next! I think he's one of those dads... he trolls too much and thinks his dad humour is incredible and understandable by everyone. What's a generational gap? If you don't think it's funny then he's happy to laugh at his own jokes.

Yes he messes with them but he's also very proud of their growth. I don't buy him being insecure about their achievements in comparison to his. He knows he's old and it's their time to shine now. He's very supportive! And very caring. He keeps in touch often.

He has a lot of respect for Angola. She has centuries of knowledge and life experience on him (he knows she can deck him without breaking a sweat 🙃) Tbh I'd love to hear these two chatting about whatever topic because they're both so wise. Port is also happy to be schooled.

They ALL make fun of his accent. He replies by showing them a different one every time it happens or just laughs it off. One time he changed to Brazilian Portuguese mid sentence (he's very good with accents and languages in general) and it was so seamless that everyone just. 🧍

Luci still said it was terrible. Actually so cringe. 🤢

If there is one topic that everyone can agree on is that the food is amazing at any of their places. Not a single bad cook in this family. They pass recipes around all the time.

I want to read fic where Port and Cape Verde go surfing together. Or sailing. Or fishing. I know this seems so very specific but. 🥺 They both love the sea so much. I think it'd be adorable. I also think it's one of his favourite vacation spots.

And speaking of Portugal and Cape Verde, I want to believe Fado and Morna are connected in some way. Not sure how. They're both eerily similar in their melancholy. (I had a boyfriend that was Cape Verdean and I remember theorizing about this topic aaa) This video explains it pretty well. It’s in portuguese, though. Maybe they can sing sad songs together. ;v;

Mozambique is used to Port just straight up showing up unannounced and it's because he wants to see the elephants. He won't even say hi first noooo. He's so eager to get trampled first thing in the morning. His obsession with the animals is weird ok. Old man found half dead at the Gorongosa national park. Squashed by a baby elephant and its angry mom. /SIGH which hospital is he at this time. I thought it was Cape Verde's turn to have him this year.

...AAAND I want to talk about all the other luso nations too but I’ll have to try and remember more headcanons so I think maybe I'll keep adding to this post overtime! Thanks for the ask I love answering questions about Port (and the nations that he cares about the most <3)

#needcake #ok that last one is crack but he did offer the pope an elephant once I KNOW it's his favourite animal probably #but yes my opinion about the lusofam is that they're all too cool and port is the fail dad #(affectionate)#i am behind on some of these asks and i apologize #life's been... interesting #in a non cute way /sigh #but these always cheer me up

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breitzbachbea · 2 years

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#32 for SciIre and #11 for TurGre please! <3 Doesn't need to be the same fic hahaha

Ohoho, thank you love! To be fair, I am pretty sure that these two prompts could already apply to No Rest For The Wicked, the very self-indulgent SicIre & TurGre fanfic I wrote for last year's "Sunrise & Sunset" rarepair prompt.

I also briefly considered making this one set in the Hetaverse, but we all know this isn't how I roll anymore.

Around the World in 80 Prompts

32. "I’ve never seen the sunrise before.”

TW: Allusions to suicide attempts

"The Frog" is the name of Harry's frog-green Vauxhall Corsa.

“I’ve never seen the sunrise before,” Harry said and Michele turned to him with a surprised expression in his face.

They sat on cheap camping chairs, because they sagged so comfortably during sitting and Michele’s actual garden chairs were too nice to drag them out into the fields.

The sky had already begun to be coloured in a tentative blue with an orange tint; the sun only needed to actually crawl over the mountains of the east to bathe the Conca d’Oro in its golden light.

Michele stared at Harry instead. “You’ve never seen the sunrise before?”

Harry didn’t look at him. He watched the sky instead, as Michele felt he was ought to as well.

“I mean, I have seen the sun rise before, you know, when I’ve been out all night long again, but that isn’t watching the sunrise,” Harry said. He shifted in his chair.

“Ah.” Michele looked at the grass beneath them. “Perhaps I haven’t watched the sunrise then, either.” He lifted his eyes towards the east. A few rays of light already peaked through the landscape. He could hear Angelo’s chicken wake up, all the way in the distance. The world still felt asleep enough to utter the next few words: “After all those sleepless nights.”

Harry did not ask any further questions and despite knowing that he wouldn’t, Michele felt deeply grateful for it all the same.

“Do you want to hold my hand?” Harry asked and looked at him. “I know there could be people coming along, so you don’t have to.” He held his hand out to him.

Michele took it. “I’ll notice if someone’s coming.” He smiled.

Harry squeezed his hand ever so lightly. His thumb caressed the back of his hand.

“I mean, maybe the times I spent all night sitting out at the cliffs down south count,” Harry said. “Sometimes I sat there until the morning and watched the sun rise over the sea …”

Michele held his tongue. Sounds beautiful, he wanted to say but wanted to imply no beauty in this time of Harry’s life.

“I can’t even remember though. I can’t even remember if watching the sun rise made me glad I hadn’t thrown myself off the cliffs,” Harry said. “It’s all so … hazy. Blurry.”

Michele clasped his hand tighter. This memory wouldn’t be blurry.

The sky became ever bluer the higher the sun climbed, as it awoke the colours of the trees and grass, flowers and houses from their muted slumber.

“We’re gonna watch the sunrise in Dublin, too,” Harry said and Michele blinked. “Or down south. We’re gonna find a nice spot to watch the sun rise over the sea, somewhere, and afterwards we’re going to go for breakfast. If we’re in Dublin, then it’s going to be one of those fancy, hip places where you can get a decent coffee and a breakfast you like. If it’s outside of Dublin … I’ll pack you back into the frog and drive you to the next city that has a decent coffee.”

Michele laughed and had to put a hand in front of his mouth to reign himself in as he shook in his chair. Once he was able to look at Harry again, he was greeted by a huge grin.

“Or we could ask Soph for some camping equipment, then I’ll bring my moka and make my own decent espresso.”

“And a tea kettle, and we’re set.”

“We’ll do that, then.”

They watched until the sunlight reached the lemon trees right in front of them. A golden memory, like the Conca d’Oro itself.

“I’ll make lemon granita for breakfast,” Michele said when they packed up their chairs.

“Do you need some lemons for that?” Harry asked with a grin and pointed at the lemon trees with his thumb.

“I do not – Keep your hands to yourself or I will be forced to slap them.” Harry dropped the arm that had reached out for the nearest lemon tree and cackled.

In front of Michele’s gates stood Angelo, with a handful of eggs. “Ah, there you are!” he said. “Thought you had flown out again or your doorbell’s broken.”

“No, I was out watching the sunrise,” Michele said.

Angelo whistled. “Bunch of romantics, aren’t you? I’m glad I get shuteye until it’s risen, because you know the ladies act up if you don’t let them out. Speaking of that, I wanted to drop some eggs off.” He held the eggs out to Michele, who fumbled with his camping chair.

“Let me handle that,” Harry offered and took the chair from him. He gave Angelo a friendly nod, who gave it back.

“Thank you. Now …” Michele took the eggs from Angelo.

“Should be careful watching the sun rise with your friend,” Angelo said. “Before he gets sunburned.”

Michele laughed, together with Angelo. “He is wearing sunscreen,” he told him and Angelo laughed all the louder. After a minute or more of small talk, Angelo bid them goodbye and Michele could finally open the gates.

“Are we having eggs for breakfast as well?” Harry asked.

“You’re having eggs for breakfast now,” Michele answered while Harry opened the front door for him.

He closed the door behind them. “Careful there, I don’t want them scrambled on the floor,” Harry said when Michele tried to steal a kiss from him. “Even I could do better than that.”

Michele snorted. Once the eggs were in the kitchen and the chairs back with the other garden equipment, Michele met Harry in the doorway to the kitchen. He kissed him on the lips, long and full of devotion, with his hands on Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s on his hips.

Still nose to nose, they looked at each other for a moment, before another kiss followed. They’ve lost count by the time Michele poked his tongue inside of Harry’s tooth gap during one kiss. Harry endured it for a few seconds but eventually pulled back.

“Enough with your tongue, let’s get some food in there,” he said.

“Mhm. How do you want your eggs?”

Harry looked out of the window. The sun had made it past the mountains and throned over them in the clear blue skies. “Sunny side up?”

Michele chuckled. “Sunny side up.”

11. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

CW: Attempted Animal Abuse

Ibrahim opened the door and his heart immediately sank into his guts.

“Oh, Lord above have mercy,” he said, brows furrowed in worry. “Come in boy, come in.”

He reached his hand out to wave Herakles, who looked miserable as sin, inside. As soon as the young man had stepped closer, he put his hand on his back.

“What’s the matter?” He asked, as soon as the door was closed behind them.

Herakles looked at him, the tired green eyes so unusually wide open to hold all the pleading in them. “I need to talk to Natasa.”

He's a child, Ibrahim thought.

“Of course you can. She’s in the kitchen, but you can just sit down in the living room, while I tell her you’re here. Do you want anything else? I’ll make you tea.”

Herakles raised his eyebrows for a moment. “No, thank you. Sorry.”

Natasa stepped into the kitchen’s doorway before the two could even make it into the living room.

She sighed. “Iraklis, what happened to you … “

“Can we talk?” he asked.

His hair was unkempt and the fit of his suit sloppy. Why he wore one in the first place baffled her. He was 23 and physically all a man, but she knew the features of his face were yet to deepen. From Apollo to a Kronos. Time would leave its mark on him.

“We can talk,” she said. “Let’s go into one of the guest rooms.”

Herakles nodded. At the end of the corridor, she told him: “You go upstairs, you know the one. I’ll be there in a second, love.”

While Herakles climbed the stairs, she turned to Ibrahim.

“If you need me for anything, you’ll call, yes?” he asked her with his hands on her arms.

“You’re gift enough for being in my life,” she told him and kissed him. “And there is nothing that you can do to help this.” The smile on his face waned and she climbed up the stairs after him.

Once in the guest bedroom, she locked the door behind them.

Herakles sat on the bed and stared at the night table. Bad memories. She settled on the chair in front of the vanity.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” he said.

“What is the problem?”

Herakles looked at her, with those big green eyes, a look Natasa knew so well.

“Him.”

Bad memories indeed. These days, her doubts about whether or not enabling Herakles to see his lover behind his father’s back really came back to bite her in the ass.

“You’ve talked to him,” she said.

“I tried it again.” He looked away. “But there is no getting through to him.”

“I could try,” Natasa offered, though the idea of getting this involved in the business made her skin crawl. The thought of how her own children were turning 18 and had their mind set on joining Herakles made her sick. Now being the least opportune of times, too. She knew that they knew that there was a rift between Herakles and Sadık, she hadn’t raised two idiots. But even for a smart person, it was hard to grasp that someone who treated you so kindly could be so cruel to you.

“No, you wouldn’t get through to him, either,” Herakles said. “There is no … there is no argueing with that man.”

“Then we won’t argue,” Natasa said. “But if he takes you for so granted that he takes your part of the cake, well then … people need a slap on their fingers.” Or a stab with the cake knife. She sorely wished that she hadn’t left her cigarettes in the kitchen.

“He said I’m overreacting and that I shouldn’t worry.”

“Was that was he said during your last talk?” Herakles nodded. “And what did you respond?”

“Punched him in the stomach.”

She sighed. “Reasonable.”

Herakles stared at the night table. He then stared at the bed.

“Look, Ira, I didn’t pick this room to torture you,” she said. “But he isn’t the boy who laid with you in this bed anymore. And neither are you. He backstabbed you first and unless you’re going to give him a taste of his own medicine, it won’t end well for you in this shark tank.” She had already given him the talk. But he wasn’t stupid either.

“I know,” he said.

~*~

So Herakles went and did it, busted a smuggling deal in the Aegean that should’ve been his had Sadık not simply assumed his compliance and taken it for himself.

He ignored the phone calls and e-mails. If someone wanted to convey something by word of mouth to him in the office, he simply shut that person down. That was harder to do when the person was Sadık himself. “What the fuck is this bullshit about?” he asked as he showed up on the doorstep of Herakles’ house one afternoon. He even wore one of his gaudy masks, which made his fury look ridiculous but angered Herakles even more all the same.

He threw the door shut in his face, but of course that wouldn’t work. At one point, he ended up in Herakles’ house. He remembered that they had ended up in the kitchen and he had picked up a knife. Sadık had pulled his hair. He had punched him in the nose. The times where this kind of fighting had ended with them fucking on the floor – Sadık would never get the bloodstains out of that one rug – were over.

Herakles had immediately closed the terrace door after he had thrown the front one into Sadık’s face. The strays that had settled into his house did not take well to all the commotion. Some of them had meowed and wailed, which had only riled up Sadık further. On his way out, a large, old white cat had clawed at his leg.

Sadık loudly cursed, glared at the cat and was about to kick it. Herakles immediately dove in to scoop up the cat and stumble backwards into the corridor.

“Get out of my house,” he told him. “Get out of my house right this second, before I forget myself.” His voice shook with cold fury.

~*~

Herakles dreaded to leave his house for the next few hours. Less afraid for himself, no matter how much that thought unsettled him, and far more concerned with the safety of his cats. Yet, after the sun had already set and most of the cats had made it outside to be on the prowl, he made it into the Simonides’ house with a spare key.

He knocked on the walls of the entrance corridor. “It’s me!” he announced himself.

“Hera!” That was Omar.

“We’re in the kitchen!” Natasa added.

Ibrahim, Omar and Timothea sat around the kitchen table and played Uno. Pots and pans bubbled and sizzled on the stove.

“You can be so glad I never paid a penny for your school, otherwise I would have hassled you a lot more about these grades,” Natasa said to her twins and Omar giggled while Timothea tried to hold her chuckle in as Ibrahim stared very concentrated on his hand.

Sometimes he wiggled his eyebrows and had a hard time to keep his own façade up.

“And here, you, Ira, would it kill you to announce your coming beforehand, so I know that I’ve got to stuff five hungry mouths instead of four?”

“I won’t stay here for long,” Herakles said as he stepped properly into the kitchen.

Timothea frowned. “What happened to you?”

Herakles rubbed over the bandaid on his neck. “Nothing to worry about.” He smiled at and stepped towards the table, between Timothea and Omar. “You two are doing fine?”

“Fantastic,” Timothea said.

“Having a great time,” Omar said. He tugged at Herakles’ sleeve to make him lean down to him. He showed him his hand – two 4+ cards.

Herakles raised his eyebrows and smiled. He patted Omar’s shoulder. He then turned to Natasa. “Natasa, could I have your time? It won’t take long.”

Natasa watched Timothea give her brother a peeved smile while Ibrahim rearranged his cards.

“Of course you have. Watch the stove, I’m not having burnt gyros for dinner.”

“Yes Mamá.”

They went back to the guest room. Natasa would have much preferred the terrace or living room, but above all, she preferred her children not being privy to such discussions.

“He showed up, didn’t he?” she asked after she had settled into the chair. Herakles still stood and shot her a curious look. “I’ve got my eyes and ears everywhere, Iraklis.”

Herakles nodded. He walked around the room for a few moments. “I do have dinner on the stove, Ira,” she reminded him.

He sat down on the bed and buried his face in his hands. His stare empty, he looked at the shelf across of him.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” he said. “For how much longer do I have to do this.”

“Until you snuff it,” Natasa said. She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the vanity and lit one. “Or you turn yourself in or live somewhere else under a fake name, leaving everything here behind. But pulling such stunts often leads back to option A.”

Herakles stared ahead.

“I can’t help you with that,” she said and took another draft. “But you know what I can do? Get some chicken gyros into you.”

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