#the france italy one is a fever dream au
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Little Border Town
Summary: It begins with a man and a woman, as it always seems to. One lives in France and the other lives in Italy, technically, but they’re also neighbors. Various issues arise between these two and they can’t ever seem to see eye to eye on anything. Will they ever move past their petty fighting or is the little town they live in doomed to only gossip about what Harry and Y/N are fighting about today?
AKA: Harry and Y/N are neighbors that fight all the time, the whole town wants to know when they’ll just fuck.
Featuring italrry as well as mustachrry! and running italrry... I hope y’all like! this is just part one, so much more is in store so pls let me know what you think :) lots of love - first fic that’s not named from a quote said in the story I’m shook!! the growth, the range...she has it apparently! side note: i had to change the gif from italrry/mustachrry bc something is whack with the formatting and either the keep reading or the title keeps disappearing so i tried some stuff to resolve it *sobbing*
Word Count: 8.5k | Warnings: swearing, mentions of relatives death, bickering, otherwise tame for now?
Pt. 2
-
There’s a little town that straddles the border between Italy and France. It’s just a little ways from Nice on the French side and Ventimiglia on the Italian side. The population is rather small and the tourists who come are usually either returners or are very very lost. One street you’re in France and the next you’re in Italy. It can be confusing to newcomers, but the locals love it -- for the most part. These streets are easily delineating as French or Italian by the little country flags that hang above all the shops or in the windows.
It’s a coastal town with cobblestone everywhere and bright painted buildings. The water is a soft blue and the wind barely ever brings any waves greater than a foot high. There’s a shop for everything and it seems to be frozen in the past from the outside, thankfully if you step into the tiny bed and breakfast there is wifi. The sun almost always shines down on this sweet piece of paradise, the winter does however bring gusting winds and thunderstorms. Those storms rattle the little town and afterwards you’ll find the residents picking up the pieces that have fallen off the shops.
Now, this little border town, with its streets separated by French and Italian customs, well almost all of them, it seems imperative to mention. There, in the exact middle of the little town, is one street that is split down the middle, half in France and half in Italy. The locals from the French and the Italian sides love that street the most because it has this certain dynamic spark of change that brings them together, makes them unique. Except for two locals that seemingly hate this street. These two locals aren’t actually true locals either. They both moved there a couple years ago.
Harry, from the Italian side, owns the shoemaker and repair shop. He hailed from England and moved to the little town when his great uncle, Joe, had sent him a letter pleading for him to take over his shop so that he could retire. Harry, ever the traveler, hopped on the next flight out to Italy and then traversed by train and bus until he reached his Joe’s home. Like most of the shops, there was a living space above the shop area. Harry lived there with Joe until he passed away a few years back leaving Harry to tend the store alone. He didn’t mind too much, being left there alone. He had always loved Italy and to get to live in the countryside in a little cobblestone town and own a shop was a dream come true. After living there for two years, he had bought a sailboat that he would take out when the shop was closed. He also had bought himself a motorcycle that he would ride to the next greatest city if he was ever in dire need of more of a nightlife as a 26 year old. He loved it, his own slice of paradise… except for his thorn in his side.
Y/N, from the French side, owns the bookstore, which carries lots of vintage books and records. She had moved there after college. In school, she had studied French and taken a year abroad in Paris and had traveled down to Nice for a month. While in Nice she had made a few friends and one of them had come from the little border town. They had insisted they all go there for a weekend. When Y/N stepped foot onto the street she now lived on a few years before, she fell in love. Seeing the little Italian and French flags in the windows and potted plants with a view of the sea had been so endearing to her.
She was drawn to the bookshop and had chatted up the old French woman who ran it. The woman had reminded Y/N of someone but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it. It was strange for her because she often found these connections with older people, she felt like she had known this woman her whole life. Y/N went back into the store the next two days she was there to talk to the woman again, Marie, she had learned. Before she left the little town she left her number with Marie and kept in some contact with her. After about a year though, their communication fell off. Y/N was sad but understood that life can be busy for people and that she obviously wasn’t the most important woman in the little border town bookkeeper’s life. Or so she thought. In the middle of the summer after she graduated college, Y/N was backpacking through Iceland and got a call from who she assumed was Marie. She was ecstatic and answered the call immediately. Sadly, it wasn’t Marie, instead a friend who had been given her will to execute. In her will she had left Y/N the bookshop. Her reasoning was similar to why Y/N had liked Marie so much, she said that Y/N had reminded her of her sister who had died unexpectedly in her teenage years. Being so far from home at the time and completely consumed with love and loss, Y/N had agreed to take over the shop without any hesitation.
She got home and informed her parents of her choice and moved to the little border town as soon as she could. She lived in the little area above the shop that Marie had also gifted to her and she tended the shop downstairs. The living area hadn’t really been cleaned out and Y/N had found an old collection of vinyls in the corner of the bedroom. As much as she wanted to keep them to herself, she thought it would be a good addition to the shop and had made a section for records in memory of Marie. She loved France and the coast, she bought a little car and would drive to Nice every so often or to the more sandy beaches along the French coast. It was quiet and different from the life she had maybe expected, but taking over a bookshop because a kind stranger had gifted it to you as one of their dying wishes wasn’t something Y/N could ever turn down. Her soul was too sweet. At least it was for most people, not for her neighbor though.
Her neighbor was the shoemaker, Harry. Their shops lived against one another even though he was on the Italian side and she was on the French. They were located exactly at the split between France and Italy. With less than a foot between the buildings, they saw a lot of each other. On their first interaction, Y/N had seen too much of her neighbor, meaning she had seen all of him. Their shops were similar to track homes, meaning they were built completely the same only mirrored. This meant that the windows of their bedrooms matched up exactly, she wondered who had thought that was a good idea after her first night. When Y/N had first moved in it was August, she left her window open and without the shade down to let as much fresh cool air in as possible. With her jet lag, she had found herself wide awake at about three am. Pacing around her room in the pink silk tank dress she had decided to sleep in, her eyes froze on her window - or rather, who she saw through her window. The light from her room and the moon were strong enough to illuminate the tanned and tattooed skin of the naked man in the room next to her. He held a bowl in his large hands that he seemed to be spooning cereal into his mouth from.
His half-lidded eyes flickered to the light coming from the place next door. The bookshop had been closed all summer and no one had been living in the upper area for a little longer than that so he had gotten into the habit of leaving his window open. He was half drunk after stumbling his way home from the tiny bar down the street. He had decided a naked cereal run would be a good idea to tide over his cravings. But upon seeing the girl wearing lingerie a mere two feet away from him, separated by the screens on their open windows, he realized that wasn’t actually true. His eyes widened only slightly as he saw her, his drunkenness allowing him to keep his blushing to a minimum. His drunken confidence kept him from covering himself as he lifted a single brow and made a salute with his spoon hand before going back to his bed.
She stayed at the window for a moment after the naked man disappeared and then quickly ran back to her bed. She shut off her light and tried not to think about everything she had seen. She tried to not think about his toned arms that flexed as he moved around his food, or the tattoos that lined every part of his body (the tiger and ferns seared into her mind specifically), or his tousled chestnut hair, or his searing green eyes, or the full mustache that held a little milk from his cereal. She tried, she really did. But how was she supposed to face her neighbor ever again after that. Maybe he wasn’t her neighbor, she reasoned, maybe he was an acquaintance her neighbor had just spent the night with. That wouldn’t be better! Her hands grabbed her other pillow and shoved it over her face trying to force herself to go to bed.
The next day, she had been working out front of the bookshop, beginning to repaint the windowsills of the shop with some navy paint she had found in the back to give it an updated look. It was early and she hadn’t expected to see anyone at all. Her jet lag still ailed her and caused her to be up bright and early. This was her second run in with the shoemaker, this time though, both to her dismay and joy, he was fully clothed. He wasn’t watching where he was going and almost toppled the both of them over as he left his store front, locked the door behind him, and then set off down the street. His large body, covered in short black running shorts and a mesh grey tank top, bumped into her almost immediately. He was still fiddling with his music on his phone as he began his run. She jumped back and dropped the paintbrush from her hand. She yelped as his body collided with hers and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned her and took in the light wash cuffed jeans and moss ribbed tank top she was wearing. They widened when he recognized her face, the expression of shock similar to that of last night when she had seen him in his bedroom. He smirked and took out one of his earbuds. She grabbed her paintbrush from the ground as he extended his hand to her.
“I’m Harry,” his hand is greeted with hers. He speaks to her in English and she decides it’s probably best to follow along with whatever someone else began with. She worried that she’d run into a lot of Italians who didn’t know French or English and she’d have some trouble. His eyes flicker to the bits of blue already littered on her hands and in her hair.
“Y/N.” She nods, avoiding eye contact with the man she had already seen too much of. At least he’s not your neighbor’s lover, he’s just your neighbor. She also notices how he doesn’t apologize for running into her.
“You were spying on me last night,” his hand returns to his side and his smile quirks up again as he watches her face flush. His nicely groomed mustache twitches, trying to contain his laughter.
“I was not!” She finally looks up at the taller man and takes in his tanned face that is even more attractive in the morning light and up so close. The hat he wears is funny, a blue trucker’s hat that read “If you ain’t a fisherman, you ain’t shit!”, and she would laugh if she couldn’t already tell he was going to be extremely annoying.
His smirk continues and he barks out a laugh. He removes his sunglasses to really look at her now. “It’s alright, I work hard for this,” he gestures to his body, “glad someone appreciates it. Just means I’ll need to be installing a shade now, I guess.”
“You don’t have a shade and you walk around your room naked?” She ignores his first bit of conversation. She can’t think about his body or how it had looked last night. She sets down her paintbrush and folds her arms across her chest, trying to figure the man in front of her out.
“No… but it’s not all my fault. You had your shade open too! Who’s willingly up at that time of night anyway? I was just fixing myself a snack after the pub.” He raises his brows triumphantly at her, feeling confident that he has gotten the upperhand in the conversation.
She narrows her eyes at him as she finally registers that his accent isn’t Italian or French. He’s British and she wonders what he’s done to get himself in this little border town. He also seems to own the shop beside her since he locked the door behind him. He was peculiar, but she couldn’t dwell on what she thought about him since he had just accused her of being a peeping tom.
“Someone is up at that hour because she just moved and has terrible jet lag and can’t sleep. The place has been completely closed up for months and I needed to get as much cool air in as possible before the hot day. That’s why I was up and that’s why my shade wasn’t down.” She stands up straighter and rolls her eyes at him, muttering something in French to herself about annoying men. She smiles to herself when Harry doesn’t seem to understand. He obviously can tell she said something, but he doesn’t know exactly what. He could understand a good bit of French and he could speak some, but if someone spoke quickly and quietly, like she had just done, he wouldn’t be able to make it out. He figured it was something rude, though, with the way she sounds and begins to turn from him.
“Are you here to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Well, welcome to the best place in the world. It was so nice, two countries couldn’t decide who got to keep it and decided to split it.”
His arm sweeps out around him, gesturing to the street around him. She smiles up at him before following his arms movement. His arm had more tattoos than she had realized from her eyeful last night. She noticed the intricacies of all the black ink and again she had a million questions that she had to keep to herself. He was arrogant, conceited, impatient and a little bit odd and she knew all of this after barely one conversation. At least they could agree on one thing, they loved this town.
He looked back at her after scanning the street and saw her smiling in wonderment at everything around her. This brought a fleeting genuine smile to his face, knowing she was happy to be there. He had known Marie and was sad to see her go less than a year after his great uncle. He had always thought that Marie and Joe were both secretly pining over each other. Constantly stopping into each other’s shops and waving from their windows at each other, but Joe had always shaken his head at Harry when he mentioned it.
His smile faded when her eyes came back to his fac face face. Her smile disappeared as well. “Right, so, see you around…?” He said, already forgetting her name. She scoffs when she realizes what happened and then repeats her name. He nods curtly before replacing his sunglasses and single airpod and starts running again. She calls after him, “Thanks for the apology!” and then mutters to herself, “le con” knowing she shouldn’t shout that down the street where other people speak French. He doesn’t hear any part of it, his music up high enough to drown out the sounds of the world.
-
Y/N settled into the bookshop fairly easily, but she never failed to mention how unhelpful Harry had been:
“Yes, well, it’s been going pretty good...except for this one man. Well, I’d hardly call him a man - a boy. My neighbor, actually, he owns the shoe shop...no, nevermind that, he practically made it his mission to make my move the hardest thing in the world...Harry -- yes, that’s his name, Mama… well I don’t know, It’s just Harry. - it doesn’t matter! He’s been in my way at every turn… yes, both physically and metaphorically...I’m not kidding! And I’m not being dramatic… Well, It was nice talking to you. Love you, talk soon.”
That was her first telephone conversation with her mother since arriving in the little town. Maybe ten days after she arrived. Naturally, she had it in the downstairs area of her home, the bookstore. And naturally, Harry had wandered in, to discuss one of their shared planters, and overheard her entire side of the conversation and gathered the rest from his own imagination. When she had laid eyes on him after setting down her phone, she rolled her eyes at the smirking Chesire cat look on his face.
“You would be the kind of man to eavesdrop, hm?” She restacked a group of books that were already in order.
“Thought I was a boy?” his smirk remained on his face. He strided closer to the counter she stood behind.
“Like I said...What can I help you with?” Her voice drips with venom as she finally turns her eyes to look at Harry. His smirk still remains on his face now that she is making eye contact with him. He’s clad in a t-shirt that has some baseball team on it with burgundy corduroy flared jeans. She notices the strain of the shirt over his chest and biceps and avoids the scoff of how vain he must be to keep himself in that good of shape for tending a shoe store in the South of France, or rather Northern Italy…
“Right, Thought I’d pop in and tell you that one of our planters is shared. So you’ll have to talk to me before replanting anything. I noticed you coming in with tulips the other day.”
“The ones on the front of the street?” He nods as her head turns to glance out the front window. “Why the hell do we share a planter?”
“Because, my late great Uncle Joe and Marie fancied each other.” Her eyes went wide at his words, trying to think of Marie having a crush on someone. “They were never together, never admitted the fancying, but they always did the planters together. They each had one of their own and then bought the third together, said it made sense to make the shops look nice...I know it was just so they had more to tend to - together.”
She hums, taking in everything that he said and how his eyes shine slightly just at the mention of his uncle. His voice had perked at the story he had just spun for her and she smiles thinking about the idea of love and loving someone so much that you’re content with simply planting flowers together. It seemed really old-fashioned to her, but it also brought even more charm to the town she now called home. Romance was still alive here, or so she hoped.
“Okay, I’ll make sure to let you know when I’ve decided what flowers I want to put in there.” She turns around, assuming the end of the conversation and getting back to work. She doesn’t really find a reason to entertain Harry anymore than necessary. Like she told her mother, he was constantly in her way or being naked in his room, something she had chosen to leave out of her conversation with her mom.
“You’ve misunderstood me. Maybe my English is getting rusty, I rarely speak it since everyone else knows Italian.” She flips around at his rude comment, eyes alight with fire once again. “If you want to replant anything, which I don’t understand why you would, the flowers I put are wonderful, we’ll have to discuss it. It’s not you just telling me you’ll be doing it. We own it equally and I won’t let you bulldoze my hard work.”
“On a planter?!”
She sticks on a sickly sweet smile as she tries to refrain from laughing. “I guess the countryside really can make some people enjoy the simpler things in life…” With that she walks to the back of the shop, leaving the stunned Harry to see himself out of it. When the little bell rings, her stifled laughter can be heard among the books.
-
It doesn’t matter what it is, Harry and Y/N are able to make a fuss about anything and the whole street, if not the whole town, had quickly figured that out. No one had a problem with Y/N, they welcomed her with open arms. Marie had told the entire French side and a good amount of the Italian side how wonderful and tenacious she was. How Y/N reminded Marie of her sister and upon meeting her, many agreed. But the first time Harry and Y/N had a public row, at the bakery in the center of town, on the French side, everyone was quick to realize that there was bound to be trouble between the two. It was a stark contrast to the loving comments and endearing looks the previous owners had always engaged in when they were still alive. This fight was maybe a few days after the planter business and Y/N had tried in the following days to get him to change the planters to no avail so she was in an especially pissed off mood towards Harry.
“Could you be taking any longer?” Y/N rolled her eyes as she stood behind her tall neighbor, her foot impatiently tapping a beat against the stone floor.
Harry stood hunched in front of the display case, scanning for exactly what he wanted and desperately trying to remember what he had come here for. He was a bit more dressed up that day, his mother had been coming to visit him for the first time in a while and he wanted to look nice and have a special treat for her when she arrived. His trousers were a deep navy that matched the navy of the stripes on his sweater vest, the blue pinstripes of the button down underneath was a slightly lighter shade, but blue nonetheless. He had rolled up his sleeves past his elbows, showing off his various tattoos and sinewy arms. As his eyes scanned over the case again, he ran through his mental list and bit at his lip, knowing he was forgetting something. He barely even heard her drawl out her insult, the tapping of her foot eventually getting his attention due to its faltering.
She straightened upright from her hip jutted position when he didn’t even bite at her unkind words. Her foot stopping its melody. As she was about to give another go, Harry turned around and she gave him her full look of displeasure.
“Country life requires a bit of patience. I doubt you’ve ever had to wait your turn in your life, but you’ll have to get used to it here.”
Her eyes roll instinctively. She noticed that they seemed to do it just at the mention of his name or the sound of his voice. She had always thought herself a lover of the British accent, citing Downton Abbey and various famous musicians - Freddie Mercury, George Harrison, Elton John, etc. - as members of that little island who were formative to her identity, loving them for their talents as well as their accent. Yet with Harry’s deep meandering British voice, she found herself wishing to be anywhere but in its presence. She found that he took so long to ever get out an actual full thought and when he did it was barely coherent. He also never failed to let his sarcasm or smugness drip into his tone, causing her to audibly be aware of the smirk on his face even if she couldn’t see it. The image flashing across her mind no matter what.
“You’ll have to let me know when you’ll be here again…” His eyebrows quirk at her odd response and it’s her turn to smirk up at him. She’s already satisfied with her quip even though she’s only gotten half of it out. His mouth opens to question her, but she finishes her thought. “That is, so I can plan around you. If I have to alot a whole day to the boulangerie just waiting for you… I’ll never get settled.”
Harry scoffs and a fleeting expression of actual offense flashes across his features before turning around to finish his order. The others in line and the worker are all equally wide eyed and she hears some hushed whispering behind her, but it’s in Italian so she can’t make it out. The worker eyes Y/N as she rings up the rest of Harry’s chosen items. The worker smiles softly at Harry, feeling for the man she had known long enough to know that he wasn’t as rude as he was being with Y/N. She was also taken aback at Y/N’s response, but hadn’t seen her be rude otherwise so she had to assume it simply had something to do with the man.
When Harry is all set, he turns to leave and pass Y/N again. His eyes narrow and his words once again are turned nasty. “I wouldn’t mind if you never got settled,” he said before muttering something in Italian under his breath and leaving the store. She assumed it to be nasty as she eyed the couple behind her giggling, before walking to talk with the worker.
She shook her head trying to rid herself of her cold exterior that she kept having to conjure up for Harry. Now smiling, she asks for her items in French, happy to be speaking the language that brought her so much joy rather than English which seemed to be reserved only for Harry now. She hadn’t gone to the Italian side very much yet and the people she had met over there so far had spoken French to her once she had introduced herself.
As the worker finished with Y/N’s order, she asked in a hushed tone, in French, “How do you know Mr. Styles?”
“Harry?” Y/N guessed, not actually knowing Harry’s last name until now. The girl behind the counter smiles quickly before nodding. “Mon voison” she sighs and contains the accompanying eye roll when she sees the girl blush at the idea of being neighbors with Harry. “He’s a brat,” she continues and the girl laughs lightly before saying, “I think he’s rather sweet… not bad to look at either.” She looks out the window of the shop wistfully, like Harry’s still there and Y/N whips her head around, afraid he knew that she was talking about him. Thankfully, he was gone and Y/N laughs to herself when she feels the anxiety that had gripped her for a moment dissipates. Shaking her head at the girl, she grabs her items and change from her before making a break for the door.
It was soon after that incident that Harry and Y/N’s squabbles became notorious throughout the little town. Drama wasn’t common there and any sort of excitement was the talk of the town. It made sense that this was snapped up by the gossipers from the French and Italian sides alike.
Anne, Harry’s mother, was stopped the next day, when she was out for coffee and Harry was still at the shop, and was asked why her son was so angry at the new bookshop owner. She thought it made sense for her to drop into the bookshop next to her son’s shop after hearing that. Walking into the shop, she was greeted with the smell of lavender and the sweet melody of a love song. She immediately smiled at the charm of the bookstore, feeling like there was a bit more life in it then there had been the last time she had come in. Harry had told her that Marie had passed, but not that someone new had taken over and she was eager to meet them, especially now that she had been told about the town gossip.
A messy haired, but bright eyed Y/N came trotting out of the bookshelves at the sound of the door opening. A smile beamed on her face when she saw the mature brunette woman standing just inside the doorway. “Bonjour! Bienvenue!” She greets as she smooths some of her unkempt hair. Y/N had been digging around the back shelves of the store searching for a specific book one of her other customers had asked about yesterday. And much to her dismay, she wasn’t being very successful. When the woman only says “Bonjour” and makes no inclination that she plans to speak more French, Y/N believes it’s safe to assume she’s a tourist and switches to English. “Can I help you?”
Anne laughs happily to hear English and walks over to the counter that Y/N had walked behind. “Yes, Hi! My son lives here and I’ve just come to visit him. He didn’t tell me someone had taken over Marie’s shop.” Y/N perks at the name of Marie and she smiles sincerely at the woman now. Not quite a tourist, yet not quite a local, she noted for herself.
“Yeah, I’m Y/N. I was a friend of Marie’s, so to say, and she left me the place.” Pausing, Y/N turns over the vinyl that had just finished side A, and then returns to her place at the counter. “I’m still really new, but it’s a small town. I don’t know of many other people who weren’t born here who live here, though, who’s your son?” She rests her elbows on the counter and leans on them while staring at the kind woman. She had noticed the British accent, but hadn’t connected the dots yet. It wasn’t uncommon for people to have a British accent when they spoke English so it didn’t necessarily mean she was from England. But maybe Y/N should have noticed the light eyes and brown hair, maybe that should have been an indicator as well. Or the way she had said ‘my son’ and nodded in the way of the shoe shop. But no matter what, it came as a shock when the woman with the coffee in hand said what she said next.
“My son is your neighbor! He runs the shoe repair shop. His great uncle, my ex-husband’s uncle, left it to him a couple years ago.” Y/N’s eyes widen so much so that she has to blink a few times to assure herself they haven’t popped out of her head.
“Harry...is your son?” She speaks slowly and Anne smiles at the girl. She nods and Y/N nods back, taking the news in. He has a mother...she guessed she should have expected that. It had been unlikely that her theory of him being sent straight from hell to make her life just like it was accurate.
“Here you are mum! What are you doin’ in here?” Harry rushes through the door when he sees his mother inside from the window. Y/N rolls her eyes on cue, but still notices the soft adoring look on his face while he gazes at his mother. She supposes she can concede that he isn’t the spawn of satan now. His look hardens when he turns to Y/N, who has straightened up to her full height upon his arrival.
“I was just meeting the new bookshop owner, Y/N!” She looks between Harry and Y/N. “What’s this about you being angry with her?” She asks more to Harry, but Y/N hears easily. Harry’s eyes flash at Y/N and her eyes widen once again, but shrugs to Harry, having no idea where his mother had gotten that idea.
“What did you say-”
“I didn’t say anything! I’d just realized she was your mother right before you walked in!”
“It’s true. Someone said something about it to me at the coffee shop. Of course, I didn’t even know the book shop even had a new owner, so I decided to come by.”
“It’s nothing, mum,” Harry insists.
“Harry and I...we just don’t exactly see eye to eye. But, I’m sure we’ll warm up to each other eventually,” she easily lies through her teeth, knowing she really couldn’t see herself ever being friends with this prick. “Feel free to look around the shop, it’s not exactly to my liking yet, but then again, I am just getting settled. Otherwise, you two should enjoy your time together. I’m sure it’s not often you can make the time to journey all the way out here.” She smiles sweetly at Anne, choosing to ignore Harry completely.
“Thank you, Y/N. Harry can be an acquired taste for some, but just below that exterior of his, he’s a giant softy.” Harry groans at his words, Y/N’s smile only grew.
“Au revoir! Good Day!” She calls when they leave the shop rather swiftly. It seemed to her that Harry was desperate to get his mother out of the shop as soon as possible, while Anne was happy to browse and look at what had been changed in the shop.
-
Their early unhappy encounters were now months ago. But encounters of a similar caliber happened at least once a week. It’s hard to avoid a neighbor who you seem to find anything they do to be an annoyance, even their existence. They saw each other around town and at their shops and in their bedrooms. Even though they didn’t particularly like each other, hated was actually the correct word, the drawing of the shades was a near impossible task with the heat that plagued the little town between August and Mid-October.
They had fought over who could leave their shade open and who couldn’t because Harry believed only one of them had to close it to maintain privacy but then he wouldn’t settle on an agreement on taking turns closing shades. Y/N argued that they could both leave them open if he would agree to stop walking around his room naked all the time, but he refused that as well, at first. He conceded after a week of having his shade drawn that he would wear boxers. Therefore, practically every night, Y/N and Harry would see each other before bed since they actually seemed to have the same sleep habits. Sometimes she would have to yell at him to close his window if he came home with a guest and he would yell at her to turn off her light if she was reading or watching television in bed too late.
Thankfully, it was approaching the end of October and the weather would begin to change. There wouldn’t be a reason to have the window or shade open and they at least wouldn’t have to see each other right before bed.
This morning, Y/N is up early, she found it amazing to wake up early here, something she had never done before this little border town. It was teaching her new things about herself and changing her, but she liked it. In deep forest green flared pants and a long sleeved rainbow striped shirt, Y/N is watering the planters in front of her shop as well as the little ones attached below the windows. It was always a little cool in the mornings, but she had checked her weather app and seen that it was actually going to be the first cold day of the season. The first cold day since she had arrived actually. As much as she liked the sun, she also loved fall and winter, so she was excited to experience them for the first time in the little border town.
She smiles to herself as she moves around gracefully. In her back pocket, her music plays softly, Paul Simon sings lovingly to her. She hums along and moves to deal with the planter at the edge of the sidewalk. But she’s foiled by a man she seems to think about far too much for how much she says she dislikes him. Harry jogs back a half step upon realizing he has run into her yet again. One would assume that one of them would either change their routine or know to step out of the way or really just be a little bit more aware of their surroundings with how many times this has happened since Y/N’s arrival. Of course, their stubborn personalities actually require them to be unrelenting in this area of their lives as well. Much like the shade debate, the who was in the way of who debate is still majorly undecided.
“Oi!” He looks down at his shirt and it has a substantial wet spot on it. She had spilled some of the watering can’s contents.
“Excuse you!” She says simultaneously, not realizing she’d gotten water on him.
“I’m not the one who just threw water on someone.”
“Neither am I. You ran into me, it’s not my fault you never look where you’re going.”
“You’re just always in my way. This has been my route for ages, I’m not going to change it just because you moved in next door.” His hands fly around in annoyance and anger.
“You’re unbelievable!”
“Well! I can’t stand you!
“Clearly!” “Cleary.” They’re both huffing out insults that don’t seem to really be going anywhere. Harry has straightened his posture for once and she actually finds his true height slightly intimidating. They both breath for a moment, finding no other words to fill the tranquil morning silence that they had just disturbed.
“Are we ever going to have a conversation where we’re not at each other’s throats?” She sighs, feeling upset that the nice Fall day was suddenly ruined for the rest of time just because of this.The bickering with Harry was tedious and she couldn’t keep going like this. Being in a completely new place and running a small business was hard enough as it is. Something snapped in her just then, hoping to squash a part of her life that is causing her stress and exhaustion.
Harry’s expression falters, his eyes losing that glint of angered passion for a moment, he wasn’t expecting that response. It wasn’t necessarily mean, it was more like she was resigned. Simply done with the conversation. He felt his anger and annoyance slip away rather quickly at her question. She sees his mustache twitch, which she realized happened when he was either amused or confused. She didn’t think what she said was funny so she presumed he wasn’t sure what to make of what she had just said. Her head tilts to the side and waits for his response. Her watering can falls to her side now, making herself a little more comfortable and leaving only a small amount of air between her and Harry.
“Tired out already? Thought you were more of a competitor than that.” He mirrors her by tilting his head as well.
“I didn’t realize we were in any sort of competition.” She stepped forward and straightened her posture a little, feeling challenged by the tone he had taken. She may have a kind and soft exterior for most, but she was nothing if not fierce in her core. She was an Aries afterall. She wondered what Harry might be, she wasn’t super into astrology, but she was sure that he wasn’t an Aries. Aries were fiery and passionate and were very unwilling to admit defeat, so he had just hit the exact right note to keep her from squashing their now long-standing quarrel.
“We’re not. I just thought I had met my match, guess I was wrong.”
He looks off in the distance to be nonchalant, like he wasn’t trying to bait her even if that’s exactly what he was going for. Sure, he found her annoying, for whatever reason. But he had realized when she had posed the question, that he hadn’t had this much excitement in a while. Nothing and no one really challenged him in the little border town, his work was easy enough, money wasn’t tight, friends were easily made, and partners for the night were easy to find. He didn’t dislike any of those facts, truly, he counted himself lucky and was overjoyed that he lived there. But the verbal sparring he engaged in with Y/N fulfilled a need he hadn’t realized was going unsatisfied. He would never admit it, but she was often a highlight of his day. Getting into a little quarrel with her brought a smile to his face when he recalled it later. The bird she had started to flip him before bed made him genuinely laugh. He liked it, so when she seemed to want it to end, he did what he knew would make her change her mind. Tease her.
“I see...bonne journée, cul.” She decided to bid him farewell, knowing he didn’t plan on apologizing any time soon. She turned her body from him and Harry understood enough French that she had ended the conversation with a “good day”. He also knew that she had called him an “ass” as well. His brows raised for a moment at the insult before giving a flicked salute in her direction and jogging off for his morning run.
For some reason, after a moment of knowing Harry had gone she glanced up in his direction and watched his retreating figure. And for some reason she found herself looking back down at the flowers and smiling to herself. Somewhere inside her she was glad Harry hadn’t given into her veiled request to stop fighting. It was a strange sensation because as tiring it was to bicker with him, she feared if they stopped then they would stop talking at all and her heart panged at the thought. She didn’t know why and she didn’t care to know why either.
-
The bell of the book shop chimes and Y/N pops up from behind the counter. She had been crouched out of sight trying to organize the books of notes on customers Marie had left that Y/N had only just found. She hadn’t realized the cabinet existed in the counter so when she accidentally slid it open she was a little taken aback. Still, she was quickly distracted by the new customer. Her cream collared shirt was unbuttoned to where her collarbone and decalotage were on display, some gold medallions hanging around her neck today. Her worn light wash blue jeans were barely visible behind the counter due to her height. In her hair was a classic red bandana, pulling back her hair out of her face save for the strands that worked themselves free on their own accord.
Her smile was wide, happy to see the first customer of the day as she pinched at her shirt to make sure it was in place. Her posture slumped immediately when she realized that her first customer wasn’t a likely customer at all, instead who else but Harry. A mischievous glint in his eyes as he strolled in and right up to the counter. He leaned his large body down to rest his head in his hands and look up at her. He crossed one ankle over his other, getting comfortable as he stared wickedly up at her.
She wet her lips and took a step back. It was her first look at him today, apparently missing him on his morning run. Maybe she should have thought something of that after their encounter yesterday, but she didn’t. Like most days, his trousers were high waisted, Gucci likely - how he afforded them, she had no clue - and his usual shirt had now been accompanied with a striped red, black, and yellow open cardigan. His hair looked wet like he had just taken a shower, most of it was pushed up but a few strands fell over his large forehead. His mustache looked freshly trimmed and the rest of his facial hair had yet to leave any shadow after his obvious shave.
“Harry.” She says definitively, regarding him with even contempt.
“Ice Queen.” He levels, eyes narrowing.
She scoffs immediately. “At least give me something original...or accurate maybe. I may not like you, but ice queen? Hardly.”
He genuinely chuckles at her quick response and nods, agreeing easily with her for once. “You’re right. It was weak, I’ll admit. Feel like you need a nickname though, thought something really rude might upset you.” He smirks cheekily. His agreement doesn’t make her feel like she’s won at all, unsurprisingly.
She rolls her eyes at his comment. “Care to let me know why you’re gracing me with your presence today, Mr. Styles?” Moving around the counter, she begins to walk to the back of the shop, assuming Harry would follow her if he needed to. He apparently did and walked after her after realizing she wasn’t coming back.
He gives a half-laugh, “Yeah, I came in for a new record. I saw you decided to restock them...thought I’d pop in. It’s easier to get them here than order online...Curtain-hater.” He adds the name as an afterthought.
She glances at him from the bookcase she’s standing at, her eyes shifting to meet his. A smile fades into her features as she can’t contain the giggle at his new attempt at a nickname. She then wrinkles her nose, “That isn’t good either, but proficient try, I guess.” She gives him points for actually relating the name to her in some way, but it still doesn’t incite any anger in her which she knows is what he is going for. She probably should question herself why she’s helping Harry to nickname her something rude, but alas, she doesn’t. He nods solemnly, knowing she’s right again. He needs to find a nickname for her and he doesn’t know why, but he’s glad she seems alright with him giving her one, so long as it is fitting.
Her body shifts from the bookcase over to the boxes she had gotten to hold the vinyls. She had a small collection since the place was small overall, but Marie’s old collection had sold successfully so she had restocked afterwards, this time choosing some of her personal favorites.
“I’m not sure of your taste...I know you bought Marie’s Ella Fitzgerald album last time.” She sifts through the records, trying to find something she thought he might want. Like she said, she didn’t know what he liked, but she prided herself on knowing music and as an owner helping a customer, she wanted to please Harry. She knew he liked Ella from his previous purchase and she knew he liked Marvin Gaye in the evenings when he had guests - how very cliche she would add. “I mostly got in 70’s/80’s rock...Elton, Queen -”
“Got any Paul Simon?” Harry cuts her off and she looks at him surprised. Her fingers stopped when she looked up at him, their tips placed on the peaks of the albums covers. “Thought I heard it here the other day?”
Her face perks up at the mention, she loved Paul Simon. “That was on my phone, but I do actually. Well, it’s Simon & Garkunkel. I can order something from just Paul Simon whenever I have to order again if you want?” Their gazes are holding each other’s, her fingers still rubbing over the pointed edges of the two albums she had between her hands. Harry’s watching her and leaning against the table the boxes sit on.
He nods after a moment. “That’d be great.”
“You’ll have to tell me which records of his you already have so I can order something new for you.” She grabs the Simon & Garfunkel album and flips it to Harry so he can look it over.
He regards the Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thyme cover reading over the fine print with all the tracks listed on the bottom right. “Thanks,” he mutters out after another moment of silence. It was rarely this quiet between these two, so it was different. “I’ll take it, Shrimp.”
“Oh my god!” She gasps before bursting into a fit of laughter. He had actually made her laugh and his eyes widen at the sound, almost confused that she hadn’t scoffed. Her laughter was far louder now then the half-hearted chuckle she had given earlier, which really was probably just another scoff. This laugh was loud and unbridled, but melodic and fun. In the back of Harry’s mind, he noted that he liked it. The first bullet point on a list that was likely to grow. “That works, just the perfect amount of rude. I love and hate it at the same time.” She finishes before walking back to the front. Harry saunters after her, pleased with himself.
“I’d like to say I wasn’t looking for your approval, but I guess I sorta was,” he ponders out loud as she takes the record back from him to type in the correct spelling into her relatively new computerized system. She twists her mouth to the side of her face to refrain from smiling anymore and then hums. Her eyes flit back up to Harry’s triumphant smile and for once she doesn’t want to slap it off of him.
“People-pleaser…” She prods him easily. His smile falters only slightly, not out of unhappiness, but of borderline jealousy.
“How do you come up with that so easily? It just rolls off the tongue,” He asks seriously, confused by the woman before him. This time she laughs as she hands him back the record and a copy of his receipt.
“I’m well read, that usually helps, but maybe it’s just my intrinsic wit that gives me an edge,” she raises her brows slightly, before beginning to walk off now that their exchange is done. She’s surprised she doesn’t want to rip her hair out after that encounter, but she figures she should simply count her blessings. “Au revoir, trouser-boy!”
He rolls his eyes as he turns on his heel and exits the shop, amused rather than annoyed with the bookkeeper.
-
enjoy! lmk what you thought :) part 2
#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fan fic#harry styles x y/n#harry styles x you#harry styles fluff#harry styles smut#once the slow burn ends#harry styles angst#harry styles oneshot#harry styles one shot#harry styles imagine#enemies to lovers!harry#enemies to lovers#slow burn#the france italy one is a fever dream au#little border town#not proofread at all
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Blue Little Soul: Chapter 1/5
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Categories: M/M
Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Relationships: America/Russia. Minor: England/France and Germany/Nyo!North Italy
Characters: Russia, Belarus, Prussia, Ukraine, Poland, China, England, Ancient Rome, America, Canada
AU: Human
Language: English
Word Count: 9,247
Summary: Ivan was back in Oregon, or as he would claim, his hometown after five years in St. Petersburg. He had a premonition, and eventually he discovered he had a power to manipulate something he didn’t even imagine that he can.
Chapter 1: Chrysalis
Was it night time? But there was a faint light. Maybe the sun was covered by thick dark clouds. It was raining heavy enough to be a storm, accompanied by thunders that seemed to be near. By a high cliff, there was a lighthouse, fortunately for now, not being approached by the tornado, but still affected the pine trees along the path to it; some were falling down. Ivan was there, for some reason unknown.
‘Where exactly am I? Why am I trapped in a storm? How did I get here… and where is ‘here’?’ He contemplated.
Without knowing what to do, unaware where the strong wind came from. Noticing the lighthouse, he attempted to go there.
‘A lighthouse… maybe I’ll be safe there.’ Ivan thought.
He walked slowly, carefully as his vision was blurry because of the rain and its darkness it casted, distracted by the electrifying feeling creeping in his body. He raised his arms to guard his eyes from the strong gust. A tree fall almost near him, surprising the ashen blond teen. He kept track on the steep trail, trying not to trip on some branches, and broken barks. As he got closer by the lighthouse, there was an abnormally large tornado by the sea, slowly approaching the town. Flabbergasted by the view, he didn’t notice ahead the thrown boat to the lighthouse effectively broken, and its debris was about to crush him. As it was going to fall unto him, he was too shocked to run, instinctively holding out his hand to protect himself.
He jumped out of his seat, almost fell out of it. His muffled hearing slowly cleared. He examined his surrounding as if he just got here; he was in a classroom. He swore he wasn’t sleeping. Why would he?
“Alfred Hitchcock famously called film ‘little pieces of time’ but he could be talking about photography, as he likely was.” Ms. Arlovskaya discussed.
‘Okay, I’m in class.’ Ivan clarified to himself.
(Feliciano’s pen fell to the floor. He picked it up.)
‘Everything is fine. I’m okay.’ Ivan comforted himself.
He was in Ms. Arlovskaya’s class, his favorite photographer that somehow got here in a dead end of a town to teach photography.
(Liz threw a paper ball at Kat.)
“Now can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition in black and white?” Ms. Arlovskaya inquired the class.
(Gilbert's phone vibrated.)
‘That wasn’t a dream. It felt too real. Was that supposed to be a nightmare?’ Ivan still felt perplexed.
“Diane Arbus.” Gilbert answered with a grin.
“Very well, Gilbert. Why Arbus?” Ms. Arlovskaya was pleased.
“Because of her images of hopeless faces. You feel like, totally haunted by the eyes of those sad mothers and children.” Gilbert explained.
“She saw humanity as tortured, right? And frankly, it's bullshit. Seriously though, I could frame any one of you in a dark corner, and capture you in a moment of desperation. And any one of you could do that to me. Isn't that too easy? Too obvious? What if Arbus chose to capture people at the height of their beauty or innocence? She had a brilliant eye, so she could have taken another approach.” Ms. Arlovskaya deliberated.
“I have to admit, I'm not a big fan of her work. I prefer... Robert Frank.” Gilbert answered as if they were conversing.
“Me too, Gilbert. He captured the essence of post-war America. Then, there was honesty about the economic conditions of the era, but a beauty in the struggle. You don't have beauty without a beat. Which explains why Frank was Kerouac's photographic muse and both were great chroniclers of the 1950s. We've all seen that iconic shot of Kerouac on the balcony - and if you haven't, shame, shame - capturing the romantic urban solitude of the 20th century poet. You understand? Now, contrast Frank's stark Americana with Salvador Dali's surrealist photographs. Like Cocteau, he was a true renaissance man, and his famous self-portraits are famous early examples of that truly awful word you pesky kids love so much, the ‘selfie’. And it's a great tradition, and I wholeheartedly fight for your right to self-expression. So if anybody wants to question the portrait as modern narcissism, they could go back hundreds of years to blame society.” She rambled and noticed this as most of the class didn’t pay attention.
“Speaking of questions, I bet you thought I'd talk all the way until the bell rang. It's your turn to lecture us. Now, based on the chapters I have no doubt you all memorized, who can tell me the name of the actual process that led to the birth of the self-portrait? Anybody?” She tried to peak up the class which just made most of the people quiet.
“This does not bode well. Just jump right in with an answer. This was in the chapters you read. You did read the chapters, right? Your silence is deafening. If this were a photo, I'd call it a still life.” She sighed, waiting for an answer.
(Ivan took a picture of himself using his polaroid.)
“Shh, I believe Ivan has taken what you kids call a ‘selfie’. A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Ivan” she said, like a proud teacher.
“…has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for selfie-expression.” Now, she was feeling proud for the pun.
“Sorry. I couldn't resist. The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around. Now Ivan, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” she returned to her question.
“You’re asking me? Uhm, let me think…” Ivan, answered profoundly.
“Either you know this, or not, Ivan. Is there anybody knows how to answer?” She said in frustration.
“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes", a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Gilbert answered then looked at Ivan.
“Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Too bad, it’s not that awesome. Suck your scarf while you’re at it.” Gilbert added, and Liz laughed.
“Very good, Gilber. The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward. The first American daguerreotype self-portrait was done by Robert Cornelius. You can find out all about him... In your textbook. Or even... online.” The teacher was relieved until the school bell rang.
“And guys, don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the ‘Everyday Heroes’ contest. I'll be with the winner to San Francisco where you'll be guaranteed influential by the art world. It's great exposure, and it can blossom your career in photography. So Feliciano and Ludwig, get it together. Liz, don't hide, I'm still waiting for your entry too. And yes Ivan, I see you pretending not to see me.”
‘Gilbert didn’t waste any second on kissing ass, no?’ Ivan mused.
He noticed Yekaterina wasn’t as cheerful as today. He approached his classmate and tried to engage her in a conversation.
“You seemed quiet today, Kat.” Ivan started.
“Just thinking too much, I guess.” She smiled weakly.
“I hear that. Want to have tea with me and complain about life?” He offered.
“Thanks, but not today. I have homework to do.” She said, still smiling that friendly and mother-like smile, although not as bright.
“No worries. Let’s hang out later then.”
“Sure.”
By the teacher’s table, Gilbert and Ms. Arlovskaya were talking about the contest.
“Yes Gilbert, you still have to do your homework this week, even if you're submitting your photo for the competition. Everybody in class is turning a photo, so you see the dilemma.” She deadpanned.
“I know, Ms. Arlovskaya. I just worked so hard on this shot, and I'm sure you know what it's like to be consumed by your work. I just really think ‘Everyday Heroes’ is an important cultural event, and I want to represent Blackwell Academy.” Gilbert raised his concern rather obnoxiously.
“You have just by participating, by putting yourself out there in the world. Well, no matter who wins, this is just a bump on a bigger road. I don't want anybody to feel excluded from this process. But I also want everybody to know that this photographic world is not for everybody. I had my moment in the camera eye and everybody should have that chance, right?” She answered objectively.
“Oh totally. I only want to share whatever gifts I have with the world...” He said.
Ivan approached the two.
“Excuse me, Ms. Arlovskaya, can I talk to you for moment?”
“Yes, excuse you.” Gilbert demanded.
“No, Gilbert, excuse us. I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in his picture.” The teacher dismissed Gilbert earning a pout from him.
“Do I have to? I don’t really think I have what it takes.” Ivan reacted.
“Ivan, you're a better photographer than a liar. Now I know it's a drag to hear some old woman lecture you... but life won't wait for you to play catch-up. You're young, the world is yours, blah blah blah, right? But you do have a gift, you have the fever to take images, to frame the world only the way you envision it. Now, all you need is the courage to share your gift with others. That's what separates the artist, from the amateur.” She encouraged.
“Okay, Ma’am. I will try. Thank you.” Ivan shyly bowed his head and headed towards outside the class.
The corridor, as usual, was filled with students. Some were walking, laughing at something; some were talking, standing by the lockers. The janitor was mopping the floor, muttering something. Ivan noticed, every now and then, the recurring posters of a missing person at almost every corner of his sight as he was looking for the restroom. ‘Matthew Williams’, he recalled. When he got inside his destination, it was empty. ‘Good.’
Ivan turned on the faucet then washed his face; he looked at the mirror, and remembered to turn off the faucet. He wiped his wet hands on the side of his pants, and took out his polaroid photo.
‘Relax, Ivan. Stop torturing yourself. You have… a gift.’ Ivan doubted. He sighed heavily.
‘Fuck it.’ He tore the photo while a bright blue butterfly flew into the restroom. It landed on a bucket beside the stall. Ivan followed it with careful footsteps. He approached the butterfly with his camera on his hands. He took a photo, and the butterfly flew away; it landed on the sink. Almost getting out of the corner, Feliks entered the room, closing the door. Ivan remained in his spot, hiding.
“It’s okay, Feliks. You're okay. Just count to three... Don't be scared... You, like, own this school... If I wanted, I could blow it up... You're the boss...” Feliks was breathing heavily.
A bespectacled blond entered the room as well.
“So, what do you want?” Feliks asked without looking at who is he’s asking.
“I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step-ass would say. Now, let's talk bidness.” The blond said rather without any sign of closeness.
“I got nothing for you.” Felix deadpanned.
“Wrong, you got hella cash.”
“That’s my family, not me.”
“Oh boo hoo, poor little rich kid. I know you been pumpin' drugs n' shit to kids around here. I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them. Man, I can see the headlines now.”
“Leave them out, you bastard.”
“I can tell everybody Feliks Łukasiewicz is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself!”
Feliks took out a gun and pointed it at the blond.
“You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” Feliks shouted.
“Where'd you get that? What are you doing? Come on, put that thing down!” the blond panicked.
“Don't EVER tell me what to do. I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!”
“You are going to get in hella more problems for this than drugs.”
“Nobody would, like, ever miss your ‘punk ass’, would they?”
“Get that gun away from me, psycho!”
Feliks pulled the trigger, and shot the blond in the stomach. Without thinking straight, Ivan reached out by stretching his right hand.
“NO!” Ivan shouted, and his world began to slow down. The gun was falling slowly, and floating upwards to the owner’s hands. The world began to move reversely, and suddenly swirled. Everything was too fast to comprehend.
Ivan found himself in a classroom, again, almost falling out in his chair. He was in class. The class with Ms. Arlovskaya.
“Alfred Hitchcock famously called film ‘little pieces of time’ but he could be talking about photography, as he likely was.” Ms. Arlovskaya discussed.
Feliciano dropped his pen, and picked it up. Again.
‘I already heard this before.’ Ivan pondered.
Liz threw a paper ball at Kat.
‘Kat is being bullied again. And if Gilbert’s phone vibrates…’
Gilbert’s phone vibrated. Again.
Surprised, he knocked his camera off the desk, causing it to break.
‘So… I can actually reverse time?’ Ivan gaped at his thought. He noticed his broken camera, and with enough time manipulation, it was fixed.
‘I did it! Wow. I’m, I’m a time-traveller! Okay, so, what happened before? Ah, yes. I took a picture of myself, then Ms. Arlovskaya asked a question.’
“Shh, I believe Ivan has taken what you kids call a ‘selfie’. A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Ivan” she said, yet again, like a proud teacher.
“…has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for selfie-expression.” Now, she was feeling proud for the pun, again.
‘I’m not dreaming. This is real. What if, I could save that boy?’
“The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around.” The teacher was still discussing.
‘I need to go to the bathroom!’
“Now Ivan, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” She looked at Ivan, waiting for an answer.
“I need to go the bathroom.”
“Nice try, Ivan. But you're not going to get away that easy. We can talk more after class.” She was not amused.
‘Oh shit, Ms. Arlovskaya wants to keep me after class. And I need time to save that boy.’
“Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?”
“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes", a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Gilbert answered then looked at Ivan, as he was supposed to be.
“Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Too bad, it’s not that awesome. Suck your scarf while you’re at it.” Gilbert added, and Liz laughed.
An idea formed in Ivan’s head. He decided to rewind time. The world began to swirl again for a few seconds then...
“Now Ivan, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” Ms. Arlovskaya asked.
“The Daguerreian Process. Invented by French painter named. Louis Daguerre. Around 1830.” Ivan answered hesitantly.
“Somebody has been reading. Nice work, Ivan.” She beamed, proud of her student.
“The Daguerreian Process made portraiture hugely popular, mainly because it gave the subjects clear defined features. You can learn more when you actually finish reading the assigned chapters. Ivan is so far, way ahead of everybody.”
With a queue in his head, the bell rang.
“And guys, don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the ‘Everyday Heroes’ contest. I'll be with the winner to San Francisco where you'll be guaranteed influential by the art world. It's great exposure, and it can blossom your career in photography. So Feliciano and Ludwig, get it together. Liz, don't hide, I'm still waiting for your entry too. And yes Ivan, I see you pretending not to see me.”
‘Ivan, you are not crazy. You are not dreaming. It's time to be ‘Everyday Hero’.’
He was about to exit the classroom until Ms. Arlovskaya stopped him.
“I see you, Ivan Braginsky. Don't even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.”
Ivan winced, then turn around to see his teacher. He walked towards her.
“I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in his picture.” She noted.
“I'm not avoiding, just...”
“Biding time, waiting for the elusive ‘right moment’?”
“Da. Exactly.”
“Ivan, don't wait too long.”
“…da. I will do my best, Ms. Arlovskaya.”
She nodded. Ivan took this time to leave, and hurried to the restroom. He retraced what happened by doing what he did. He washed his face, ripped his photo, and took a photo of a butterfly. He remained in his hiding spot. He noticed the fire alarm, readied himself with a hammer he picked on the floor, and waited for the moment to come.
“…leave them out, you bastard.”
“I can tell everybody Feliks Łukasiewicz is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself!”
Feliks took out a gun and pointed it at the blond.
“You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” Feliks shouted.
“Where'd you get that? What are you doing? Come on, put that thing down!” the blond panicked.
“Don't EVER tell me what to do. I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!”
“You are going to get in hella more problems for this than drugs.”
“Nobody would, like, ever miss your ‘punk ass’, would they?”
Ivan braced himself, exhaled, and started the fire alarm.
“No way…” Felix muttered.
“Don’t EVER come near me, you fucker!” the blond then punched Felix causing him to fall.
The blond rushed out of the restroom while Felix picked up his gun, noticed the stripped photo on the floor.
“Another shitty day…” Felix muttered while exited the room.
‘Did. I… just save… that boy?’ Ivan felt excited while his body was still in shock. His adrenaline slowly draining, reminding him that he violated a school rule, and decided to head outside. When he did, he was greeted by a security guard.
“Didn’t you hear the bloody alarm? That means you should be outside.” Arthur scolded.
“I had to use the bathroom.” Ivan answered quickly.
“Yeah, sure. I can see your face covered with guilt.”
“The alarm tripped me out.”
“Then trip on out here, lad. Or are you hiding something?”
“Thank you Mr. Kirkland, the situation is under control. There's no emergency here. Leave Mr. Braginsky alone and please turn off that alarm, since that's your job.” Principal Vargas joined their conversation.
Arthur decided to walk away, irritated. As Ivan was to walk away as well, the principal stopped him.
“Hold on, Ivan. Come back here” he commanded. Ivan complied.
“You look a little stressed out. Are you okay?” he inquired.
“I'm... I'm just a little worried about my... future.”
“You are sweating pinballs. Is that all you're thinking about? You can always be upfront with me, Ivan. Or have you done something wrong... Is that it? Well, Ivan? Talk to me.”
Ivan was cautious to give an answer. He can either tell the truth or hide it.
He decided to tell the truth.
“I just saw Feliks Łukasiewicz waving a gun around... in the restroom.”
“Feliks Łukasiewicz. You sure?”
“Yes. He was in the bathroom talking to himself with a gun. I saw everything. He was babbling like crazy.” Ivan said as his accent slipping.
“Okay, slow down, slow down. So now you saw this... without him seeing you?”
“I was hiding. Behind stall.”
“I know, I know. I just wanted to be completely clear what happened. Mr. Łukasiewicz happens to be from the town's most distinguished family. And one of Blackwell's most honored students. So it's hard for me to see him brandishing a weapon in the school’s restroom. So what happened next?”
“Then he left. I ran out here wondering what to do. Are you going to bust him?”
“We'll continue this discussion, later, in my office. Please go outside with the rest of your class now, Mr. Braginsky.”
‘Of course this academic drone won't do anything since the Łukasiewicz family owns Blackwell now. Should I rewind and change my story?’
He dropped his thought, and exited the building.
“Attention. Feliks Łukasiewicz, please go to the principal’s office at once.” The school speakers echoed throughout the open field.
Ivan noticed his Spanish history teacher by the door.
“Excuse me, Ivan? I know everybody loves being asked to sign a petition, but would you do Mr. Carriedo a favor and hear me out?” Mr. Carriedo inquired.
“Sure, I always have time for you. What's the petition?
“Arthur Kirkland, our chief of security, wants to put surveillance cameras all around the campus. Halls, classrooms, gym, dorm rooms etc. Blackwell Academy should be a high school, not a high security penitentiary.”
“I guess cameras could have helped Matthew Williams. I can see both sides.”
“You're fair minded, Ivan. And we all pray Matthew is found safe and sound, bless his soul. But this petition isn't about him. Blackwell Academy has a noble heritage, from the Native Americans who founded this land, to the pioneers who shared it in peace, not fear and violence.”
“The Native Americans?” Ivan curiously asked.
“The tribes who were here first, who welcomed the settlers. Both cultures found a mutual symbiosis and thrived. Now before I assign you homework with this lecture, will you please sign the petition to keep our campus from going back to 1984?”
“Absolutely. I don't mind security, but not... pure surveillance.” he signed the paper his teacher hold out.
“I knew you were my favorite new student at Blackwell for a good reason.” he smiled at his student and dismissed him.
He began exploring the campus. It was quite an open field with pine trees scattered along with lightposts and stoned paths; a fountain was at the center with the campus’ historical figure’s bust on top. There were students who were sitting nearby; some tossed coins. Among the grassy field were occupied tables, minding their own clique.
“Hey, you’re that new quiet kid, right? In Ms. Arlovskaya’s class?” Toris suddenly greeted him.
“Ah, hello Toris.” He greeted him back.
“Isn’t she incredible? You know, Ms. Arlovskaya?” Toris gleamed.
“I think so, too. We're lucky to have such famous teacher. And I actually love her works.”
“Me too. Her New York urban stuff is great, but I'm glad he came back to her Belarusian roots. Screw the East Coast elite. It must piss off those pretentious galleries that Natalya Arlovskaya is teaching photography to us Blackwell hicks... plus she is really hot.” He noted as matter-of-factly. “If Gilbert wasn't all over her, I would definitely make a move.” He added.
“No way. You can get her busted. And she's not going to mess around with a student.” Ivan retorted.
“That's what you think.”
“Now how do you know this?”
“You have a lot to learn here at Blackwell. Matthew Williams absolutely had sex with her. Well... I heard that from a good source.”
“So you knew Matthew?”
“Not really. I saw him hanging with the other cool kids like Gilbert. Not my kind of clique. But I heard insane stories about Matthew...”
“Well, you shouldn’t assume, I guess.”
“Beats me, anyway, nice talking to you.”
Ivan nodded then dismissed himself. As he walked around aimlessly, he spotted Wang Yao sketching on his pad.
“Privet Yao!” he waved his hand, approaching the Chinese student.
“Nihao, Ivan. You don’t mind sketching you, do you?” Yao asked his permission.
“I’d be honored, Yao. Makes me feel like a muse.” He giggled.
“Funny you should say that. I was just thinking about my real muse in class, Matthew Williams.” He started sketching quickly some guidelines.
“Hard to avoid his posters all over campus.” His body stilled while Yao added thicker lines to his sketch.
“Kills me to see his sweet face used as a crime photo. He had a good heart.” He shaded some parts smoothly.
Ivan nodded a little so he wouldn’t ruin Yao’s work. As Yao began finishing the details, he squinted, stretched his arm to see the whole work in a different angle. He sketch a little more, and decided that his work was complete.
“Ja-jan! It’s done.”
“Wow! I like how you drew my nose. It’s smaller, da?” he joked.
“Believe it or not, your nose is your asset.” Yao noted.
“Thanks, little one. Anyway, I should get going. Talk to you later.” He giggled, and waved goodbye.
“Bye bye!”
He glanced at his footsteps and he noticed the sidewalk was plagued by a patch of ants, circling like a spiral. A bizzare sight, he noted. He felt his phone vibrated. He read the text he just received.
From: Alice Vargas
Hey, meet me at the parking lot. But, don’t forget my flash drive!
He kept his phone in his pocket, and walked to the dormitories. As he was about to enter his building, unfortunately, Gilbert was there by the stairs blocking the doorway.
“Oh look, it's Ivan Braginsky, the selfie ho of Blackwell. What a lame gimmick. Even Nat —Ms. Arlovskaya— falls for your waif hipster bullshit.” he greeted while Elizabeth and Roderich was there.
“‘The Daguerreian Process, ma’am!’” he mocked his Russian accent. Ivan rolled his eyes.
“You could barely even say that. I guess you got your meds filled. Since you know all the answers, I guess you have to find another way into the dorm. We ain't moving. Oh wait, hold that pose!” Gilbert held out his phone and a shutter sound rang.
“So original. Don't worry, Ivan, I'll put a vintage filter on it right before I post it all over social medias. Now, why don't you go fuck your selfie?” Gilbert insulted him as Ivan walked out away, glaring and grumbling.
‘Oh yes, Gilbert. I will definitely get you albino ass out of the way.’ He smiled in quite a creepy way. He would smack him with a water pipe if he had to, but he had enough trip to the principal’s office. As he looked up, he witness the janitor was painting the walls, and knocked out the paint bucket, unfortunately, far enough from Gilbert. Forming an idea, he saw that the sprinklers by the side of the doorway were turned off. He went to the janitor’s shed which was also the control room, and turned on the sprinklers.
As the sprinklers were on, Gilbert and his friend abruptly stood up from the stairs they were sitting on.
“What the hell? Are you kidding? Look at this...” Gilbert ranted.
“It’s just water, Gil.” Rod remarked.
“Water on my awesome cashmere! Do you know how much this fucking outfit cost?” Gilbert added.
The paint bucket dropped, causing it to splash some of its content to Gilbert.
“No fucking way!” Gilbert whined.
“Oh my god, I’m really sorry.” The janitor apologized frantically.
“Don’t even talk to me or I’ll have you fired!”
“Shit, let me get some towels.” Liz said.
“Hello, Gilbert.” Ivan said with a smile.
“Don’t even say a word, Ivan.”
“Oh wait, hold that pose! And no filter needed before I post this. Now please move. I've had messed up day and I'm going to my room. Poka!” Ivan mocked, earning a glare from Gilbert.
“You do that... I know where you live... So does Felix...” Gilbert warned.
‘Maybe I shouldn't have done that... Now I have to get to my room, then see Alice.’
He walked through the halls, then entered his room. He looked for Alice’s flash drive but instead found a note from Ludwig. “I borrowed Alice’s flash drive. You could get it from me. –Ludwig B.”
‘Great. Now I have to talk to his brother.’ Ivan complained. He went to Ludwig’s room and saw him there typing something on his computer. He looked focused at what he was doing.
“Ludwig, may I know where is the flash drive?”
“Oh, Ivan. You’re here. Uh…” Ludwig was surprised but didn’t show it as much. He looked for something, and found the flash drive near him. “Here it is.”
“Ah, spasiba, Ludwig.” He headed out of his room and then the building.
He witnessed Raivis got hit by a football. He rewinded the time, and warned Raivis.
“Raivis, look out!”
“Huh?” Raivis moved his head, and blinked in shock when he felt the football almost touching his face.
“Wow, thank you, Ivan!” the boy said earning him a smile from Ivan.
‘Yay! I helped someone!’ he chirped. He walked along the path, and saw small dead birds along the way. ‘That’s quite ominous.’ When he was heading outside the dormitory premises, he heard a familiar British voice scolding someone.
“...so don't think I'm blind! I see everything here at Blackwell! Do you understand what I'm saying?” Arthur alleged.
“No! And leave me alone.” Kat answered back.
“Hey, why don't you leave her alone?” Ivan stepped in.
“Excuse us, this is official campus business—“ Arthur snapped.
“Excuse me, you shouldn't be yelling at students. Or bullying them.”
“Hey, hey, nobody is bullying anybody. I'm doing my job.”
“No, you're not.”
“You're part of the problem, lad. I will remember this conversation.” Arthur left them.
“Oh Ivan, that was great. I think you scared him for once... I have to go, but thank you. It means a lot.” Kat said with an appreciative tone while smiling still weakly.
“Anytime, Kat.” He smiled back but wider.
Going through the school campus again, he walked briskly. He spotted the parking lot, and then Alice by her car. Alice saw him approaching, smiled as she usually do while waving her hand energetically like the cheerful girl she was.
“Ciao, Ivan! How are you?” She greeted and hugged him. He hugged back.
“Here's your flash. Spasiba, as usual.”
“No problem. Check out my new wheels.”
“Cool. Very old-school.”
“1978, to be exact. Now we can go to the drive-in. There's one in Newberg, just sixty miles away.”
“You're in wrong time, Alice. But then, so am I.”
“You okay?”
“It's been one strange fucking day.” He sighed.
“Man, I saw that Gilbert didn't take down that pic of you on Facebook. Major dick move.”
“No worries, Alice. I took sweet shot of Gilbert I can't wait to share.”
“Oh, score one for Team Ivan! It will be so karmic to see his ass-clown face all over the nets.”
“I guess he does deserve it for all shitty things he's done to people here.”
“By the way, I saw Yao’s sketch of you online? Not bad, but I could do a much a better job.”
“Yao posted it online already? That was nice.”
“Congrats! You're part of his online portrait posse.”
“Don't be jealous. I'm sure he'll ask you soon.”
“Oh you're a wit, Ivan.”
“It's the company I keep, Alice.”
“So, did you get a chance to check out the movie booty on my flash drive?”
“Da. You had taste, from ‘Akira’ to ‘Twilight Zone’ which seems appropriate today.”
“I consider myself a pop...cultural pirate connoisseur.”
“That does sound better than ‘thief.’”
“Ha-ha. Make sure you watch ‘Cannibal Holocaust’.”
“Seen it. I was more disturbed by all those emo vampire movies in there.”
“Can't a sensitive high school girl love sensitive vampires too?”
“So you're sensitive...”
“Ouch, that sounds awful the way you say it.”
“Not at all. Sensitive is good, unless you're a pushover. You have hip taste and quick mind.”
“Thanks for noticing, Ivan.”
“The right boy will, too...”
“If I was lucky. Speaking of hip and fast, we should cruise out in my car to an actual movie this week. But you seem distracted.”
“I need to talk to somebody ...just to get it out of my system.”
“Dr. Alice Vargas is in the house. I won't even prescribe you any meds. Tell me everything.”
“For reals, Alice, this is between you and me, not social media.”
“Don't insult me, Ivan, go on.”
“I had this incredibly bizarre experience in Ms. Arlovskaya’s class today. I mean, life-changing. Have you ever had dream so real it was like movie?”
Alice was about to say something, but Feliks was approaching them while glaring.
“Ivan Braginsky, right? In Arlovskaya’s class?”
“Da. I’m one of her students.”
“What-the-fuck-ever. I know you like to take pictures, especially when you're hiding out in the bathrooms.” He said as he shoved Alice when she tried to stop him from bringing his face closer on Ivan’s.
“You best tell me what you told the Principal. Now!” Feliks demanded.
“I told him truth: student had gun.” Ivan deadpanned.
“No, you told him I had a gun! That's why he dragged me into his office.”
“And did what, give you stern lecture?”
“Nobody ...nobody lectures me! Everyone tries though ...they try...” Feliks almost broke down.
“You should talk to somebody, Feliks...” Ivan said out of concern.
“Do not analyze me! I pay people for that. Worry about yourself, Ivan Braginsky.” Feliks back at his previous trance.
“Take a step back, Feliks.”
“Oh, man, you're, like, telling me what to do?”
“Hey! You should stop shouting at him!” Alice confronted but was given a head-butt by Feliks.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” Ivan growled, tried to grab Feliks, but was grabbed in the neck by Feliks instead.
“Nobody tells me what to do! Not my parents, not the Principal, or like, that whore in the bathroom!” Feliks dictated.
Ivan scrapes Feliks's cheek with his attempted punch, and Feliks pushed him to the ground. An old pick-up truck drove up to the scene. Ivan got up, panting for air, and looked in the windshield, where the bespectacled blond from the restroom was in the driver's seat. He suddenly recognized who he was.
“Alfred?”
“Ivan?”
“No way, you again?” Feliks interrupted their mini-reunion, and eventually got punched by Ludwig.
“Ludwig?!” Ivan shouted out of worry.
“Don’t worry, we got this.” Alice smiled, and continued to face Felix along with Ludwig.
“Get in, Ivan!” Alfred shouted as Ivan complied.
“Get your punk asses out of there now! Don't even try to run! Nobody messes with me! Nobody!” Feliks shouted as they drove away. Arthur interrupted their fight.
.
“Feliks is messed up… and dangerous. This day never ends.” Ivan said what was on his mind.
“’Oh, and spasiba, Alfred.’” Alfred spoke in an attempted Russian accent. “After five years, you're still Ivan Braginsky.” Alfred continued in his usual voice.
Ivan looks down and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Don't give me the guilty face; at least pretend you're glad to see me.” Alfred pointed out.
“I am seriously glad to see you. Oh, and spasiba, Alfred. It makes perfect sense I'd see you today.” Ivan said sincerely.
“Yes, it's been that kinda day. So, what did that freak want with you?”
“Hopefully nothing after today. So, how do you know Feliks?”
“He's just another Arcadian asshole. Your friend really took a beatdown for you...”
“Ludwig? Yeah, I owe him big-time.”
“You're not the only one in debt. And you're already causing trouble.”
“Thought it would be quiet here. Feels so weird to be back.”
“So, I guess St. Petersburg sucked hard?”
“No, it felt like real city for artists. Big and bright. Great for taking pictures.”
“Yeah. Must be hard coming back to a hick town like Arcadia again.”
“Not after seeing you.”
“Please. You came back for Blackwell Academy.” He said bitterly.
“Of course, it's one of the best photography programs in the country. And my favorite teacher, Natalya Arlovskaya.” Unfortunately, Ivan didn’t notice Alfred’s tone.
“So you came back to Arcadia for a teacher, not your best friend.” Alfred threw some shade, and Ivan winced.
“Don't you think I'm happy to see you?”
“No. You were happy to wait five years without a call or even a text.” Alfred just glared at the road.
“Give me a break! I was going through changes...like you...” Ivan weakly defended himself.
“I guess those changes included dumping me from your life.”
“That's not true, Alfred...” He frowned, not liking the conversation.
“Bullshit. You thought you'd hook up with all these art pricks in St. Petersburg. Didn't happen, though.”
“You're merciless.” Ivan muttered.
“You've been at Blackwell for almost a month without letting me know. 'Nuff said.” He reminded.
“I just wanted to settle in first and not be such a shy, cliche geek. I totally would've contacted you.”
“I bet you don't use these sad excuses on Ms. Arlov-whatever. Don't use them on me, Ivan.”
Ivan fell back on the seat behind him. He watched Alfred driving for a while, ‘Since when did he start wearing glasses? It looks good on him.’ he thought, then bended down to retrieve his camera, which was smashed during the confrontation in the parking lot.
“Ahh, blyat.” He muttered.
“Wow, haven’t heard that in a while.” Alfred mused.
“Nothing changes, except for my camera decided to be trash.”
“Good thing my step-douche has a boatload of tools. Maybe you can fix it at my place.”
“I need very specific, tiny tools.”
“Nerd alert! My stepdad has a fully-stocked garage. And he actually is a tiny tool.” Alfred smiled, losing up a bit of his scrunched face.
“Welcome home, Ivan.” he said warmly and Ivan thanked him in his head.
.
Ivan and Alfred drove up to Alfred's house, and parked in the driveway. They get out of the car, and Alfred began unlocking the door with his house keys.
“Come on in, don't be shy.” Alfred tried to be hospitable.
“The house still looks...nice.” A faint nostalgia surged through Ivan.
“Home, shit home.” Alfred remarked as he entered the house.
Ivan followed him upstairs, and entered his room.
“My room’s a bit different than the last time you saw it.”
“It’s cool. At least we can chill out.”
“This isn’t exactly where I chill out. My step-Fuhrer makes sure of that. Close the door, and put on some music while I ‘meditate’.” Alfred began smoking weed.
“So tell me, what does Ivan Braginsky do for fun now that he's a grown-up?”
“Not much. You know me. I like to observe the world more than participate.”
“I can't say I know you anymore; maybe you love to go clubbin' every night.”
“Can you see me at a rave?”
“I'd dose those candy-flippin' morons and watch them twitch into a DJ-dance-death-rattle... Take a photo of that.”
“Pfft, da. Sure.”
Ivan looked for the power switch and turned it on. He searched the metal box under the bed and took the CD. Noticing a picture of Matthew Williams, he pulls it out and unfolds it to reveal that the other side of the picture shows Alfred. He noticed this.
“Hey, give me that!” Alfred snatched the photo out of Ivan's hand.
“Ah, prosti. I wasn't trying to be nosy. Obviously, he was good friend, yes?”
“That's putting it mildly.”
Ivan sat down next to Alfred. Not really wanting to look a know-it-all, he inquired about Matthew.
“So, who is he? Do you mind talking about him?”
“Matthew Williams. He was my...angel.” He answered with longing.
“After my mom died and you moved, I felt abandoned. Matthew saved my life.” He continued.
“I had no idea...” Ivan whispered.
“Well, you never made much effort to find out. I was fourteen, we were best friends.” Alfred countered.
“So, Matthew took my place... I'm glad he was there for you.” He replied weakly.
“Matthew had my back. We were gonna kick the world's ass. You would laugh at how different we were... He wanted to be a star.”
“He looks like a model. Well, he looks like you.”
“We get that a lot. That was his plan. Our plan. Get the hell out of Bigfootville, and into Los Angeles.”
“So, what happened? Did your folks, your papa, try to stop you?”
“My papa was too busy hooked up with Sergeant Shithead.”
“I feel the love... Now, when did Matthew actually disappear?” Ivan said sarcastically.
“Six months ago. He just left Arcadia. Without a word. Without...me.” Alfred weakly responded.
“How do you know he disappeared? Maybe he wanted to start a totally new life...”
“Unlike you, he would've told me, okay? Something happened to him.” his tone took a break from the nostalgia.
“I believe you. I'm just trying to get all deductive...” Ivan sighed.
“Before he left, he said he met somebody who changed his life... Then, poof.”
“And you haven't heard anything from him since?”
“Like everybody in my life. My mom, you...and Matthew... Gone... Can you put on some music now?”
Ivan got up slowly. He inserted the CD into the stereo. "Santa Monica Dream" by Angus and Julia Stone began playing. Alfred lied down on the bed, a sad expression across his face, and he began to smoke.
“Anyway, you can find tools to fix your camera in the garage.” Alfred noted.
“Alfred, are you okay?” Ivan noticed Alfred’s dazed face.
“Sure, I'm awesome. I just want to blaze and be alone for a moment.”
“Horosho.” Ivan left Alfred's room and went downstairs.
He glanced around the living room, and invited himself to a nostalgia trip. ‘It’s been five years.’ The living room was still the same as he remembered, except for the old wallpaper stripping out of its age. The bulky television was gone, and was replaced with a flat-screen. He looked through the sliding door, noticed that the backyard’s swing was still there.
He spotted an open door to the garage and welcomed himself. He searched for the tools, cabinet by cabinet. When he opened another cabinet, he was surprised to see what’s inside. A small television with surveillance of the house. ‘Damn, Alfred’s step-dad is really paranoid and creepy.’ He closed the cabinet, and searched through the drawers instead. He found a manila folder containing Blackwell’s student profiles, and apparently, his opinions as well; he also had a file about Ivan. He skimmed through the detail. ‘Really nosy, doesn’t know how to mind his own business. Quite sketchy.’ He laughed quietly when he read his opinion about him. He read Kat’s file and it bothered him. ‘Related to a scandal in the Vortex Club’ he read. ‘Why would he thought of that? This man has a problem.’ He put the files back to its place, and opened another drawer, wherein he found the tools. He grabbed the tools and headed back to Alfred’s room.
“Sweet, you found the tools? Go work on my table. Just tidy it up a bit.” Alfred said as he noticed Ivan had returned.
He complied and began fixing his camera. He removed the pictures inside of it and put it aside. He screwed some parts as it began to take its form. When it seemed presentable, he pressed the shutter button. The cover did not immediately eject, so he removed the film backing, then reinserted it. It still didn’t work.
“Why are you pain in the butt?” He felt defeated.
Alfred stood up from his bed and moved closer to Ivan. He noticed the photos on the table, and looked at it one by one. He commented each of the photo with compliments, making Ivan smile. He then took the photo of a blue butterfly that seemed familiar.
“Hey! Is this… is this the butterfly in the restroom?!” Alfred exclaimed as if it’s a Eureka moment.
“Ahh, da. Yes. It is. Why?”
“You… you son of a gun. You saved me! You knew Feliks had a gun so you tripped the alarm. Wow, you’re like the KGB or something.” Alfred was still amazed.
“What are you talking about?” Ivan grinned and Alfred threw a pillow at him, causing the camera to fall.
“Now, it’s officially broken.” Ivan deadpanned.
“Hey, since, it was your birthday like more than a year ago. Right?” Alfred smiled, giddy, and searched for something in his cabinet. Well, under it. He pulled out a box, and found what he was looking for. He hid it behind his back and-
“Belated happy birthday, Ivan!” Alfred held out a Polaroid camera, better than his previous one.
“I- Uh, spasiba, Alfred. But isn’t this your mother’s camera?”
“Pfft, no worries. Besides, I don’t know how to take good shots, unlike you.”
“Bol'shoye spasiba, Alfred. I am much honored.”
“Y’know what, we should celebrate! You’re back, and we need to have a homecoming party for you.” He paced through his room and changed the music to a livelier one. He maxed the volume, and started dancing on top of his bed.
“C’mon. Shake that big, white ass!” He howled, earning a giggle from Ivan as he awkwardly began dancing as well.
“Are you even trying, Ivan?” He danced vigorously, bobbing his head.
“Turn off that bloody music, Alfred Bonnefoy-Kirkland!” A voice shouted from downstairs.
“Fucker, I hate it when he does that.” Alfred cursed as he turned off the stereo.
“What now?” Ivan asked.
“I’m going to your room, young man.” His step-dad shouted.
“Oh, shit. Ivan, go hide or something.” Alfred whispered.
Ivan was frantically finding a hiding spot, and remembered that he used to hide in Alfred’s closet. He went inside and remained silent while he heard the door opened.
“Alfred, did you, or did you not take any of my guns in my stash?” His step-dad asked impatiently.
“Wow, what are you even talking about?”
“Is this marijuana? Why am I finding marijuana in this house?”
“Okay, first, guns. Now, weed. Wanna blame me more on something else?”
“I will not tolerate that kind of tone if I were you. Your father and I were worried about you.”
“Yeah, sure. I feel the love.”
“Answer my question, why is there marijuana in your room?”
“I… Uhh, it’s mine.” Ivan lied as he stepped out of the closet. He was surprised to see Arthur Kirkland in Alfred’s room.
“Okay, first of all, I don’t like it when bloody strangers pop out from my son’s closet. And you do know the consequences for having such illegal drug, Ivan Braginsky.”
“You should shut it, Arthur. You shouldn’t care who I’m friends with. And please call me Alfred F. Jones if you really want to call me by my full name.” Alfred butted in.
Ticked off, Arthur slapped Alfred in the face. Alfred glared at him.
“You’ll regret this.” He warned, eyes glinting.
Arthur, without another word, walked away with grief.
“Alfred, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. So that’s my step-douche.”
“I can’t believe Arthur Kirkland is your step-dad.”
“Yeah, beats me on how Francis looked him in the eye and say ‘Wow I love this man’ because seriously, who could even like that guy? Anyway, I have another surprise.” He went to his table and uncovered something.
He held it in his back then held it out. It was a gun.
“Look at my cool toy.”
“Alfred, chto za blyat?!”
“I know, pretty cool, right?” He ignored his friend’s colorful expression.
“Anyway, let’s go outside. I don’t really feel chill here anymore.” He opened his window and noticed Ivan hesitated.
“What? Are you coming or you’re just gonna mope there and maybe have a heart to heart talk with Arthur?” He continued stepping out through the window.
Ivan followed him, and he was excited.
.
They went to a familiar cliff. Too familiar.
“Isn't this awesome sauce? Totally reminds me of when we were kids...” Alfred recalled. He noticed Ivan was slowing down and waved at him. “Come on, slowpoke!”
“Wait up!”
‘I haven't been here in forever... So why do I feel like I was just here? Whoa, this is the exact same path I was on during my nightmare today.’
He noticed Alfred was already sitting on a bench by the lighthouse. Alfred noticed him standing like a doof.
“Have a seat, Vanya.”
“You’re in a good mood.” He said as he noticed the sudden use of his nickname.
“Seeing my step-dork get played makes me happy.”
“I'm not as brave as you. And Arthur is indeed ‘step-douche’.”
“I'm sorry you had to experience it firsthand.”
“You have to live with him. Has he always been this way?”
“Ever since my desperate papa dragged his ass to our home! I never trusted Arthur.”
“He freaked out on poor Yekaterina Chernenko today.”
“I know her. She's cool. Only that prick would bully her.”
“He has some kind of weird agenda.”
“He has a lot of secret files. Sherlock still thinks he's gathering enemy intelligence. Did you take a peek?”
“Well, yeah. I couldn't help it.”
“Never change. What did you find?”
“Creepy photos of Yekaterina... other Blackwell students...”
“This dude takes his job too seriously. He still thinks he's at war or something. He has a total surveillance fetish. I worry there are spy cams in the house.”
“I knew you didn't know! Alfred, your house is under surveillance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There are cameras all over the house. I saw it on a monitor in the garage.”
“I knew it! He is so hella fucking paranoid. I'll keep this a secret for now...”
“Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”
“No wonder I'm so miserable. Everybody in this town knows everybody's secrets...”
“Even yours?
“Not anymore.”
“So what do you have on Feliks?”
“He's an elite asshole who sells bad shit cut with laxative ...and he dosed me with some drug in his room.”
“What?”
“I met him in some shithole bar that didn't card me. He was too rich for the place and too wasted. And he kept flashing bills...”
“Just tell me what happened, Alfred. Now.”
“I was an idiot. I thought he was so blazed it would be an easy score.”
“You needed money that bad?”
“Actually, yes. I owe big time. And I thought I'd have enough for me and Matthew if he showed up.”
“How much do you owe?
“Three grand plus interest. And before I could get a chunk of that from Feliks...he dosed my drink with some shit.”
“God, Alfred, I can't believe this... I mean, I do. Then what?” Ivan was frustrated.
“I know I passed out on the floor. I woke up and that perv was smiling, crawling towards me with a camera...”
“Go on...”
“Everything was a blur... I tried to kick him in the balls and broke a lamp. Feliks freaked, so I managed to bum rush the door and get the hell out. Ivan, it was insane.”
“What did you do then?” Ivan gritted through his teeth. Furious at what he was hearing.
“I figured I would make him pay me to keep quiet. So we met in the bathroom.”
“And he brought a gun.”
“That was Feliks's last mistake.”
“He's still dangerous, Alfred. Not just to you.”
“I won't always be there to save you...”
“You were here today, Ivan. You saved me! I'm still tripping on that... Seeing you after all these years feels like—“
“Destiny?”
Alfred got up from the bench and approached the cliff. Ivan follows him.
“If this is destiny, I hope we can find Matthew. I miss him, Ivan. This shit-pit has taken away everyone I've ever loved... I'd like to drop a bomb on Arcadia Bay and turn it to fucking glass...”
Ivan glanced at Alfred who’s still look at the horizon. The sun was setting and sky was clear until-
Ivan felt his head ache. The world was spinning on its own, darkening.
He was, again, trapped in the same storm. He was on the same path as before.
‘Not again... Why is this happening to me? Why am I here again? Is Alfred still up there?’
Ivan followed a doe, translucent it seemed, to the top of the hill as a boulder fell down the left fork in the road. Thunder crashed and lightning stroke a tree, causing it to fall down in front of Ivan. He rewinded time and walked up the path as the tree fell behind him. Ivan continued to follow the ghostly doe up the steps to the lighthouse. A pile of logs crashed down the path in front of Ivan. He rewinded and stood in the area next to the path as they fell past him. He continued toward the lighthouse. A boat flew out of the tornado and crashed into the lighthouse. Debris rained down and knocked the fallen tree blocking the road into the ocean below. The top of the lighthouse fell down and balanced precariously on the edge of the cliff. It slowly tipped over and fell into the ocean, taking chunks of the cliff with it so Ivan cannot cross it. Ivan rewinded and crossed to the bench area after the debris rained down. The lighthouse roof fell over again behind him. Ivan then read the newspaper stuck on railing. ‘October 11th? Is this Friday? That's only four days away!’ The wind tore the newspaper out of Ivan's hands. He watched the tornado.
‘Oh, no... That tornado is headed straight for the town...’
Suddenly, Alfred's hand touched Ivan's shoulder. Ivan found himself back with Alfred at sunset. Ivan falls to the ground and Alfred kneeled beside him. He looked at Alfred one more time, about to break down.
“Alfred! You're here! I'm back. Oh, Bozhe, this is real--it's real! This sucks.” Ivan rambled, mixed with emotions.
“Ivan, what's going on? You totally blacked out.”
“I didn't black out...I had another vision. The town is going to get wiped out by a tornado...”
“Oregon gets about five tornadoes every twenty years; you just zoned.”
Ivan grabbed Alfred's wrist.
“Nyet, nyet, I saw it! I could actually feel the electricity in the air...”
“Come on, take a breath, okay?”
“Alfred, I'm not crazy. But there's something else I have to tell you... Something...hardcore.”
“Talk to me, Ivan.”
“I had this same vision earlier in class... When I came out of it, I discovered I could reverse time. Like I said: not crazy.”
“But high, right?”
“Listen to me, how do you think I saved you in the bathroom?”
“By reversing time? Yeah, sure.”
“I saw you get shot, Alfred. Saw you actually...die. I was able to go back and hit the fire alarm...”
“Okay, I see you're a geek now with a great imagination, but this isn't anime or a video game; people don't have those powers, Ivan.”
“I don't know what I have, but I have it. And I'm scared.”
“You need to get high. It's been a hella insane fucking day...”
Ivan began shaking his head. A snowflake falls on his face and he wipes it away. Ivan and Alfred watched as snow begins falling all around them.
“What...the hell is this?” Alfred said dumbfounded.
“Snowflakes...?”
Alfred stood up.
“It's, like...eighty degrees. How?” Alfred stated, unable to comprehend what’s happening.
Ivan got up.
“Climate change...or storm is coming.” he commented gravely.
“Ivan...” Alfred looked him in the eye. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”
Disclaimer: I do not own ‘Hetalia: Axis Powers’ nor ‘Life is Strange’.
So, there you have it. A ‘Life Is Strange’ AU RusAme.
Fun fact: Babochka is a Russian word for butterfly which also means “little soul” because the old peeps believed that souls take form of a butterfly. Thus, the title.
Another fun fact: I don’t really write fanfic; this is just a giant incorrect hetalia quote if you ask me. I just got into deep of RusAme hell. I’d appreciate it if someone would like to beta for me, though. I would love to learn how write properly.
If my request in AO3 got approved, I’d definitely post it there.
#rusame#amerus#aph russia#aph america#hetalia#hetalia axis powers#ivan braginsky#alfred f jones#rusame textposts#blue little soul#i tried to write
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Rimbaud the Son, by Pierre Michon
Translated by Jody Gladding and Elizabeth Deshays
Yale University Press, 2013
If you’re going to single out the agony of “the gift”, the iron in irony, the embodiment of the tormented artist, the lost son of all sons, it would be Rimbaud.
It would be human and masculine.
It would be what is recovered
L’éternité.
It would be what is pure
La mer mêlée au soleil.
“History is all about fathers, sons and whores.”
-Duncan McNaughton
Or the dark well of a single mother who can’t, just can’t- because the farm in Charleville is a daydream surfacing only in the sallow yellow sunbeam that comes out from the attic window like a church bell on Sunday when everything is hideous and you’re supposed to remember.
Remember what?
Infamy and alchemy, perhaps.
Yet the ‘Carabosse’ (mommy) can’t breathe, so fades into the shadow of her dark fingers, like Eurydice, gripping the edge of the bowl of the dark well, lined with wild forget-me-nots.
Whether rebellion is a curse or a blessing, it’s still poetry.
So he walked. Back and forth from the future into the past and back again from 1854 to 1891.
Crossed the Alps on foot. In Italy (if I remember correctly)- walking, walking, walking until his ribs cut into his Siddhartha stomach lining.
Burst!
He wanted to burst from the very first time he watched a spider.
He became a saint behind the closed shutters in Camden Town, perching like a peacock in the presence of a devil.
Drown in the green fairy and rise out of the lake like a Lancelot with a sword wound by violets whose roots are stronger than your thin wrist.
So after the offenses and defenses, after the crime of the enfant terrible, and all along the solitude, the one thing that loved you- solitude, you plunged, like Eurydice, back into the dark, fecund pantomime of the earth below the earth
And in Abyssinia, illegally exported guns.
Maybe once upon a dream you remembered your boyhood with three sisters, an older brother, the haystacks, the color of each letter of the alphabet and the lapis-lazuli chunks of sky blinding the pillows of clouds where you chose to hide
Your wings.
Until the day you took the train
Without a ticket
To the Gods.
Michon thinks you were nervous before the steps to Zeus’s Palace.
I do not.
Zeus doesn’t give a crap about peonies and the prodigal son has eyes like Novalis’ blue flower
and a body protected by thorns.
You were sixteen.
You wanted the hue of that vast, endless sky
Seen from the well of the soul
It’s not a good view.
But it’s focused in a circle that is beyond you.
Was it at nineteen, or in Cypress, or in Africa, when you finally understood how freedom spoiled you? Surrender, surrender to the sands of the line, to the banks of Lethe. And plaster your fasting with a belt made of gold.
She was as black as the country wife’s fingers.
She emerged from the dead cavern of Verlaine and the blood of the lonesome soldier in the meadow and the invisible city of the barracks across oceans.
Once it stopped
There was beauty.
That spider crawling in the attic, in the sallow yellow sunbeam, is a messenger from Izambard, the ferryman, telling you to give him a penny
but instead you knocked on the door and had your photograph taken.
Who gives a fuck about the crooked bow tie? It was brown, the color of shit. Not your own shit, or Paul’s, or Banville’s, or Hugo’s, or your mother’s or father’s or sisters’ or brother’s, or even Monsieur Carjat in the black hood over the plate of silver nitrate… The bow tie in the black and white photograph is the color of Jesus’s shit.
Carjat wanted to touch it (the crooked bow tie), to adjust it-
But dude, if you were in front of Jesus’s shit would you adjust it?
(Touch it, maybe, but adjust it?)
You were hung over. Then you were drunk and then you were hung over. Fuck Virgil, fuck Dante, fuck Shakespeare, fuck Hugo, fuck Mallarme, fuck Baudelaire…
No, not Baudelaire, he’s my baby.
History is reversed. I’m the first.
A charcoal sky over Paris, day after day. They all want me. They are hungry. I am not. So I stay. Their soup is spiced with my piss, their lips are parched by my invisible sun. They laugh, imagining how my white ass must be luminous as the moon.
I wanted grace. I didn’t know it then, but I wanted it.
Books were gentle. The pages were silky. The bindings were hard. They smelled like History. They smelled like the well.
I saw the sea, remembered love and learned how to bring it against me.
Wave after wave after wave…
A La Recherche du Temps Perdu by Marcel Proust
Translated by C.K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin
Three volumes, 1107 pages, Vintage, New York, 1982
My friend Miles Bellamy’s father, Dick Bellamy, owner of the once rather notorious Oil & Steel art gallery on the Hudson river in New York, died with the first volume of A Le Recherche du Temps Perdu open in his hands. The portrait here being that dear Dick, knowing he was taking his last breaths, remembered that the one thing he had yet to accomplish in life was… well, you get it. Unfortunately poor Dick never read did the whole thing, all 1,267,064 words, but I did. And before I die, I might attempt to do so again.
When I did finish this monumental work, I vowed that it must be the greatest book of time… and then I read Jean Santeuil (see below), yet still say yes, it’s the greatest work of all time. It’s the delicacy of feeling, the stamina of that delicacy, the persistence… days turning into years of sunlight scattered through clouds.
If asked what this novel is about, I’d answer, “The end of the aristocracy in France.” Simple. But it’s about everything not only ending, but spreading out and folding back on itself. It’s about love. It’s about mysticism.
The famous madeleine dipped in tea in the beginning opens up the space for, well, enlightenment really, and when Marcel accidently trips on uneven stones in the path to the Guermantes mansion in the end, that very path is raised into another, higher dimension and you go there too… bursting through clouds, transformed.
It’s hard to say what actually happens in this moment but one is undeniably transformed. *
James, a co-worker of mine at a used bookstore, (way back when- when there was a happy abundance of used bookstores)- came into work one day kind of glowing, radiating and outside of himself, almost floating. He said, “I just finished reading Proust,” then added, “sitting on the stone steps of a church.” I don’t remember where I was when I finished it, probably in my garden in the darkening twilight, unable to move until the end of the last page, or more likely, propped up against pillows in my bed at four in the morning or something, nothing as romantic as the steps of a church, or a chair in a room on the Hudson River in the glow of lamp, but I do remember that when I did finish it, yeah- I was in some kind of nebula, my perspective of the mundane egg (as Blake terms our world)- changed and I was stronger. Inside, there was this new strength of fragility, my own and every one else’s, even strangers, even the dead… perhaps, thinking back on it now, especially the dead…
This has stayed with me, this joy of (at the risk of being cliché)- an inner knowledge that was had, and could only be had, by reading A Le Recherche du Temps Perdu.
Of course I am familiar with a book entitled “How Proust Can Change Your Life”, I’ve never read it and never will because the title alone is so pretentious it makes me nauseous and the fact that someone would write a book for the sole purpose of self-propaganda really makes me want to puke.
Looking for St. Loop
by Elizabeth McKague (1999)
“I thought I saw in his eyes that thirst for more sublime happiness, that un-avowed melancholy which aspires to something better than we can know here below, and which, for the romantic soul, however placed by chance or revolution,
“still prompts the celestial sight,
for which we wish to live, or dare to die.”
(Ultima lettera di Bianca a sua madre. Forli, 1817)
-Stendhal, “On Love”
Looking for St. Loup
I.
The gallant boy ran across the tables
like Holderlin’s comet through a mad sky.
There is no system for this.
Monsieur Melandrine came from the theater
to the Place de Clichy in work pants on a scooter.
We ate oysters and drank champagne
in the same corner where Baudelaire
sank into reverie, after a shoe shine.
The gentlemen arrive, all in black, from the Garden
and wish to enter the dark forest
yet wily nymphs hold them back.
No one believes it, although you were right
about the Minotaur- now he’s using a cane.
It’s time for change when the familiar
becomes a loneliness one can not breathe.
Leopardi said Slyia reached out to her own grave.
His red cloak flying over their heads-
He seemed to be swinging from a garland of bells!
I must find invitations to better dramas.
Philosophy, the kiss, your paint box even
that has been emptied into this night
are lost so quickly, I can’t stand, I can’t walk,
I want to limp.
I gazed over the shoulders of so many others
as he leapt past an orgy of apocalyptic monsters
made by the shadows of coats and hats on racks
behind the French double doors.
He gathered his whole life into his arms to bring,
dashing, that fearless taste of the fruit-
blind to all but Surrender, to the approach
of a movement where feeling becomes a circle of light
drifting you upwards s that your heels
are actually rising from the small,
round, marble faces, arranged for reflection
against the great window, like a sliced up moon.
II.
He wants
the word
one word
from the
beginning
to after
the end.
Some temperance
and arrangement
of the muscles
like flowers
in a vase.
Young Werther spoke of a kind of horse
that would bite open it’s own vein to relieve a fever.
Di te mi dole: Tu me manques.
A posture of Spring time in the cultured rows of sailboats.
The secret gathering is to live
as foreigners forced by the archer
to almost touch the shore.
marked obscura. The phantom swooped into the realm.
I revealed my dream.
“You mean, you actually want them t put you in the ground?”
Bones. Maybe. And daughters leaving azaleas.
My favorite part was when he drove up alone
and stepped out in front of the hotel.
How the sun carried him then, how
he lingered inside it
even as he entered the mulberry carpeted lounge.
Sultry wives, embarrassed by the heat, heaved out loud.
Bellhops hopped and stray men snatched
a second mind from the ice bucket
to place atop their usual, girdles of ennui.
She’ll torture herself with those pink hawthorns
a few hundred years from now.
Some erziehungsroman left in a box unfinished
in the closet and pithoi and stone cellar where
Thomas Aquinas once lived across the street
When once the body, the earth listened and
men walked where ever they found
an arresting feeling waiting in the distance.
It is necessary.
III.
As he watched the fawn
climb from the thicket
through unsteady branches
black with a melting frost
Play of time
the clouds bore down
another spirit upon
his wounded mind.
IV.
I’ll rent a studio where the river
becomes a dragon at the end of May.
Read Giuseppe Ungaretti at the round cafe
in the Piazza Giuseppe Poggi there is
a piece of shade shaped like an angel
from one certain elm.
If I asked you to read the palm on the hill.
You could be anybody reaching
the purple turrets in a limehaze.
I can see a missing chapter
in the prow of your hands,
mouth at the edge of a miracle.
It has been too long now not to know what to believe.
A shock went through the back of his neck.
A marching band stepped on the train.
He sat with a silent
tuba in his ear.
Another espresso in Rome.
Best one he ever had.
She walked through the Piazza della Repubblica
guitar on her back with a
pineapple and an eggplant, one in each arm.
The street musicians wondered,
“Must be some kinda California minestrone.”
She left her letters in the Hotel Vienne, 1814.
The unfinished dawn bleeding through crepe de che curtains and
the boys in stone statues across the Rue Raspail
when everything has happened in the presence of desire
and the Saints came in after kissing the trees-
She knew she could see across the expanse
but how could she scramble such love into the margins?
The sky moved closer, became charcoal and smoked.
V.
They pierced the continual sky with an auger,
threw loops up to heaven
and hung down like acrobats.
Sprung from a doubtless tube of royalty; he owned up
and saw truth as a visible object, a kind of crystal ball
in which nothing was false but the tints
of lavender in the hair and cheeks of so many Duchesses,
Princesses and Marquises’.
St. Loup laughed to cheer others.
In the hearth he burnt only the finest timber
to keep you warmer, longer.
He would soon ride again.
She escaped out under the trellises where
the quiet, gold days waiting for the post
spread out like tea with lemon.
On his own orders, later, after the pride
turned to pain (for no particular reason);
he went to the Front of the Line, crossed
the bloody battlefield in Auverres.
Endymion fought the jackals then rested his sword between her breast.
Tristan turned into Hermes when suddenly
everything on his back moved over his neck like a breeze.
It was always a trust.
In his last years he visited homosexual brothels.
His alienation pulsed. After all the gifts, still it was
like a bonfire all the way down the Champs Elysees,
it was like the dried figs at Christmas-
Perhaps there’d been too many sensations outside of himself,
he could no longer measure the end.
Perhaps it had past.
Perhaps he missed it.
You ask why it is a question of wandering?
Because somewhere the last line contains
a horizon of Nobility.
VI.
I’m in that painting; rushed through the Vatican.
Justine taught me the eye trick how when you focus
on Hell then move slowly up and above
it’s all buoyancy and heavy globes.
I found my ecstatic consciousness on the map.
What a relief. (I was getting weaker from surviving
on the nebula of the dead).
T’was not I who wrote bitterness into the third novel.
Monmartre mattresscake on bare stone and gazing
naked into the long dawn and ashes of Chesterfields.
“Comme un paysage après l’orage, attention a la mélancolie,
c’est la plus belle mélodie de l’amour
c’est aussi la plus cruel et plus difficile.
Soit prudent avec ton coeur et rendre un peu triste.”
Someday, I’m going to the
top of the hill to live
with the Capuchin sisters.
I wanted the stillness to come and last, beside some one.
It speaks when we are children as a form of protection-
to find placement amongst that which is sensual.
Each memory in its own making like a sun
surrounded by a sun, surrounded by a sun... and so on;
if you can believe such a thing.
They say it all began with the Danube,
from the Black Sea to 1001 night’s heads resting on jewels in the great net covering all.
Then Calvalcanti came in with the key and the Pieta, the Pieta and the Pieta danced
all night out back of Hamlet’s Mill. He just wanted to prove that it’s real-
that everything touches it, that it feels like Rouen blue
and haunted by crimson,
corrosive moss
that took the mouths of gargoyles.
He distinguished a solitude far beyond the waves and valleys of reason.
His precipice divided the elliptic and he finally slept when the moon left Paris,
was carried off to Asia where he studied new characters; hieroglyphs of lover’s
limbs.
No, see
MIND Body
is the first
and second half
of attention.
Then habit oppresses
soluble links to the night.
The machinery itself looks dangerous.
I wanted to tell you
how nice it would have been
when it was possible
to escape.
And now, there’s that.
That it affected you so much.
Maybe it could have been more
than these pall books to carry us,
to weave the way in.
VII.
He walked along the shore, throwing each thought that started
in his groin and moved North over his shoulders
back in to the water.
I have married many shepherds.
It was too orange- that light
in his North Beach hotel room.
Now he’s making violins for Carnagie Hall.
We’d watched the sun like we planted it,
even the noise of traffic and Ave Marias
from the laundromat below his rotting window, drowned.
Nobody talks about the Upyia Gallery anymore,
sometimes, a siren brings the needles and trumpets back into your brain.
Then the stranger appears, feeding the birds.
I couldn’t make anything new anymore, I wanted
to give it all away. Forgive me,
the East is precious, but, forgive me.
St. Loup is an archetype
the misunderstood troubadour
and the violence of another world.
Ternion in chains in the Caucasus Mountains,
no one can find you there.
the monsters come, the monsters go...
He’d never say her name in writing.
It meant house. House of peaches.
VIII.
St. Loup surrounded himself with the resistless type.
He liked to tame them. But you were the one
he appreciated. You were the dark self, the delicate solitaire.
Conversation was pure. It was only a favor. So,
he traveled to her hiding place
and learned she had died.
He told you by telegram, “I’m sorry.
She went horse riding in the planets.”
He rarely slept in the barracks.
When the Great War came he went in barefoot
and lonely, following demons for secrets
and no one to save.
He never had a photograph taken of himself.
Leave, was three days in Nueilly-
But you’d been salvaged
into the asylum.
I’m not going to be calm about this.
I believe there’s an answer.
If I could say, “Tonight, my love...”
but my voice is fainter, transient,
like a sliver of ice.
You must be brave. learn to balance
the antiquity of character with laughter.
The shetayan who is wise never returns-
you go there- in the periphery of the campfire.
Each bridge in Prague is like the bow of a violin.
For every two French people there is only one mirror.
Proust and Stendhal differ on the idea of love.
What idea?
Friends have run off to Nederland, Colorado.
Dreadlocks in Switzerland.
The Trenitalia are always right on time, to the second.
and mothers and grooms waving good-bye.
I’m concerned about the lighting (not too dark, not too cold...)
the Byzantine painter, who is eccentric, is coming.
“If you impress them too much they’ll end up thinking
you’re a survivor.”
Gray, gray, the color of storm
and that soft, yellow patch,
and the chimes, and the albatross.
The carriage waited. The shadowy lamplighter alone,
walking down the Boulevard de Batignolles in a mist.
St. Loup entertained his table until midnight.
Who are you looking at?
Let’s have another round.
His red cloak hanging on the back of his chair like Shelley’s ghosts.
The underpainting the color of brown glass
then Mediterranean light and a tiny bottle of arsenic.
Chatterton as Icarus on the bed in the attic.
You were right, about culture, how it’s all about
fathers, sons, and whores.
Monsieur Melandrine had such a fucking
intelligent looking upper lip. He abandoned
everything to position himself between feeling what is illusion and what is manifest.
I pictured his boyhood,
tangerines and linden trees, imagination at Fontainebleau.
It was the last time.
I watched an old man pour soapy water on the steps,
then sweep it away with a broom.
IX.
The sullen wind
cherry blossom snow
it is Spring.
I still have your banjo. I threw away the case.
It looked like Rimbaud’s passport.
She wrapped the souvenirs in the pretty printed paper from the confiserie
and left them in the front zipper pocket of her suitcase
when she got home, unpacking.
Forever that midnight.
He did look a bit surprised when she lay down
on the floor of pine needles in the spreading moonlight,
beyond the red stones, over the wall, out back of someone
unknown’s villa, through the dewy meadow
in an atrium of skinny trees
where Dvorak had the inspiration to compose his-
“So did you get those cool sandals...?”
“At the bazaar, in Cairo.”
Allegro ma non troppo.
St. Loup was killed in battle.
Blown up and scattered.
No one knew, but himself, then-
at that very moment,
that he really wished
for truth and freedom,
that he had plans,
that he wanted to continue
the task that
in this little globe
one can still find
some definition
of virtue.
2005
Jean Santeuil by Marcel Proust,
Translated by Gerald Hopkins
Simon & Shuster, New York, 1956, 2nd printing, first printing 1955
Bernard de Fallios, a young Proust scholar, found several boxes of torn manuscript pages and seventy notebooks in Marcel’s cork-lined room at 102 Boulevard Haussmann. Written, and obviously abandoned, when Proust was around 25, these pages were carefully reassembled by Fallios and published in Paris as the novel, “Jean Santeuil” in 1952.
This probably my foremost favorite novel, although Le Recherche is absolutely a greater work, Jean is… well, it’s like a raindrop. (And the dated, pale pink cover is really cool!)
It is the tender story of a poet. An indulgence in sentimentality. A bath of isolated sensuality. Lonesomeness. Illness. Growth. The humor of adolescence, hypersensitivity, innocence, natural voyeurism, connection points into the center of sexuality, naiveté and intelligence merged by poetic vision into the beauty of windows out onto the ‘health’ of society when one is so young and so ill. Jean Santeuil is the beacon on the lighthouse. Portrait of an artist as a lover alone. (Yet, aren’t all artists lovers alone?) It’s a bout a boy taking the boy into the man no matter what…
From page 369, when Jean’s mother calls him while he is away from her for the first time (if I remember correctly): And also, the telephone is a new invention at this time in history:
“Quickly, he put the receiver to his ear… then, all of a sudden, as if everyone had left the room and he was throwing himself into his mother’s arms- he was aware, close beside him, gentle, fragile, delicate, so clear, so melting, like a tiny scrap of broken ice- of her voice.”
The mature Marcel (see above) finds strength in fragility. Jean Santeuil creates, fashions out of clay, strength out of weakness. Strength to accept death (at such a young age!) and the weakness to love life. Hope.
The tendons of language are bruised.
The sky is grey, the ocean green, girls wear white, boys wear blue and in between, the lover, the lighthouse, fearlessly feels the world through his window, the window of all the lost time of youth that has been emptied into his shining soul.
from page 743:
“For death in a man journeys into the infinite and into nothingness. For no matter how obscure he may be, no matter how limited his intelligence, the thought of death, the coming of death, opens for him a window on the mysteries of eternity.”
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Maybe a part 1 tonight of one the things I’ve been working on... let me know what you’d like to see more
Stylist!y/n (this is a slow burn so the first part would be a chapter 1 and I’ve talked about her before)
or
An enemies to lovers that is also a spin on bakery/tattoo shop au with bookshop/shoe repair shop in a town that splits the border of France and Italy !! (I haven’t written as much for this but I’m so excited about it and I can’t believe I’m just talking about it bc it’s been consuming my thoughts for the last week!)
#the france italy one is a fever dream au#its how im reconciling harry loving italy and me loving france#its gonna be wild#also more enemies to lovers which i know yall live#love*#stylist ive talked about before and is really my practical dream#sort of** lmao#LET ME KNOW 🤍#harry styles fanfic
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