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et-lesailes · 4 years

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title: the inside scoop

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 2461

summary: you are a reporter with a certain favorite celebrity to interview, and you’re more than excited to talk to him about his latest movie, knives out. little do you know that your massive crush on him is actually requited.

themes: fluff

taglist: @evanstush, @tanyam93, @bval-1, @wonderwinchester, @patzammit, @rohaintahquil, @deidrashouseofpain, @sammyslonglostshoe, @jadedhillon, @bohemian-barbie, @whysparker, @sebastian-i-stan, @sebabestianstan101, @lille-kattunge, @teller258316, @peach-acid, @allsortsofinterests, @xoxabs88xox, @heyiamthatbitch, @cptn-sgrogers, @heyyouwiththeassbutt, @bangtan-serendipity, @troublermalik, @beardburnsupersoldiers, @bookish-shristi, @kind-sober-fullydressed, @gingerninjaprincess16, @straightforwardly, @denisemarieangelina, @frencchfries, @xlanawriter, @littlemoistcarrot, @pottxrwolff, @arianatheangelworld, @ifuseekamyevans, @southerngracela, @nsfwsebbie, @rororo06, @savemesteeb, @raveviolet, @inactivewhore, @hurricanerinwrites

notes: this was a commissioned piece requested by @straightforwardly ! thank you so much for supporting me and i hope this is everything you wanted :) ** if you are interested in my commissions, check out this post right here !

You’re quickly wrapping up with hair and makeup, looking at your reflection in the mirror trying not to smile so much. You were particularly happy to wake up for work that day, all because of who you’re interviewing today.

You’ve had the pleasure of working with Chris Evans a few times before, and while at first it was his looks that drew you in, it didn’t take long for you to simply fall in love with his entire being. The first time was a little nerve wracking. You had seen other interviews where he seemed a little grumpy, tired, and annoyed with the questions he was being asked, and so you had put as much thought into your own questions as possible. You refused to be like the other journalists and reporters, the ones who simply asked Marvel related questions or how he worked out. It was easy to see that this man had personality much deeper than that, and you were always eager to explore it. You remember how your heart had been pounding right before that first interview, but the second the two of you started talking, it was simply… amazing. Despite only having known him for minutes, you had already felt perfectly comfortable and secure with him, as if you had known him for years. You had heard from others that he had that effect on people, but you never imagined it was to that extent.

Now here you are, getting ready for your fifth interview with him. Another thing you love about Chris is that he actually remembers who you are, each and every time. It always makes you feel special, though you have to remind yourself to calm down- he’s simply considerate and personable, he probably remembers other reporters he’s seen multiple times too.

“Alright, you’re all set. Chris finished up a few minutes ago, he’s probably out there getting seated.” The stylist tells you, and you smile up at him with a nod. “Thank you!” Standing up, you take a deep breath as you inspect yourself in the mirror. You’ve become used to seeing celebrities as a part of your job, but Chris is the only one who has your heart racing and butterflies fluttering. Even interviewing Jason Momoa for Aquaman couldn’t get you as simultaneously excited and nervous as appearing before Chris; you have the biggest crush on him, but at the same time, what can you do about it? Honestly, you’re convinced he probably has a secret girlfriend- it simply makes no sense to you that a man like him is single.

‘Thank God for hair and makeup,’ you think to yourself, pleased with your appearance- it’s not too overdone, but just the right amount, mainly just so the lighting doesn’t wash you out on camera. You gather your cards and take another breath, forcing yourself to calm down before going out to where the chairs are- you were hoping to play it cool, but the second you see him, a wide smile emerges on your face. How a man can look so handsome simply sitting there wearing a long sleeve maroon sweater and fitted jeans while playing around with a water bottle in his hands, you have no idea. “Hi there! Sorry to keep you waiting.” You greet him, and he looks up, immediately grinning. “Oh, hey, Y/N!” To your surprise, he stands up and extends his arms out for a hug, pulling you in for a warm embrace as if you’re a longtime friend he hasn’t seen in a while. You’re shocked but you quickly take the opportunity to hug him back, resisting the urge to inhale how damn good he smells. His broad chest feels so warm and perfect against you, and you swear you could be in this position forever.

“How have you been?” you ask as normally as you can, finally pulling back with a smile and gesturing for him to sit as you do as well. “Oh, same old, same old. I have to say though, I’ve been looking forward to this. I love interviewing with you, you always ask such awesome questions!” he compliments you, and you’re squealing on the inside. “Ahh, now I feel so much pressure!” you joke, though give him an appreciative smile as you cross your legs. “Thank you, though. That means a lot, I really do try to avoid the questions actors seem to hear all the time.”

“I’ve noticed, and I appreciate it.” Chris replies with a smile, his blue eyes sparkling more beautifully than the goddamn ocean. It’s truly overwhelming how handsome he is; you feel as though looking at him is like staring right into the sun sometimes. “I’m glad to hear that,” you say somewhat shyly, but clear your throat, glancing towards the cameraman. “We ready to start?”

“All good,” he replies with a thumbs up, and you wait for the signal before beginning with a smile. “Hello, everyone! I’m Y/N, and I’m here with Chris Evans today to talk a little about his latest movie, Knives Out!” Chris waves to the camera with a little smile, but almost immediately looks back towards you. “Glad to be here, Y/N.” God, you love when he says your name. ‘Hold it together, Y/N.’ You think to yourself; thankfully, your job basically consists of looking composed on the outside, and so you’ve at least had plenty of practice.

You give a brief summary of the movie to begin, then go into speaking about his character, Ransom. Looking towards him, you tilt your head slightly. “Now I know you played the ultimate golden boy when it came to Captain America, but a lot of your roles in the past have actually had a more twisted and angsty side. Curtis Everett in Snowpiercer, Syd in London, Mike Weiss in Puncture, and especially Bryce Langley in Fierce People. Was it a difficult adjustment going back to playing a more villainous character, or did you have a good time with it?”

“Wow. Even bringing out Fierce People, huh? You really did your research,” he teases, making you laugh softly before he continues to answer, looking thoughtful. “Honestly, it was pretty fun. Don’t get me wrong, I loved playing Captain America and the other lighter, comedic roles are fun too. But being a little wicked and vile is pretty entertaining as an actor. I missed it a lot, and I think I clicked with it again pretty easily.” He pauses before laughing, looking at the camera. “I make that seem like I’m just naturally an evil person. Like, ‘Yeah, it’s so easy for me to be an asshole on camera- because I am one in real life!’” he makes fun of himself, and you can’t help but laugh again as you reply playfully, “Well, you are from Boston, aren’t you? What are they called over there? Massholes?” He blinks and laughs loudly, grabbing his left pec which only makes you giggle to yourself and feel oddly triumphant at the same time. You love making him laugh. “Oh God, you’ve heard that term? Yeah, I’d say that definitely describes me pretty well.”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re not that bad.” You remark playfully, then realize you should probably stop transitioning this interview into flirtatious banter, and so you decide to move on to the next question. “Now for this particular movie, you have a variety of actors and actresses around you- some who are insanely experienced and have been in the industry for decades, and some who, while experienced, are young and only continue to climb upwards in their career. How did you feel, being a part of that? Does it bring back memories, does it influence you, do you influence or guide them?” you ask curiously, continuing, “You’re such an accomplished actor, and this cast was pretty remarkable as well- I imagine there were all sorts of different feelings working with them.”

Chris nods as he listens carefully, smiling and even looking somewhat intrigued. “That’s a great question. Yeah, I was definitely pretty nervous actually. I really wanted this role, and I was kind of intimidated going into it all. These people are amazing, honestly. I feel like I’ve learned so much from them, from Daniel to Jaeden, and I can only hope that I’m able to be a good influence on other actors as the ones I look up to are to me. It’s interesting that you mention memories, though. Seeing younger actors and actresses always reminds me of myself when I was younger- and then proceeds to make me feel very old.” He laughs, shaking his head to himself. “But watching Jaeden and Katherine, God, they’re great. They have such drive, ambition, and they’ve already made it so far. They’re so fun and I’m pretty sure I was nowhere near as talented as them at that age, but I definitely remember having that energy.”

You can’t help but smile as you listen to him. You’ve seen in other interviews that he wants to start a family one day, and that he’s excited to be a father. It’s adorable to you that he appreciates younger castmates so much, and even shows respect to them as actors. “You don’t think you still have that energy?” you tease, and he laughs, making an “eh” gesture with his hand. “Sometimes, but I’m telling you, I’ve gotten old. Years of action movies and stunts will do that to you,” he jokes, and you remember that he actually did a lot of his own stunts for the Captain America movies- no wonder he has such nice muscles. “Well, if it’s any consolation, you certainly don’t look old.” You can’t help but reply, but glance back down at your cards, forcing yourself to stay on track. The cameraman, one of your friends, is probably snickering to himself, and you bet you’re going to get quite interesting comments once this video is uploaded. How can you not go back and forth with him though, just a little? He makes it so easy, what with his perfect sense of humor, contagious laugh, and mere eye contact. He makes you feel like a person, a friend, not just some nosy reporter.

After a few more questions (and a teensy bit of flirting), the interview finally comes to an end. ��I hope you guys are excited to watch this movie, because I’m telling you, it’s a good one- and I think everyone will be very entertained by Ransom Drysdale.” You remark with a raised brow, looking to him with a soft laugh. “Thank you for coming, Chris!” He smiles charmingly, waving at the camera. “Thanks for having me, Y/N. I had a great time.”

The cameraman signals that he’s stopped recording, but flashes you a little smirk before turning to the crew to discuss the work that needs to happen next. You blush slightly but clear your throat, looking up at him- you hate this part because he’ll have to leave soon, but you’re hoping you can squeeze in just a little conversation before that happens. “Seriously, thanks again. Honestly, you’re one of my favorite celebrities to interview,” you admit with a slight laugh, biting your lip. “You actually answer with… depth.” He laughs too, barely leaning forward. “Oh, yeah? Are you accusing celebrities of being airheads?”

“Some of them!” you can’t help but answer bluntly, and both of you are laughing again. Now he bites his lip, suddenly looking at you a little more intensely than before- you hope your cheeks aren’t becoming as red as they feel. “Hey, Y/N. Can I ask you something?” You nod a little too fast, your curiosity piqued. “Of course. What’s up?”

“Do you, uh…” he pauses for a few moments before chuckling slightly, waving his hand. “Ah, fuggit, I’m just gonna come out with it.” His Boston accent comes out even stronger than usual as he swears, and you love and hate how attractive it sounds. “Are you dating anyone?”

Your heart is pounding at this point, and you have to force yourself to respond in a way in which your voice doesn’t shake. “No, I’m not.” You cock your head, holding back a smile. “Why do you ask…?” He seems to look pleased about this, even visibly perking up before suddenly looking uncertain again, laughing awkwardly. “Okay. Okay, um, please tell me if this is crossing any lines. Like, please. Don’t be scared to slap me, even.” He jokes, and now you’re feeling the excitement bubbling up inside, though at the same time your brain is screaming at you not to raise your hopes up. “I have permission to slap you. Noted.” You tease in return, proud of yourself that you still somehow seem to have your wits intact. He laughs, eyes twinkling as he continues, “I know we’ve only had a professional relationship but… I was… kinda hoping I could take you out sometime. Dinner, walking the dog, a movie, ice cream, roller skating- anything. I just… man, I really want to get to know you.” He confesses, and it takes you everything to not practically jump up and down and squeal right there. You’re shocked. You truly never thought that someone as famous and attractive as him would be interested in a mere reporter.

“Chris.” You smile widely, nothing but eagerness in your sparkling eyes. “I would love that.” You blush slightly, adding, “If we’re being honest, I’ve had a crush on you for like, years now.” Chris widens his eyes, scoffing in playful frustration as he buries his head in his hands. “You’re serious? God dammit, I knew I should have asked you earlier!” He looks up at you again, sighing deeply. “I really just assumed you were dating someone. Hell, even married. I mean, look at you, you’re gorgeous, funny, smart…. And you have depth.” He refers to your previous comment, and you laugh, though blush madly as you do so. “Thanks,” you reply softly- you swear you’ve never felt this much happiness in your life.

His manager comes up behind him, gently tapping his shoulder. “Chris, we should get going. We have another interview to get to.” He blinks, looking somewhat disappointed but nods, looking back to you. “Mind if I get your number, then? We can talk later?”

You nod, biting your lip delightedly as he hands you his phone as if you’re a child receiving a king sized candy bar. After putting your number in, you give it back- only to be wrapped up in another hug from him. “I’ll see ya real soon,” he whispers in your ear, and you’re blushing even deeper than before, though you nod with a little giggle.

“I can’t wait.”

#chris evans x reader #chris evans fluff #chris evans imagine #chris evans drabble #chris evans fanfiction #rhee commissions

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spookypalace · 3 years

Text

something borrowed - chapter two

After one drink too many at her 30th-birthday celebration, Jo unexpectedly falls into bed with her longtime crush and best friend, Alex – who happens to be engaged to her best friend, Izzie. Ramifications of the liaison threaten to destroy the women’s lifelong friendship, while Jackson, Jo’s confidant, harbors a potentially explosive secret of his own.

—

Or the one where everyone is a little messy but you still root for them anyway.

(ao3 link)

ok ok so i'm not entirely happy with this chapter, partly because i used a bit of backstory from the book but i kinda preffered how they did it in the movie so i included that also lol - so there is a bit of both :/ i've been sitting on the chapter for a bit but couldn't think of any way i'd want to change it up so i thought i'd just post and get it over with.

also this is a flashback and within this flashback, there is a flashback. it's the big chunk in italics, but if anyone thinks the way i have formatted this chapter is confusing then please let me know so i can change it and make it ... make more sense i guess.

anyway, thanks for reading and please let me what you think!!

May 2004

It’s to no one’s surprise that the only person left in the campus library at ten p.m. on the last Friday of their final year of law school, it’s Jo. It’s where she spent most of her evenings for the past couple of weeks, studying and stressing—attempting to cram in as much last-minute knowledge she could before their final exam on the following Wednesday.

Brunette hair tied back, save for the few small wisps fluttering over her eyes she’d blowing up at every so often. His oversized grey sweatshirt hangs loosely off her arms as she turns page after page of some old law journal, her right-hand scribbling down messy notes at her unusually fast pace.

The library was dull lit, save for the security guards lamp who sits grunting in the back corner, and the numerous lamps that lit the large mahogany table she currently sat at—books splayed across the surface, ones she hadn’t touched for hours but kept out just in case. Jo chooses not to think about how long it’ll take her to clear this up before she must leave.

A yawn escapes her lips, causing her to lift her left wrist and check the time, she’d already been here for six hours and unless the security guard was kicking her out—she wasn’t leaving. Jo had come way too far and worked way too hard to fall at the last hurdle, the last exam.

Maybe if she hadn’t spent the first half of her senior year with Izzie and Jackson and Alex so much, albeit separately, she wouldn’t feel the need to study as much as she had in the past few weeks. Jo had found herself falling behind, distracted by parties and flooding apartments and some crappy law drama Jackson had forced her to watch every Thursday night. But now, after weeks—she felt like she was getting back on track, just in time as well.

Jo’s eyes scan the page in front of her, she reads it over and over, but the words just don’t seem to settle in. With a deep groan, she throws the pen across the table and flops her head into her hands, rubbing circles against her temple.

“You look like you could do with a drink.” Alex’s familiar deep voice sneaks up behind her, causing Jo to jump in her seat—spine becoming rigid as a loud gasp escapes her lips. The sound causes the security guard to stand from his seat, glaring over at the pair. “Sorry,” Alex calls over to the guy, raising his hands in defence before letting out a laugh as he settles down on the chair next to a still heavy-breathing Jo.

“You scared me!” She exclaims through gritted teeth, trying to keep her voice quiet but still let Alex know she wasn’t all that happy about his surprise arrival. He places a comforting hand on her back and rubs softly, up and down up and down. It surprises her just how much the action did relax her, the feeling of stress no longer coursing through her body. “What are you doing here?” Jo finally asks now her breathing has returned to normal, turning in her seat slightly to look up at Alex.

Alex is about to reply with something snarky about her rigorous studying schedule but then he notices; the grey sweatshirt that engulfs her small frame, the one with their college logo fraying over the chest. He’d recognise it anywhere, with the raggedy hemline against the wrists and the small patch of white paint he’d stained it with when he helped his mom paint the shed in her backyard. It was his sweatshirt. Jo was wearing his sweatshirt. And he couldn’t explain the warm fuzzy feeling he felt after just one look at her at her snuggled inside of it. She looked so cosy—perfect, even. He wondered if he’d ever see anyone look just as good as she looked in this moment.

But, then again, she was constantly surprising him.

Ever since she first sat down next to him in their freshman year; her eyes big, lips pursed and rambling about something or another to herself. Alex had thought she was crazy; the way she ranted under her breath as if there really was someone else up in her head conversing back to her. But then, once she spotted him staring, her ranting turned to babbling as she tried to explain herself. And in an instant, he no longer thought she was crazy, he thought she was cute and funny, OK, and maybe a little crazy—but that was part of her charm.

They had been friends ever since, really good friends.

Just friends.

“Is this mine?” He plasters on his crooked smirk, hiding the warm feeling he felt after noticing, as he uses his thumb and forefinger to pinch at the material and pull her a little closer.

She leans into him with a giggle, her dainty shoulder bumping against his broad, “stooop.” She drags, trying to fight the curl of her lips as he continues to tease her with pokes to her stomach. She’s attempting to get back into the reading she momentarily gave up on, picking up a pen which was closer to her than the one she angrily threw earlier. But he doesn’t relent, forcing her to swivel on her seat and look him dead in his amused brown eyes. “I forgot to bring clothes when I crashed at your place last night,” she informs with a shove to his arm, “I would have headed back to my apartment but my landlord called, the plumber was over there—finally fixing the damn pipes.”

Jo swears she sees Alex’s shoulders deflate at her words, and she can’t pinpoint exactly why he would be disappointed about finally getting her out of his hair. Despite the fact that Alex’s apartment was tiny, practically the size of the car she lived in back in high school, the place never felt cramped when it was just the two of them. There were times that they were probably a little too close for comfort, heat rising into the small area, but even if Alex minded her showing up with a single duffel bag and an apologetic smile—he never complained, not once.

Alex laughs lightly, “it’s cool, it looks better on you anyway.”

“Shut up.” Jo scoffs, deflecting the compliment. Something Alex noticed Jo did a lot, if not every single time someone attempts to say something nice to her. “So,” she pushes the conversation along, “you don’t have to worry about me showing up anymore.”

He shrugs, “I like the company.” Jo tilts her head to the side, eyes scanning his face—trying to find something, anything, that would give her a sign as to what that meant. What it meant coming from him. A sign. Something. “Oh!” He exclaims, shooting an apologetic glance over to the security guard, before his hands reach down the bag pack he discarded onto the floor upon his arrival, “I got you something.” He tells her with a smile and a glimmer in his eyes, hands fishing into the bag.

“For me?” Jo’s eyes widen in excitement as she grins widely. A giggle escapes her lips when he produces two bottle of beers and a bottle opener, popping the caps off when he sees the small excitement in her face. He loved that about, Jo. She appreciated the simple stuff—the stuff he appreciated, they enjoyed together. “You shouldn’t have,” Jo murmurs with a smile, hitting her bottle against Alex’s once he’s passed hers over, keeping the bottle below the table—out of the guards’ sight.

“I have a proposition for you.” He states, swigging the beer.

Jo’s eyebrows raise inquisitively, “mmhmm, what’s that?” Brown eyes widening as Alex leans in closer towards her, placing a bookmark on the open page of her book before slamming the thing shut. “Alex—”

“Let’s get out of here.” It’s not really a question, more like a polite order. “You need a break.”

With a huff, Jo rakes her eyes over the mess of open books, sighing at the sight before her. Jo shakes her head, turning back to Alex, “you should be studying, too. We have five days until we take the biggest test of our lives, Alex. Our entire future is counting—”

“Stop.” Alex groans, grabbing the small woman by her shoulders and forcing her to look him in the eyes. His crooked smirk never fades from his lips, doesn’t even falter. “You need a break.” He repeats, his voice almost stern.

Knowing that this wasn’t an argument she was about to win, Jo sets down the beer and picks up the misplaced pens, chucking them into the blue pencil case she’s been carrying around since he met her. Alex’s smirk turns into a proud grin as he watches her pack up her things, closing book after book.

He stands up, helping her gather her things and piles up books so he can take them back to their rightful place for her. It takes him three trips but when she murmurs a quiet thank you, raising a soft hand to stroke down his arm, he really doesn’t mind.

Once they’re done, her bag is filled and his hands are clutching at two cold beers whilst they walk out of the library, Jo bidding a sweet farewell to the unimpressed security guard, a thought crosses his mind. “You know,” he begins, watching as Jo’s brows raise in his direction and her hand comes to snatch back the cool beer, “once this is finally over, I’m taking you out for dinner.”

Jo grins, “a fancy bistro or a penthouse bar looking over New York’s skyline?” The glimmer in her eyes as they continue to walk in the direction of his apartment without even a spoken word regarding the matter, tells him she’s teasing.

“Private jet to Milan, actually.”

“How about …” Jo chuckles, bumping shoulders with Alex, tucking her small frame against his larger, “we eat fried chicken in the car like we were raised to do.”

“Sounds perfect.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer as they round the corner onto the street of his apartment.

The next time they see one another, out of the classroom, she’s worming her way through the crowded bar they had agreed to meet at. Jo’s eyes are scanning across the people as her once cool skin heats up, in search of him. Fingers fumble to unbutton her thick coat within the mass of people, not wanting to accidentally elbow someone in the back—she sees him.

Alex is there, with a wide grin on his face and a bottle of his usual beer in hand. He’s laughing along to something one of there classmates have said before his eyes land on her, and if possible, his smile widens and sparkling white teeth blind her. He pauses his conversation, moving towards her and grabbing her by the hand to pull her through the crowd at a faster pace. He was glad to finally see her.

“Congratulations!” Jo exclaims to Alex and the rest of their classmates once they reach their corner of the bar, all of them cheer and offer her their own congratulations at the sight of her. She smiles up at Alex, before her hands finally move back to the one button she was yet to undo, snapping the coat open she shrugs it off her shoulders and places it across her forearm.

Alex is turned towards the bar, requesting another beer for Jo as she does so but when he turns back—his mouth goes dry. He’d never seen Jo dressed like that. The figure hugging little black dress hugged her curves perfectly, lifting and contouring her cleavage. He thought, though he kept it to himself, she looked absolutely perfect. But before he could be subject to both Jo’s and their classmates lame jokes about his drooling, he shakes his head—ignoring the feelings that rushed over him at just the sight of her. Pleased for the moment of distraction as he exchanges his cash for a beer and hands it over to the petite brunette, full lips offering him a tight smile in thanks.

Yes, he’d always thought Jo was pretty. Beautiful, even. When she was dressed in a sweatshirt or just a cardigan, even a simple t-shirt—she always managed to look utterly perfect. At least, to him she did. He’d heard her wining about bad skin and greasy hair, but he’d never seen the faults that she could see.

As they’re standing there, celebrating the end of an era, Jo begins to reminisce on how they got here …

She thinks about how she had met Alex during their first year of law school at NYU. Unlike most law students, who come straight from college when they can think of nothing better to do with their stellar undergrad transcripts, Alex Karev was older, with real-life experience. He had worked as an analyst at Goldman Sachs, which blew away Jo’s nine-to-five summer internships and office jobs filing and answering phones. He was confident, relaxed, and so gorgeous that it was hard not to stare at him. Sure enough, they were barely into their first week of class when the buzz over Alex began, women speculating about his status, noting either that his left ring finger was unadorned or, alternatively, worrying that he was too well dressed and handsome to be straight. But Jo dismissed Alex straightaway, because she thought that he thought she was crazy, convincing herself that his outward perfection was boring. Which was a fortunate stance because she also knew that he was out of her league. (She hated that expression and the presumption that people choose friends based so heavily upon looks, but it is hard to deny the principle when you look around—partners generally share the same level of attractiveness, and when they do not, it is noteworthy.) Besides, she wasn’t borrowing thirty thousand dollars a year so that she could find a boyfriend.

As a matter of fact, she probably would have gone three years without talking to him, but they randomly ended up next to each other in a significantly small seating-chart class taught by the sardonic Professor Zisman. Although many professors at NYU used the Socratic method, only Zisman used it as a tool to humiliate and torture students. Alex and Jo bonded in their hatred of the mean-spirited professor. Jo feared Zisman to an irrational extreme, whereas Alex’s reaction had more to do with disgust. “What an asshole,” he would growl after class, often after Zisman had reduced a fellow classmate to tears. “I just want to wipe that smirk off the jerks face.” Gradually, their grumbling turned into longer talks over coffee in the student lounge or during walks around Washington Square Park. They began to study together in the hour before class, preparing for the inevitable—the day Zisman would call on them. Jo dreaded her turn, knowing that it would be a bloody massacre, but secretly couldn’t wait for Alex to be called on. Zisman preyed on the weak and flustered, and Alex was neither. Jo was sure that he wouldn’t go down without a fight. She remembers it well.

Zisman stood behind his podium, examining his seating chart, a schematic with their faces cut from the first-year look book, practically salivating as he picked his prey. He peered over his small, round glasses (the kind that should be called spectacles) in the pair’s general direction, and said, “Mr. Karev.”

He pronounced Alex’s name wrong, making it sound more similar to “carve.” “It’s Ka-rev,’” Alex said, unflinching.  Jo inhaled sharply; nobody corrected Zisman. Alex was really going to get it now.

“Well, pardon me, Mr. Ka-rev,” Zisman said, with an insincere little bow. “Palsgraf versus Long Island Railroad Company.”

Alex sat calmly with his book closed while the rest of the class nervously flipped to the case, we had been assigned to read the night before.

The case involved a railroad accident. While rushing to board a train, a railroad employee knocked a package of dynamite out of a passenger’s hand, causing injury to another passenger, Mrs. Palsgraf. Justice Cardozo, writing for the majority, held that Mrs. Palsgraf was not a “foreseeable plaintiff” and, as such, could not recover from the railroad company. Perhaps the railroad employees should have foreseen harm to the package holder, the Court explained, but not harm to Mrs. Palsgraf. “Should the plaintiff have been allowed recovery?” Zisman asked Alex.

Alex said nothing. For a brief second Jo panicked that he had frozen, like others before him. Say no, she thought, sending him fierce brain waves. Go with the majority holding. But when she looked at his expression, and the way his arms were folded across his chest, Jo could tell that he was only taking his time, in marked contrast to the way most first-year students blurted out quick, nervous, untenable answers as if reaction time could compensate for understanding. “In my opinion?” Alex asked.

“I am addressing you, Mr. Karev. So, yes, I am asking for your opinion.” The teacher groaned, rolling his eyes. “I would have to say yes, the plaintiff should have been allowed recovery. I agree with Justice Andrew’s dissent.”

“Ohhhh, really?” Zisman’s voice was high and nasal. “Yes. Really.” Jo was surprised by his answer, as he had told her just before class that he didn’t realize crack cocaine had been around in 1928, but Justice Andrews surely must have been smoking it when he wrote his dissent. She was even more surprised by Alex’s brazen “really” tagged onto the end of his answer, as though to taunt Zisman. Zisman’s scrawny chest swelled visibly. “So you think that the guard should have foreseen that the innocuous package measuring fifteen inches in length, covered with a newspaper, contained explosives and would cause injury to the plaintiff?” “It was certainly a possibility.” “Should he have foreseen that the package could cause injury to anybody in the world?” Zisman asked, with mounting sarcasm. “I didn’t say ‘anybody in the world.’ I said, ‘the plaintiff.’ Mrs. Palsgraf, in my opinion, was in the danger zone.” Zisman approached our row with ramrod posture and tossed his Wall Street Journal onto Alex’s closed textbook. “Care to return my newspaper?” “I’d prefer not to,” Alex stated, unflinching. The shock in the room was palpable. The rest of the class would have simply played along and returned the paper, mere props in Zisman’s questioning. “You’d prefer not to?” Zisman cocked his head. “That’s correct. There could be dynamite wrapped inside it.” Half of the class gasped; the other half snickered. Clearly, Zisman had some tactic up his sleeve, some way of turning the facts around on Alex. But Alex wasn’t falling for it. Zisman was visibly frustrated. “Well, let’s suppose you did choose to return it to me, and it did contain a stick of dynamite and it did cause injury to your person. Then what, Mr. Thaler?”

“Then I would sue you, and likely I would win.”

“And would that recovery be consistent with Judge Cardozo’s rationale in the majority holding?”

“No. It would not.” “Oh, really? And why not?” “Because I’d sue you for an intentional tort, and Cardozo was talking about negligence, was he not?” Alex raised his voice to match Zisman’s. Jo thinks she stopped breathing as Zisman pressed his palms together and brought them neatly against his chest as though he were praying. “I ask the questions in this classroom. If that’s all right with you, Mr. Thaler?” Alex shrugged as if to say, have it your way, makes no difference to me.

“Well, let’s suppose that I accidentally dropped my paper onto your desk, and you returned it and were injured. Would Mr. Cardozo allow you full recovery?” “Sure.” And at the end of the hour, Zisman actually said, “Very good, Mr. Thaler.” It was a first.

The pair had left class feeling jubilant. Alex had prevailed for all of them. The story spread throughout the first-year class, earning him more points with the girls, who had long since determined that he was totally available.

Jo had found herself telling Izzie the story as well. Izzie had moved to New York at about the same time Jo did, only under vastly different circumstances. Jo was there to become a lawyer; she came without a job, or a plan, or much money. Jo let her sleep on a futon in my dorm room until she found some roommates—three American Airlines flight attendants looking to squeeze a fourth body into their heavily partitioned studio. She borrowed money from her parents to make the rent while she looked for a job, finally settling on a bartending position at the Monkey Bar. For the first time in their friendship, Jo was happy with her life in comparison to hers. Well, she was still poorer, but at least she had a plan. Izzie’s prospects didn’t seem great with only a 2.9 GPA from Indiana University. “You’re so lucky,” Izzie would whine as Jo tried to study. Really, after years of living in her car, growing up parentless, really? Luck is buying a lottery ticket along with your Yoo-hoo and striking it rich. Nothing about Jo’s life is lucky—it’s all about hard work, it is all an uphill struggle. But of course, she never said that. Just told her that things would soon turn around for her. And sure enough, they did. About two weeks later a man waltzed into the Monkey Bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and began to chat Izzie up. By the time he finished his drink, he had promised her a job at one of Manhattan’s top PR firms. He told her to come in for an interview, but that he would (wink, wink) make sure that she got the job. Izzie took his business card, had Jo revise her résumé, went in for the interview, and got an offer on the spot. Her starting salary was seventy thousand dollars. Plus, an expense account. Practically what Jo would make if she did well enough in school to get a job with a New York firm. So while Jo sweated it out and racked up debt, Izzie began her glamorous PR career. She planned parties, promoted the season’s latest fashion trends, got plenty of free everything, and dated a string of beautiful men. Within seven months, she left the flight attendants in the dust and moved in with her co-worker Reed, a snobbish, well-connected girl from Greenwich. Izzie tried to include Jo in her fast-track life, although she seldom had time to go to her events or her parties or her blind-date setups with guys she swore were “total-hotties” but that Jo knew were simply Izzie’s castoffs. Which brings her back to Alex. Jo raved about him to Izzie and Reed, told them how unbelievable he was—smart, handsome, funny. In retrospect she’s not sure why she did it. In part because it was true. But perhaps she was a little jealous of their glamorous life and wanted to juice her own up a bit. Alex was the best thing in her arsenal. “So why don’t you like him?” Izzie would ask. “He’s not my type,” she’d say. “We’re just friends.” Which was the truth. Sure, there were moments when Jo felt a flicker of interest or a quickening of her pulse as she sat near Alex. Especially once they became friends and ended up spending almost all their time with one another. Jo was only glad that by the time Jo was spending nights at Alex’s place she had dropped it. Jo had tried to remain vigilant as not to fall for him, always reminding herself that guys like Alex only date girls like Izzie.

But then came the way Alex’s hand would softly find the small of her back as they were walking, and the way his hooded gaze would meet hers after a few drinks at the bar, and then his muscular arms would wrap around her after a study breakthrough and all of the work she had put in to not falling for him … evaporated. She was completely and utterly hopeless.

Izzie was the first to notice the change in Jo’s feelings. As they were lying on the blonde’s couch and she had absentmindedly mentioned him to Jo, and the brunette sat up straighter and a blush painted her cheeks and she began to stutter out her words … Izzie screamed gleefully, teasing Jo to begin with but ultimately telling her best friend to go for it. But that had been a while ago now, and although Izzie mentioned Jo’s feelings for Alex in passing on occasion, it was mostly pushed to the back of their minds. Izzie was still very much aware, though. She proved that much when she teased Jo with a wink and a smirk at every mention of the older man’s name.

And despite Jo’s closeness with both Alex and Izzie—it wouldn’t be until tonight, now law school was over, that the pair would finally meet. About one hour had passed since Jo had shown up and she and Alex had found a free booth in the back of the bar to slip into, most of their classmates already moving on to the next bar whilst a few stayed behind but hung out on the stools nearer to the entrance.

“You know,” Alex quirks up an eyebrow at Jo, “you’re gonna’ have to finally relax now you have to stop worrying about schoolwork.” He remarks with a teasing smile.

Jo giggles, “now I just need to worry about finding a job.”

“Well, at least take a night off.” Alex rolls his eyes, letting out a laugh of his own. “I want us to have fun, tequila shots and vodka sodas on me. What do you say?”

Jo pretends to mull it over for a second, although she knows that Alex is very certain that she’ll say yes. “OK.” Jo states, leaning in closer to Alex, her breath dancing across his neck as she whispers, “but you need to make sure I end up back at my place tonight.”

Alex’s gaze finds hers and he nods, “I’m on Jo duty, got it.” She raises a hand between them offering him a handshake, and his eyes cut from her to her dainty hand, he clutches it before giving her a firm shake. He found himself quite enjoying the feel of her soft small fingers in his, and when she pulls it out of his grasp—he misses her touch. “I don’t mind keeping my eyes on you,” he flirts but it’s lost on Jo, whose completely convinced he only tried to make her blush and tease her, as she scoffs and playfully hits his arm as he slides out of the booth.

Jo is only sat alone for a moment of two before she hears the shrill screech of Izzie’s voice, “I’m hereee!” The blonde runs up to the booth, shimmying into the seat and flopping her purse down onto the table with an exclaimed huff before flipping her long blonde hair behind her shoulders. Her eyes are scanning the rest of the bar, barely paying attention to the friend she had come here specifically to celebrate with, before muttering, “oh god, of course you’re the one sat alone in the dark corner—”

Jo cuts her off, sighing before she begins to explain she wasn’t alone, “actually—”

“I need to get drunk.” Izzie interrupts with a deep sigh before venturing off into a mini rant, “I’ve had such an awful day, running around after my boss and urgh—this client asked me to run and get him coffee, plus, I’m almost certain that the stress is the reason my hair is falling so flat on my head right now.” Izzie huffs in one single breath, fiddling with one strand of perfectly curled golden hair. “Oh crap,” her eyes widen, “how was your test thingy?”

Jo raises her eyebrows for a millisecond but chooses to ignore the comment—as if passing the bar was just another test. Like their high school math SAT which Izzie almost didn’t even bother to attend. Instead of complaining, she smiles and nods, “it went great, I’m confident—”

“Fuck!” Izzie’s voice cuts her off again.

At that moment Alex sauntered over to the booth with a tray full of drinks for him and Jo, which she now suspected she’ll be sharing with Izzie. As soon as he joins them, his eyes flick to the blonde and as if on instinct, Jo introduced him to Izzie, and she turned on the charm, giggling and playing with her hair and nodding emphatically whenever he said anything. Alex was pleasant to her but didn’t seem overly interested and, at one point, as she was dropping Goldman names—do you know this guy or that guy?—Alex actually appeared to be suppressing a yawn.

Seemingly, this went unnoticed by Izzie—although she seemed mildly miffed with Jo when the brunette was responding to her instead of Alex. But she thought she was saving her friends from an awkward interaction.

“Do you want another drink?” Alex turns his attention to Jo, noticing her almost empty glass. She wonders if this is just an excuse to get away or if he wanted another himself, she couldn’t tell how far along he was through the dark coloured beer bottle.

“So, when you gonna’ grow a pair and ask Jo out on a real date?” “I am sick of hearing about study sessions and nights out and blah blah blah …”

“Iz—” Jo begins, stopping herself as her mouth begins to go dry with embarrassment. “I mean, he—you don’t have to … we don’t—we are just friends.” She stutters over her words, feeling a fresh deep red blush crawl up her chest and her neck and then her cheeks under both Alex and Izzie’s stares. Izzie’s eyebrow is quirked up, lips curled into a tight smirk, watching Jo’s flustered state. Whilst Alex looks more taken aback; his lips are parted, a small frown on his face and he almost looks as if he’s about to begin protesting before Izzie begins to giggle.

Both of their eyes snap in her direction as she continues laughing before, at a flip of a switch, the blondes face turns serious. There’s a slight glimmer in her eyes as she asks, “well, then when are you going to ask me on a date?”

Alex’s eyebrows almost shoot to his hair line, clearly surprised by Izzie’s forwardness. His eyes leave Jo’s and he’s uncomfortably chuckling at Izzie, his fingers fumbling with the paper that wrapped around his still cool beer.

Jo’s throat turns dry; her heart dropping and her once joyful demeanour has turned sour. It sounded selfish, but they were supposed to be out celebrating her. Her and Alex. But Izzie didn’t know Alex, she only came here for Jo. And Izzie knew, even if Jo tried to deny it, Izzie knew very well that Jo had feelings for Alex. She’d told her that much—every time Jo went into denial; Izzie would state again and again that she knows Jo better than herself and she knows Jo has a huge thing for Alex.

So, why was she sat here, on Jo’s night, basically asking Alex on a date?

“You can take me to this penthouse bar I’ve seen,” she tells him, confidently, lifting up her glass and seductively placing her straw between her lips with a coy smile, “overlooking the skyline, very classy.”

Jo lets out a breathy laugh, before excusing herself, feeling as if she won’t be able to hide her disdain any longer, “I need to use the bathroom.” She tells them both, shimmying out of the booth as Alex gets up to make way for her to leave. His brown eyes watch her retreating form, unable to tear themselves away.

As Jo takes a breather in the ladies’ room, she wonders if she could even be hurt with Izzie at all. Like she said, she had denied having feelings for Alex over and over. And it’s not like she stated a claim on him, he wasn’t hers. Yes, he was her closest friend in college and other than Jackson, he was easily her biggest confidant. They bonded over shared hatred for teachers and classes, and similar upbringings. She had always felt like they shared something, since that first-class years ago. He wasn’t hers—and it was selfish of her to decide in her own mind that he couldn’t be Izzie’s either.

It wasn’t her place. When she worms her way back to the booth, she’s almost stopped in her tracks as she hears the sound of Alex’s gruff voice next to Izzie’s loud and obnoxious laughter. But with a deep breath, Jo powers ahead and moves to stand directly in front of the booth. “I’m going to head home,” she tells them, offering her best fake smile, “I’m pretty tired—big day an’ all.”

“I’ll walk you home!” Alex offers, almost jumping from his seat to catch her wrist in his hands. Neither of them noticing Izzie’s burning gaze on the friendly interaction.

“No, no—it’s fine.” Jo places her free hand on top of Alex’s, gently telling him to let go. “I’ll catch a cab.” She lies. Knowing she’ll end up walking back to her place, needing the fresh air and the time to think.

He’s concerned as he presses, “are you sure?”

Offering Izzie a tight-lipped smile and Alex a shake of her head, brushing his concern off, “certain.” With that, the pair both nod—Izzie more eager than Alex to be left alone, the blonde shoots Jo a wink as a way of saying thank you but Jo chooses not to acknowledge it, she knows Izzie won’t remember come morning.

As she steps out into the cool air, a wave of emotion sets on her and if there wasn’t so many people lingering on the street lined full of bars, she thinks fresh tears would fall down her face. But then she’d be the pathetic one who was crying over some boy who wasn’t even her boyfriend. Or was she crying over the betrayal of her friend. Was it even a betrayal?

“Jo!” The familiar sound of Alex’s voice shouts from behind her, stopping in her tracks and silently thanking herself for choosing not to cry, “are you ok?” He asks sincerely as she spins on her heel, turning to face him and plaster on that well-rehearsed fake grin.

In that moment, she thinks pretending that she has no idea what he was insinuating, “ … with?”

“Well,” he lifts a thumb to gesture back to the bar, “with this?”

She can’t believe her faux smile can grow any bigger, but it does, “yes—of course! Yeh, Izzie’s great,” Jo begins to nod profusely, “you never know where it might lead, right?”

“Erm,” Alex begins, eyes glistening against the streetlights before he lets out an un-convinced huff, “yeah.”

“Cool, so, good night.”

“Good night.”

#jolex #jo wilson #alex karev

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victuuriwriters · 7 years

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Welcome to the VWC’s Weekly Bulletin, where we feature what’s new and exciting in Victuuri fanfic every week. Look here to get a glimpse at new works that have been posted in the fandom, updated WIP fics, works from our Collective authors, and what the admins have been reading this week.

New Works

Fields of Gold by Haro: The story in which Yuuri Katsuki wins everything there is to win and retires as Japan's living legend, because he's incredible and beautiful and he deserves it. Aka 'Yuuri wins all the gold', the fic.

Meet Me by the River by c0rnfl0wer: Every Kupala Night has come and gone without his attending, but now that Viktor Nikiforov is getting older and taking over the position as leader of his village, he has to start taking his life in a different direction. He wasn't sure whether he expected anything at all in this way. But when Yuuri catches his wreath, he finds the path he had always longed for.

Historical/Mythology AU based on Slavic mythology and traditions, specifically Kupala Night - a midsummer celebration involving merrymaking in a few different ways.

Bound to Please by paxton1976: By a small twist of Fate, Viktor and Yuuri meet in the Katsuki's secondhand bookstore 'Bound to Please'. Friendship comes fast as they offer something the other has never experienced before. As they strengthen and grow individually, they realize the other holds the pieces to make them whole.

Canoe-dling: Not Prohibited by primavitya: Yuuri is a seasoned counselor at Camp Okenoko who thought he was in for just another run of the mill, shenanigan filled summer with his friends. But he could not have been more wrong as he’s inevitably blindsided by the newest arrival.Enter one Viktor Nikiforov, who’s got the charms and good looks to woo whomever he pleases, and who’s interest is instantly peaked by none other than, Yuuri Katsuki.

Dawn in St. Petersburg by Multiple_Universes: To some people it’s just another morning, but for two skaters it’s much more than that.

WIP Updates

Like a Fairytale by lucycamui: In which Prince Victor gets swept off his feet at a royal banquet and will go to any length to find his 'Cinderella' Yuuri. (And Phichit is the fairy godmother who has no idea what he's doing).

Fatum ad Momentum by maydei: These are the moments that were lost in the rush for the Gold, and the things that were built within them. A re-evaluation of everything, from day one, the real day one. From, "Be my coach, Victor!!" And how trust, friendship, and love were built from there. Through Victor's eyes, the story unfolds—the journey and experience of knowing Yuuri.

Doveglion by reginar: Yuuri Katsuki would describe himself as a dime-a-dozen poet with a degree in comparative literature from Todai and only a couple of publications due to luck. By some miracle, he’d received an Asian Culture Council grant and a Bright scholarship to help him pursue MFA Creative Writing in America. He’d been so excited because he would be in the same country as his literary hero, V. Nikiforov, writer of countless, innovative poems.

Impostor Syndrome by renaissance: At some point, most people with a childhood crush will imagine meeting their idol, and might even pretend that they're dating. This is the story of how Yuuri Katsuki meets his childhood crush, and how they pretend that they're dating.

counterclockwise by viktyuuri (Empress_Arisu): Life after retirement, Yuuri thinks, is quite a nice change of pace. Although, not so much when he finds himself thrust back into the past.

In which married husbands Viktor and Yuuri somehow end up 5 years in the past without knowing how or why.

Or: Yuuri and Viktor try and fail to keep their relationship on the lie low. (Yuuri tries for a while, but having a clingy husband makes things 10x harder.)

Everyone's suspicious, and really, Yuuri just wants to go back and have some semblance of peace back in his life, damn it.

New in #victuuriwriters

Icicles Melt in Summer (WIP) by dystopiansushi: Victor Nikiforov. Oddly, no matter how many times Yuuri repeats the name to himself, it still sounds beautiful, the r rolling off his tongue and the v melting on the tips of his lips like a mint. But more to the point, Victor Nikiforov, model for the Agape shoe and accessory line and face of Stammi Vicino Menswear, is sitting in one of his chairs.

Or, the one where model Victor Nikiforov is searching for his raison d'être in Brooklyn, New York, and finds much more than that in a small, jasmine-scented hair salon.

and once upon a song (WIP) by missmichellebelle: A popular high school ice hockey star and a shy, academically gifted transfer student discover they share a secret passion for singing. When they end up accidentally auditioning for the lead roles in the school musical, it threatens East High's rigid social order and sends their peers into an uproar.

Between the Lines by nikiforovs: Victor doesn't have a problem.In fact, he has the exact opposite of a problem if he's being entirely honest with himself. (He's not.) The cashier of that hole-in-the-wall bookstore was cute, but he wasn't the only reason Victor returned to Sweetest Reads early the following week.

Or: Bookstore AU where Victor keeps buying more books than necessary just so he can continue to see the cute cashier again.

Rock, Paper, Scissors by nerdlife4eva: Victor and Yuuri discover the only chore they both dislike is vacuuming and decide to rock, paper, scissors (RPS) each time the chore needs to be completed. Yuuri is an ace at RPS and Chris sends them personalized charts to track their successes. All adorable Victuuri hell breaks loose! (These two have no chill, in basically anything!)

Some Might Call it Fate by Chessala: The Katsuki family moves to Russia after they had to close their Hot Springs temporarily. Little Yuuri (3) has to go to a new Kindergarten where he doesn't know anyone. He sees a picture of an ice skater on the wall of his new Kindergarten and is instantly fascinated. He loved ice skating so maybe he can be friends with the person that drew this picture. But how can he talk to them?

Admin Picks

Of Bright Stars and Burning Hearts (WIP) by Reiya: Viktor doesn’t remember the first time he met Yuuri Katsuki. This however, is what Viktor does remember…Part 2 of the Rivals series and companion fic to ‘Until My Feet Bleed and My Heart Aches’. One small change alters the course of both Viktor and Yuuri’s entire lives, throwing them into a bitter rivalry that spans across many years and creates a world where they both tell a very different side to the story.

so I’m pretty sure all of you have read Reiya’s fic Until my Feet Bleed and my Heart Aches and the sequel is finally here!! This fic, man. If you’re down for hella Victor angst in the form of pining, this is for you. (Although you should def read UMFBAMHA first)

urgent need of gravity (WIP) by RennieOnIceCream (Hitsugi_Zirkus): AU in which Yuuri is a make-up artist working in a small salon when he's suddenly invited to work for big time fashion brand Stammi Vicino right alongside its top male model, Viktor Nikiforov, and love isn't all glitter and perfectly-winged eyeliner.

Model Victor crushing on his makeup artist, Yuuri in badass makeup doing glorious things to a certain model’s face (sadly not kissing. yet.), fluff of epic proportions, need I go on?

rubato (WIP) by indianchai: Yuri is a psychology major (who happens to play the cello) that moves to Detroit in his sophomore year of college to escape his ice skating past. Through his roommate Phichit, who is in their college’s orchestra, he encounters infamous pianist of the school– an overconfident senior named Victor who refuses to be an accompanist to anyone (until, that is, he hears Yuri play).

Am I obsessed with musician aus? hell yes. I could honestly wax lyrical about this au for a while, but...spoilers. Just, just read this okay.

Russian for Dummies by cutthroatpixie: “Are you a beginner? ”Viktor was not a beginner. Viktor was the TA supposedly in charge of this study session. Viktor spoke Russian. Viktor was Russian. “Sure!”

Need a cute fic to get you through the day? This one is it! Russian for Dummies is truly a fun and engaging fic that will take you five seconds to read, but will make your day 100% better.

and I feel life (for the very first time) by smudgesofink: “What do you have in mind for the next season?” A reporter asks him during the press conference and Victor shoots them a smile, trying to buy himself some time. I don’t know, he wants to say. To be honest, after winning gold once more, Victor feels lost more than anything. What does one do after finally fulfilling a longtime promise?

In which Victor helps Yuuri with his skating, but Yuuri helps Victor find himself again.

A truly beautiful fic about picking up the pieces after a tragedy. Victor finding hope and love in Yuuri is wonderfully portrayed in this fic, and the writing is beautiful to match. A truly inspiring and gorgeous piece of work that everyone in this fandom needs to read.

#weekly bulletin #victuuri #victuuriwriters

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mrmichaelchadler · 5 years

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Bright Wall/Dark Room March 2019: Love You for 10,000 Years by Kelsey Ford

We are pleased to offer an excerpt from the March issue of the online magazine, Bright Wall/Dark Room. Their latest issue is a look back at the films of 1994, as they celebrate 25th anniversary this year. In addition to Kelsey Ford's below piece on "Chungking Express," the issue also features new essays on "Pulp Fiction," "The Shawshank Redemption," "Reality Bites," "Speed," "Three Colors: Red," "Through the Olive Trees," "Amateur," "The Last Seduction," "Color of Night," "Dumb and Dumber," and "U.S. Go Home." The above art is by Tony Stella.

You can read our previous excerpts from the magazine by clicking here. To subscribe to Bright Wall/Dark Room, or look at their most recent essays, click here.

The Hong Kong of Chungking Express is electric, frenetic, dense. People crowd and push and elbow, a collective urge with neon-blurred edges. Their lives are casual chaos. And yet, the characters feel isolated and lonely, separate from each other with rare exception; their melodic interiors can’t quite sync with their daily tumult.

Cop 223 (Takeshi Kineshiro) runs when he’s sad because “the body loses water when you jog, so you have none left for tears.” The femme fatale (Brigitte Lin), an exhausted drug smuggler, wears a blonde wig and sunglasses as armor. Cop 663 (Tony Leung), recently broken up with by his stewardess girlfriend, lingers around the food stand where Faye (Faye Wong) blasts “California Dreamin’” too loudly. They’re all incidental, their lives clashing before glancing away.

In an opening voiceover, as Cop 223 races through the crowded streets, he says, “Every day we brush past so many other people. People we may never meet or people who may become close friends.”

This, more than anything, informs the ethos of Chungking Express: loneliness and the hope that, maybe, someday, it won’t be quite as potent as it is now.

When I was a junior in college, I’d been in a long distance relationship for the better part of the last three years. It was spring and something felt like it needed to change, I needed to stop hoping my boyfriend would call me back. So I bought a copy of Roland Barthes’ A Lover’s Discourse.

At first, the act of reading the book became an act of ending the relationship, and then it became an act of getting over the loss of that relationship. I stopped three-quarters of the way through, when I no longer needed it. That book stayed on my shelf for years, the bookmark in its place. Both are gone now; I can’t remember when that happened.

Built in fragments and arranged alphabetically, A Lover’s Discourse is like a deconstructed love story. Barthes believed the lover’s discourse was one “of an extreme solitude.” As he explores “absence” and “disreality” and “silence,” he separates the one doing the loving and the one being loved. The discourse becomes less about love than about the person performing the act of love: “The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.”

There are many ways to read A Lover’s Discourse. I choose to read it as a solitary monologue. A way of categorizing and explaining and dissecting, undoing a narrative and placing its articulated parts out like an undone body: these are the stories we tell ourselves about our place in the world, and these are the stories we tell ourselves about others.

Wong Kar-Wai’s lush and bright Chungking Express is built as a diptych: two stories featuring lovelorn cops wandering the streets of Hong Kong. The movie’s atmosphere and story are like one intense infatuation. The colors are bright and fast. Every object is happy or sad or filled with portent. The songs play over and over again, each time becoming more and more steeped in the emotional turmoil of the characters hitting repeat on the boombox.

In the first story, Cop 223 fixates on cans of pineapple. After his girlfriend breaks up with him on April 1st, he treats it as an April Fools joke. For a month, he buys cans of pineapple that expire on May 1st. He stacks the cans in his kitchen, an accumulation of his affection. In the movie’s signature, pensive voiceover, he says: “I tell myself that if May hasn’t come back by the time I’ve bought 30 cans, then our love will expire too.”

His frustration is bound to these expiring pineapple cans. When the market stops stocking cans that expire on the 1st, because it’s the 30th, he yells at the clerk, “With you people it’s always, Out with the old, in the with the new!” He asks, “How do you think the pineapple feels?” May 1st comes and there’s still no reconciliation. To mark the ending, Cop 223 systematically opens each can, forking the fruit into his mouth, adding spice to the slices, offering some to his dog.

On the other side of the break up and the heap of emptied cans, what’s there to do? He goes to a bar, drinks, throws up, and decides to fall in love with the next woman to walk through the front door. That the next woman is wearing a blonde wig, red sunglasses, and a raincoat doesn’t phase him. He can’t know she’s a drug smuggler. His approach is insipid and young. In three different languages, he asks her if she likes pineapple. She rebuffs him. When he says he wants to get to know her, she says, “You can’t get to know me.”

It’s easier this way, easier to turn her into an unknown, so her true edges can’t press up against the absence he’s trying to fill. The pair go back to a hotel and she falls asleep, crashed out over the bed, while he curls up on the windowsill and watches TV. He needs distraction and she needs a safe place to sleep. For one night, they’re perfect.

From Barthes’ entry for “The Unknowable”: “The other is not to be known; his opacity is not the screen around a secret, but instead, a kind of evidence in which the game of reality and appearance is done away with.”

A Lover’s Discourse is the negative of a love story, highlighting the moments before and after, when the narrator is alone and rolling over the story like a well-worn stone. One consistent truth he returns to: that the idea of someone is safer than actually getting to know them, that it’s always safer to leave that person in the environs of your mind, rather than allow them to violate the rules you’ve set in place for how they should behave or who they should be.

From that same entry: “I am then seized with that exaltation of loving someone unknown, someone who will remain so forever: a mystic impulse: I know what I do not know.”

Wong made Chungking Express during a break from another film, Ashes of Time, and the intimacy of Chungking can be sourced to its quick, two month shoot. Without permits, they had to rush any street shots; the apartment they used for Cop 663’s belonged to Wong’s longtime cinematographer, Christopher Doyle, at the time.

Wong is known for writing and rewriting his scripts while he shoots, relying on serendipity within scenes to let him know where they need to go next: “If you are paying attention, you realize that every story can go in so many directions. And each of those directions can also go in many more directions.”

In an interview with John Powers for WKW: The Cinema of Wong Kar Wai, Wong describes his style of filmmaking like the construction of a garden. “You plant a tree in the garden and you expect it will be a perfect tree. But then something happens, maybe a storm blows off a branch and you realize that it no longer looks the way you expected.” The metaphor is extended; he plants a bush, then two flowers, and then digs one up. On and on. “Then, at some point you stop, and if you’re lucky, what you have will be beautiful. It won’t be what you expected, but the garden will still be beautiful.”

Chungking. Our lives are hard, but sometimes, in the midst of all the furor and tension and exhaustion, sometimes there is a flicker of something nice, someone looking out for you. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can find a pocket of relief.

Chungking Express constantly doubles, even beyond its diptych structure. There are two women in blonde wigs, two stewardesses, two Mays. The characters often catch themselves in reflection, as if the image of them fragmenting along a wall feels more apt than the truth. The act of devotion is also doubled, both the end and the beginning of a romance, and the ways one can easily slip from one mode to the other.

Chungking Express is an entire movie about having a crush.

In the second story, The Mama & Papa’s “California Dreamin’” is on constant repeat. It’s a song that Wong called “innocent and simple, like summertime in the 70s” and played for his cinematographer, Doyle, when he was first trying to describe what the movie would be about. Faye blasts the song over and over again at the snack stand, so loudly she can’t hear customers or her own thoughts. This isn’t the only song threaded through Chungking; there’s also Faye Wong’s cover of The Cranberries’ “Dreams” and Dinah Washington’s potent “What a Difference a Day Makes,” which scores the flashback of Cop 663 and his stewardess girlfriend lolling around his apartment, drinking beer, flying toy airplanes, kissing against his closet.

Faye first notices Cop 663 when he starts hanging around her snack stand during his shifts. At first, he’s there to pick up meals for his girlfriend. But then she leaves him and his order becomes a simple black coffee. In the ex-girlfriend’s absence, Cop 663 imagines that everything in his apartment misses her as much as he does. “Since she left, everything in the apartment is sad,” he says. “I have to comfort them all before I go to sleep.” His soap has lost an unhealthy amount of weight, it needs to have more confidence; he tells his towels to stop crying but they continue to drip; his stuffed white bear holds too many grudges. A layer of grime has grown in the stewardess’s absence.

This is the grime that Faye scrapes away at in secret, after stashing the apartment key his ex left in an envelope for him at the snack stand. She waters his thirsty plants, buys him new towels and curtains, fills his aquarium with living fish, washes his sheets, changes the labels on his cans. His dim life livens, even if he doesn’t understand why or how.

One afternoon, he comes home while Faye is still there. In voiceover, words still heavy with loss, he says, “She used to jump out and scare me, but she hasn’t done it much recently.” He plays hide and seek, even though he knows the stewardess isn’t there hiding. It becomes a game of cat and mouse. Faye inhabits the space he wishes and expects the stewardess to be in. He checks the bathroom; Faye presses against a wall; he turns around; Faye’s ducked beneath a blanket.

Cop 663’s attentions drift from the stewardess’s absence and toward the increasingly frequent presence of Faye. Maybe he senses what she’s been doing. Maybe her proto-Manic Pixie Dream Girl vibe has gotten to him. Either way, he asks her to grab a drink with him in the California Bar, the same bar where Cop 223 met his blonde woman in shades. Faye doesn’t show and Cop 663 is left alone, a mirror of the scene where Cop 223 asked the blonde woman if she liked pineapple. There are, after all, different types of being alone.

“To try to write love is to confront the muck of language,” Barthes writes in his entry for “Inexpressible Love.’ “That region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little.” Which is the exact tightrope Chungking Express walks. Everything is important––every can of pineapple, every dripping towel, every loop of “California Dreamin’”––mimicking that all-encompassing feeling of infatuation. These small items hold an entire story. The heartbreak and the hope and the waiting.

But infatuation can become a closed loop. It’s scary to step outside of it, to start talking to someone rather than something. It’s easier, perhaps, to fly across the world to California than it is to cross the street and enter the bar named California, where the guy you like is expecting you. Chungking Express understands this, and the moments when its characters take those small risks feel like rewards. It’s worth it to be careful.

It takes time, yes, but eventually Faye finds her way back to the snack stand. Now she’s the one in uniform, a stewardess on leave, and Cop 663 is the one behind the counter, having bought the stand from Faye’s former boss. Faye’s energy is like a spiral about to snap. At any second, she might leave. But then Cop 663 asks her to draw him up another boarding pass; the ink on the one she’d left him the year before had long faded. So, she doesn’t leave.

This time, she stays.

from All Content https://ift.tt/2Hv02y2

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dudence-blog · 7 years

Text

Dear Dudence for 2 October 2017

On a Monday where a mad man kills almost 60 people, one of the last surviving members from Easy Company (Band of Brothers fame) passed away, and Tom Petty was taken off life support it’s a day which calls for something a bit different. So my gin and tonic in hand and a heavy heart it’s off to answering questions from people who didn’t ask them of me.

I am writing as a final act of desperation. For a year now, I have had very strong romantic feelings for one of my friends. She is smart, engaging to be around, caring—I have never felt quite like this about any crushes I’ve had before. The issue: she has been dating my twin sister for about a year now.

Dear Troubled Twin, my God, even BadPru’s twincest is lackluster. Sorry, that is unfair to you. You have a problem and you’re looking for advice, not to be a data point in the “NuPru is not good at this”. From your letter I’m assuming you’re young (referring to previous romantic feelings as “crushes”, semester abroad). Unless you’re planning to shoot the president in an effort to impress Jodie Foster your twin sister’s girlfriend, don’t go to therapy (and if you are planning for former please stop and contact a therapist). You’re a young person dealing with the normal sort of crush that people with a limited history of relationships have. You’ve idealized this woman in a way which is preventing you from seeing anyone else in a similar light. The good news is you’re doing the right things; dating other people, doing other things, reminding yourself that it’s a dick move to hit on your sibling’s girlfriend. Don’t go out on dates to show yourself that you’re over your crush. Go on dates because you like the person you’re dating enough to want to go out on a date with them. View them as themselves, not on the Twin Sister’s Perfect Girlfriend spectrum. Also, while my extensive internet research would make you think that telling your sister’s girlfriend you have the hots for her will end awesomely I have a sneaking suspicion I’m not really going to the best sources. So don’t tell them how your feeling. I’m thinking there’s a coin flip between “trouble both of them to know they’re hurting me” and “get really creeped out by you obsessing about their relationship for a year”. If the coin lands on the edge then my internet research was right and it’s “lingerie tickle fight”. This is not per se unhealthy; it’s part of finding your way through life, relationships, and love. It’s time you stopped pretending to move on and actually move on.

My husband and I have been together for a decade but for various monetary reasons are not legally wed. I have stayed out of his relationship with his daughter “Jessica.” I don’t think highly of her—she has been given every advantage in life and squandered it.

Dear Out of the House, oof. I’m sure that somewhere the plan “going to school to become a stylist” has gone swimmingly, but my god the number of times I’ve heard that statement and then two years later it remains the plan, and even further from completion, doesn’t make me disagree with your assessment of the situation. I’d like to find a silver-lining in this situation for you, but I’m just not seeing it. You don’t include the usual “I love my husband but,” you’re not a fan of his daughter, summing your description of her husband would be “sub-cromulent”, and it’s “her son” not “grandson”. I’d have to say your plan to go with an ultimatum is about your best course of action. A therapist may or may not be a good idea, but I bet a lawyer would be a much, much, much gooder one. You and your husband share a house and who knows what those monetary reasons encapsulates. But whatever they are I’d bet they’re an issue which could either bite you, or him, in the ass if not handled right if you need to dissolve your relationship. Your offer to support them for a few months is a perfectly reasonable one, and one which could be the basis of a suitable compromise if everyone was interested. At the end of the day you need to look out for yourself. This is a duty you didn’t sign up for, got into stupidly, and you see how it is likely going to become an all-consuming vortex of suck which will drain you emotionally and financially.

My “aunt Rhonda,” my mom’s best friend who lives several states away, has recently come out as an avid member of the alt-right movement, along with the rest of her family. This was shocking, considering they seemed to be otherwise for years. Her eldest son, “Tom,” and I were also friends, but now he’s turned out to be the biggest fanatic of the bunch, and the one who radicalized the rest.

Dear Alt-right Former Friend, just fucking unfriend the guy. There are two ways you can go about this. You could do it like a rational adult, simply click the “unfriend” option and move on with your life. Or you could do it like an anti-hero whose secret power is fueled by creating the maximum amount of drama possible. Before you unfriend him explain exactly why you’re doing it, tag everyone you both know, go into detail about why you’re taking this stand. Believe it or not there is not a requirement for you to remain friends through social media with someone who you don’t want to be friends with. Heck, there’s a pretty good chance the dude you hate actually has you unfollowed and would not give a second thought to you unfriending them. And even if they do you get the satisfaction of expressing your distaste for his politics while he gets the chance to talk on his page about his “keeping it real” is driving away the “snowflakes”. Heck, if that happens it’s a win-win! As for the fallout on your mother’s relationship your mother and Aunt Rhonda are grown women. Your mother, presumably, knows about Rhonda’s change in politics, maybe she doesn’t even consider a change and it’s something she’s known for years. I know it might be hard to believe, but there was a time in history where people really did tolerate people who didn’t agree share their every ideological bent. Your social media friending or not won’t cause something to happen which wasn’t going to happen anyway.

My wife and I were student athletes who met and married after getting MBAs. For 32 years we have lived an active, health conscious, monogamous life together. Roughly 60 days after our 31st anniversary I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. With treatments and luck, I have 12 to 24 months. We both know what reality is.

Dear Letter from Dying Husband, this is the plot of some movie with Leonidas when he was wearing more than a loincloth. It was actually pretty cruel what he was doing. I’m not saying what you’re thinking of is cruel, I’m just putting it out there. I think the idea of leaving some mementos for your wife to read or watch after you’ve died is a wonderful and touching gesture. I’d highly recommend discussing it with her, letting her know your intent, and deciding with her the best way to go forward. Maybe she decides she’d appreciate those letters on the significant days of your life together. Maybe she’d rather get them at once and allow her to decide the circumstances where she reads them. If you do decide to go the “anniversary letter” route, please make sure she knows how to stop them in case it does become something less wonderful in reality than it sounded during your last years together.

I live in a cul-de-sac with several families the same age as my two girls. We all do mutual birthdays and celebrations, except for “Lydia.” Lydia has five children and on most days lets them run wild and unsupervised, and the kids barge in on neighbors. I have bit my tongue over having several of Lydia’s children (my youngest is friends with two of them) show up at my back door asking for dinner this summer. I have brought it up with Lydia, only to have her dismiss it.

Dear Cheapskate, just let me go ahead and disagree with Newdie and say she is totally wrong that kids don’t do things because they’re jerks. Yes, kids do things because they’re jerks, this is because kids, just like everyone else, can be jerks. I doubt your daughter’s age-appropriate friends brought her a dirty teddy bear in a brown paper bag because they’re jerks, but I can totally see a teenager doing it. Again, because kids are jerks. All that being said Lydia might just be one of those parents who is doing the bare minimum needed to bring up a litter of kids without any one them being obviously horrible people. That she is devilishly taking advantage of your kindness by sending her kids on activities without the ability to feed themselves. That she shoves them out the door to crash neighborhood parties or family dinners so that she doesn’t have to deduct from her lotto and cigarettes budget. Or she is financially stressed and really can’t provide the sort of comforts for her kids that you can provide for hers. I empathize with not wanting to provide it for her kids; it’s can be hard enough to do it for you own. I would suggest having another conversation with Lydia, but instead of it being about how you’re not going to support her children, think of it from a point of view that Lydia might not actually be able to do what you think she should. People hate admitting to financial problems. Most folks would rather talk with their parents about their sex life than talk money. If she isn’t able to get a present for your daughter’s birthday, or put enough food on the table for 5 children including two teens, might knowing this make you rethink your attitude towards her children and their actions? It doesn’t make you and your cul-de-sac responsible for providing for them, but it might not be worth the feuding. If Lydia tells you to mind your fucking business then snorts a line of blow off a hooker’s ass using a rolled up benjamin to do it go ahead and feud though.

I’m from another country and only have a few friends here. My friendship with “John” is really important to me. I recently broke up with my longtime girlfriend and he has been here for me a lot. John, another friend, and I have a group chat and the other friend sent some porn images as a joke, and I responded with some too.

Dear Best Friend’s Wife is Angry Wife Me, you should apologize. There’s at least three different things going on here, and the healing power of “and” almost certainly is exerting its blessings as well.

Humor is pretty culturally specific. Even if you’ve been in a country for a while you might miss the boat on some jokes.

Did you escalate the porn joke? For example, did your mutual friend send a titillating picture of Scarlett Johansson and you hilariously joined in a 35 minute long compilation of Japanese fetish game show videos?

Is there something inappropriate about you sending “John” joke porn? Had you previously expressed an interest in “John”? Are you of the opposite sex? Or of the same sex and that’s how he goes?

I’m sure there’s other issues at play (how did his wife find out about the joke?) but those are the three that jump out at me in how it relates to her reaction to you. If you can reach out to the wife and apologize.

My question is about how long to hang on. My ex-husband and I got along great and still hung in the same group until he got married again and he and/or his wife decided I had to go. Although I had usually been the one to throw parties and invited everyone, the ex and wife then began to do so without inviting me.

Dear Ex-Husband Got Friends in the Divorce, I’m with NuPru in not actually understanding what you’ve been excluded from. Hate to say it but “ex-wife not being invited to parties with new wife” is really kind of the default position. If your friends are choosing your ex and his new wife over you in all times except when you specifically invite them it’s worth discussing it with the friends. It could be none of them realize that, collectively, they’ve chosen your ex over them. Everyone assumes everyone else is going to see you the rest of the time and they’ve never put together that they’ve cut you out. Maybe they are all colluding to deny you their friendship, but if you don’t ask them it’s a bit premature to make plans to move on.

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