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theflyingfeeling · 1 year

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Hi, I have an idea for Joel/Olli promt! So there's comic con (or something similar), and Joel really wants to go, get more Venom merch, but he needs company. However it seems like everyone around him has plans with their s/o or is not interested in such geek things... except for Olli, who hears Joel complaining and excitedly suggests to go. It's not that Joel doesn't want his company, rather he's too nervous about going somewhere with his secret crush on Valentines day... And they have a really great time there, even though they're into different parts of con, but of course it's not a date (or is it?😏)

Hello! 👋 Oof, I'll have you know I wrote so many versions of this fic (particularly the ending), so I really hope this one pleases you 😅

words: 28033

rating: G

trigger warnings & additional tags: a shit-ton of pining, but what else is new? I also hope you enjoy the geeky references 🤭

AO3: here!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The miniature Yoda stared at Joel from his position by the Millennium Falcon, mercilessly and with great judgement.

A coward, you are, he seemed to say with his old, wise eyes.

Joel couldn’t find it in himself to disagree, although he did wonder about his own mental well-being. Having figurines of fictional characters communicate with you telepathically, no matter how sage and respectable they were, was surely a sign of not having it all together anymore.

In my defence, Joel said to Yoda in his mind, I didn’t ask for any of this.

As usual, he blamed Joonas, primarily for ditching him because of a date night (although Joel had to admit the Gregorian calendar was also partly at fault, for making the comic convention fall on February 14th this year), but also for proposing Olli should go with him instead, coincidentally at the exact moment Olli had joined them in the studio kitchenette. Then again, Joel hadn’t had much choice, since Aleksi had already declined the invitation, claiming it overlapped with Rilla’s dental appointment, and Niko would, naturally, have a key role in Porko’s grand date night. Joel hadn’t even bothered asking Tommi, knowing he’d most likely have plans with his own partner, especially after Joel had seen him fiddling with a small velvet-covered box the other day. Vilma had work and Samy’s sister was in town, so it really seemed Olli was the only one with no other plans for Valentine’s Day, against all impossible odds.

One might wonder what exactly Joonas had done wrong in suggesting Olli to accompany him at the convention. To everyone else following the scene from afar, it might have seemed innocent, helpful even, but Joel knew better. The catch was that Joonas, that insufferable bastard who always ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, had caught Joel during their European tour last spring when he had been replaying that cursed video he had filmed of Olli doing yoga poses with no shirt on. If Joel had to find something positive out of the situation, it was that at least that particular time he had been only watching the video (with lust in his eyes and longing in his heart), because not all his daydreams about that video were quite as innocent.

(By now Joel had deleted the video from his phone, to avoid something like that from happening ever again. He didn’t mourn the loss, however, as the sight was permanently imprinted on his internal memory card.)

Be as it may, Joonas had managed to squeeze the truth out of him that day, and Joel could still not believe his terrible luck. As much as Joel loved Joonas, he was the last one of his friends he wanted to know about his sort-of-maybe crush on Olli. Had it been Tommi instead, the guy would’ve probably made one sarcastic remark and left it at that, whereas Aleksi’s quips about it would’ve probably been so foxy and subtle that no one would’ve noticed a thing, if not for Joel’s burning blush. As for Niko, Joel would be surprised if he hadn’t heard all about it from Joonas by now.

So when Olli’s face had brightened at the mention of a comic con and an extra ticket Joel didn’t want to go to waste, how was he supposed to tell him he’d rather go alone instead? Indeed, how was he supposed to not melt into a pining, miserable mess when Olli came to him on their next break from recording, his eyes shining as he showed Joel the schedule of the event on his phone and listed all the exhibitions they must see, all the lectures they should definitely attend.

All that had lead to Joel waking up in that morning feeling as if he had not slept a wink, which wasn’t far from reality; he had spent half the night picturing all the potential as well as the absurd scenarios of what would happen the next day at the convention, and when he had finally fallen asleep, he had dreamt of Olli and Olli’s hand in his as they roamed the conference hall together, and when they stopped the whole place was empty all of a sudden, or maybe Joel only had eyes for Olli and his red lips as they moved closer to his…

It really was no wonder that after such a night Joel was now imagining a plastic Yoda voicing his disappointment in Joel for not having the courage to take Olli’s hand, albeit only under the pretext of not losing each other in the crowd when the presentation about the influence of Kalevala on Tolkien’s work had ended and the mass of people had headed towards the exit of the lecture hall all at the same time. If Olli had been disappointed in Joel’s clumsy rejection of his hand, he had hidden it well by explaining passionately how fascinating he had found the part that had illustrated the similarities between Kullervo and Túrin Turambar, who ever the latter was (and Joel only had a vague knowledge about the former character as well).

What would you do, then, Joel asked Yoda, if one day you found yourself crushing on Obi-Wan? I betcha green ass the Force would be nowhere near you at that moment.

He never got his answer, for he felt a tap on his shoulder before he could hear Yoda’s croaky voice in his head again.

“Look what I found! It changes colour when you put coffee in it.” Olli beamed and showed Joel a mug that was, undoubtedly, somehow related to all that hobbitty stuff Olli loved, if Joel had to give a wild guess.

His brain still tangled in the conversation he had been having with his new imaginary friend, Joel only managed a weak smile, more at Olli’s excitement than the collectible in his hands. Thinking Olli wouldn’t pick up on his strange mood was, however, wishful thinking.

“So, what do you want to do next? I feel like we've only been looking at my interests so far,” Olli said and scratched the back of his head, as if ashamed of his enthusiasm, which was the last thing Joel wanted.

“Nah, I don’t know…” Joel mumbled while Olli was putting the mug he had purchased in his backpack, so tenderly that for a while Joel thought Olli was going to plant a kiss on its side.

“No, it’s your turn to decide.” Olli zipped the bag and swung it on his back again, flashing a kind smile that made Joel want to punch himself in the face for finding it so adorable.

When Olli kept insisting on Joel making the decision of their next comic con activity, Joel remembered the stall selling Marvel merch they had passed earlier. Particularly he thought back to the black Venom t-shirt that had been hanging behind the counter, with the alien symbiote’s slimy, gaping mouth decorating the backside. Thanks to fan gifts, he owned several Venom shirts already, but he didn’t own that one yet.

Olli was happy to fulfil Joel’s timid request to find the Marvel stall again, and when they set off to wander around the large conference hall, Joel partly hoped Olli’s hand would try to find his again, because this time he might have actually accepted the gesture, even if it would likely have launched the panic mode in his pitiful brain. He knew it was stupid, to dream of just having your fucking hand held, like he was some kind of pathetic, touch-starved loner with barely any human contact in his everyday life. Sometimes he envied Joonas, who seemed to have no problem asking for (and receiving) spontaneous affection from his loved ones, while Joel was able to do that only when he was high enough on endorphins during or after shows to not be in full charge of his actions, or drunk enough to not care how others might perceive him. Mind you, he wasn’t the type to care an awful lot about what others might think of him (at least not on a good day), but when it came to Olli, he would rather die than in any way imply his attraction to him or do anything that might blow his already poor cover.

And yet, masochistic as he was, he often tortured himself with the naive, overly-optimistic hope he nurtured somewhere deep, deep inside him of Olli maybe returning his feelings. He knew it was no use, but there were days he couldn’t stop thinking about the faint shade of red that had appeared on Olli’s cheeks when he had noticed Joel had been filming his shirtless yoga session, or that one time he had felt Olli holding his breath when Joel had, in a sudden burst of recklessness, grabbed a handful of the bassist’s hair during a gig and brought their faces close for two seconds which in that moment had felt like two millennia. A little less frequently he reminisced the incident of Olli accidentally passing out in Joel’s bunk instead of his own and waking up with his hard-on pressed against Joel’s hipbone (Joel blamed it on the hangover), not to mention how Olli had fucking winked at him when Joel had, quite senselessly, blurted out he’d rather bone Olli out of all his bandmates if he had to choose one. Sure, it had only been in the context of that silly game some fans had asked them to play at a meet and greet, but Joel had still seen it best to avoid Olli the best he could for the rest of the day, just to save himself from further embarrassment. He tried not to think about any of these occasions for too long at a time, because if he did, he would eventually drive himself crazy trying to figure out what it all meant.

You know, if it meant anything at all.

“Ugh, do you have any idea where that Marvel stall was? I feel like we’ve been walking around in circles,” Olli frowned, and Joel almost bumped into his backside when the man stopped to look at a makeshift café down the aisle they were walking.

“We can stop for a snack if you want to.”

Two minutes later Joel regretted taking pity on his friend; Joel tried to look away, tried not to think about how sweet sugar would taste off Olli’s lips as he munched on his half of the doughnut they shared, but Joel supposed he may as well let himself have this new image for his dream catalogue for the following night (as a treat, in case they wouldn’t find the Venom merch).

“Right, now let’s find that Marvel stall for you,” Olli said, wiping the final sprinkles of sugar off his lips and bringing Joel back to earth as he did.

~~~

“That one,” Joel pointed at the t-shirt his eye had caught earlier, and soon the salesperson handed him an identical one in a plastic wrapping.

“Did you notice our Valentine’s Day special offer?” the woman asked, gesturing at the heart-shaped piece of cardboard next to Joel that read ‘Buy a T-shirt, get one for half price!’

“Ah, yeah, thank you, but I think I–”

“Oh, look how cool this is!” Olli nudged Joel’s side. In his hands Olli was holding a black t-shirt with some kind of geometrical triangle illustration that Joel had a vague memory of seeing on a movie poster before.

“...I’ll have that one as well,” Joel said to the salesperson who nodded contently.

“Really?” Olli’s puppy eyes stared at Joel like he had just offered him his hand in marriage and half of his kingdom.

“Well, I mean, it’s half the price off and… you paid for the giant doughnut, so…”

His mouth felt dry and his cheeks flared up when Olli’s face softened.

“Thanks, man.” Olli gave him a clumsy half-hug that Joel wished would’ve lingered like so many of their other hugs seemed to do these days. For the few seconds the embrace lasted, Joel already managed to become intoxicated by the scent of Olli’s cologne.

“Wait,” Olli said when the salesperson reached her hand to take the shirt from him, “I wonder which size should I get?”

Still drunk on the smell of Olli, Joel almost had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things when he was suddenly face to face with a shirtless Olli, in the middle of a crowded conference hall.

If Joel’s tongue had felt dry against his palate before, now there was an entire desert in his mouth, and Olli’s toned body was the oasis he was thirsty for. His upper body must have been topless for only a couple of seconds before he pulled the new shirt over his head, but that was plenty enough time for Joel to take in the firm pecs covered in curly chest hair, the nipples that looked like tiny strawberries Joel was dying to taste, a soft-looking stomach one could easily lay his head and fall asleep on, and a faint happy trail that disappeared under the baby blue boxers that peaked from under Olli’s trousers. Joel already knew what he’d be picturing later that night, in the dark of his bedroom with his hand down his own underpants.

“What do you think?” Olli asked him, oblivious to the hunger raging inside Joel.

Even with a shirt on, Olli was a sight for sore eyes with the way his biceps filled up as he posed for Joel.

“Looks amazing,” Joel sighed, trying to control his breathing so as to not appear like some kind of creeper who drooled after half-naked young men.

Olli seemed pleased with Joel’s feedback and grinned as he undressed himself off the shirt to hand it to the salesperson. This time Joel was prepared and pretended to be immensely fascinated by the display of Funko Pop figurines behind the cashier.

They shuffled around the convention for almost an hour more, occasionally stopping to marvel at someone’s exceptionally detailed cosplay costume or to point out cool collectibles and comic book inspired art, from paintings to pastries, until Olli’s gait became visibly more sluggish. Arriving near the large map of the exhibition where they first had started off earlier that day, Olli planted his cheek heavy on Joel’s shoulder. Joel granted himself a few seconds to lose himself in the softness of Olli’s hair against his neck and the aroma of the man’s shampoo before he spoke.

“When does your train leave again?”

“Mmmmh, around six,” Olli mumbled sleepily and rubbed his cheek against the fabric of Joel’s hoodie, as if he was about to fall asleep on his feet.

Perhaps Yoda had been right about him; only a true coward would fail to take the opportunity to wrap their arms around the soft boy leaning onto them for support or do anything at all to keep him there as long as they could. Joel? He was barely able to look at Olli, let alone return his gesture, which was a greater tragedy than any galactic war, as there was nothing Joel wanted to do more than exactly that.

“D’you wanna grab a bite before that?”

“Mmmmmh,” was the response Joel got, which in Olli-language meant ‘yes’.

~~~

Seen this coming, you should have, Yoda’s voice echoed in Joel’s head when, after a full McDonald’s Drive Thru meal, Olli yawned with his head on Joel’s lap as they sat on a bench at the railway station. For the first quarter an hour that had followed their fast-food dinner, Joel had watched how Olli had fought against exhaustion and finally lost the battle as he had practically slumped on Joel with no warning at all, and since then Joel had been fighting a battle of his own against wanting to sweep aside the curls that had fallen on Olli’s forehead or sliding his hand inside Olli’s jacket to keep it warm.

Olli growing sleepy after a heavy meal was predictable and very in-character, so Yoda did have a point. What Joel could never have foreseen was falling in love with his friend, after all these years of viewing him as a younger brother, in a way.

Simple times, they were, he explained to Yoda in his head, who nodded approvingly.

Then again, when Joel looked at Olli, breathing calmly on his lap, he wondered how it had not happened sooner. It wouldn’t have made much difference, he feared, but maybe he would have come to terms with it by now.

Or perhaps he’d be even more heavy-hearted, after all the years of craving something he could not have. Perhaps he would have lost all that was left of his sanity, being so close to Olli every day, yet nowhere near where he wanted to be.

Perhaps it would have destroyed him.

Joel was so lost in thought of what might have been that he didn’t notice how one of Olli’s curls had swirled around his finger until Olli shifted on his lap a little. The small movement was followed by a quiet, satisfied sigh, despite his awkward position and the uncomfortable wooden bench on which he lay, which encouraged Joel to continue caressing his silky hair.

“Did you have fun today?” Olli suddenly asked.

Spending a whole day with you? It was both Heaven and Hell.

“Of course,” Joel assured as Olli’s eyes fluttered open. “You?”

Olli nodded. “I love places like that.”

Olli wouldn’t have needed to tell him that, though; Joel had seen the way Olli’s eyes had glimmered the moment they had stepped in.

“Thanks for taking me there. And for the shirt,” Olli added quietly, closing his eyes again and nudging his head against Joel’s stomach, as if to urge Joel to keep on petting him. Joel was happy to comply; it wasn’t exactly in his power to deny Olli anything at all. If Olli had asked him, Joel would’ve happily sat there the whole night, with Olli in his arms like he belonged there, even if nothing else would ever come out of it. But as it turned out, the inevitable passing of time was not on Joel’s side, because soon after, the announcement of Olli’s train to Oulu echoed around the railway station and the comforting warmth of Olli’s body left him.

Olli groaned and rubbed his eyes as he sat up, but then the bliss and turmoil of being so close to Olli returned when he leaned against Joel again, pressing his face in the crook of Joel’s neck.

“Too tired,” Olli whined. “It’ll be so late when I get home. Why couldn’t Tommi wait for one day before driving back?”

Then stay, Joel wanted to say. Stay, stay, stay.

He had already opened his mouth, but Olli stood up. Joel followed his example and immediately felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist.

“I hate sitting on the train,” Olli mumbled against Joel’s chest.

Then stay.

“And it’s so chilly there.”

Stay.

“And you’re so warm.”

Stay.

“And I’ll miss you.”

Please.

“And I really hate missing you.”

Oh, for the love of god, stay!

“Damn, Joel, I wish you would just say it already, so that I can stop thinking it’s all in my head!”

Joel stopped breathing and the train arriving at the track next to them stopped moving, as did the whole world around Joel.

“Say what?” he asked quietly, terrified to hear the answer.

“That you want me to stay.”

Olli’s eyes looked into his, and when Joel most needed it, that ridiculous humanoid alien from a popular space opera franchise that had haunted his subconscious for most of the day was silent. The only guidance he had then was Olli’s gentle gaze, the same soft eyes he had often stared into in his dreams as of late, sometimes with hope, other times with despair. This was no dream, however, and Olli’s honest eyes were waiting for his honest answer.

“Stay,” he whispered, almost hoping the noises of the railway station would swallow his desperate plea.

Olli stared at him silently for what must have been mere seconds, but to Joel it felt like time had stopped or ceased to exist completely, which Joel wouldn’t have minded awfully much to be honest, as long as he’d get to hold Olli forever, even if he would never hear the words Olli was to say next.

“Then I’ll stay.”

Olli rose on his tippy-toes so that his hot breath warmed Joel’s lips for a single second before their lips touched, in a kiss that was somehow passionate and cautious at the same time, greedy as much as it was tentative, a perfect mirror to Joel’s current feelings.

It was exactly what Joel had been fantasising about for nearly twelve months, possibly longer than that if he dared to be honest with himself, so when Olli parted from him, it felt precisely like all those dreams he had woken up from prematurely, with Olli slipping out of his hands at the sound of his alarm clock going off. Only this time, Olli was still there when Joel opened his eyes.

“Your place or mine?”

Joel blinked at Olli’s cheeky smile.

“Huh?”

“Come on!” Olli grabbed his hand, and in the next moment they were sitting next to each other on the train to Oulu, talking and laughing and kissing and probably driving the other passengers in the extra class crazy.

Hours later, the clock was nearing midnight, the train was nearing their childhood hometown, and Olli’s lips were nearing Joel’s collarbone as he slept against Joel. Earlier on their journey, those lips had secretly nibbled on the thin skin just above Joel’s collarbone, almost as if in an attempt to spell something there.

Love you, he does.

This time, Joel smiled at his inner Yoda’s observation.

Yeah, I think he might.

#blind channel fanfiction #blind channel rpf #valentine's day fluff by theflyingfeeling #not sure i'm still 100% satisfied with the ending but eh. it's the best one of the version i wrote #i hope i'll be able to put together something short and sweet for tomorrow 💕#joelxolli

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connor35lim · 2 years

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blalockcassidy53 · 2 years

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cxplqnce · 4 years

Text

Diego Hargreeves - Every Little Thing She Does is Magic

Based off Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by Sleeping At Last.

Word Count: 998

Though, I've tried before to tell her

Of the feelings I have for her in my heart

Every time that I come near her

I just lose my nerve as I've done from the start

Diego had had a hard few years, a hard life; in fact. He’d been through some crappy shit and dealt with some crappy shit but now, he was back in 2019 and there were no more apocalypses. He was finally safe and could get back to a somewhat normal life.

That’s when he met you. You were a barista at the local coffee shop while you were studying media and photography at university. He had come in for a coffee one morning and had met you. You were stark opposites – he was dark and gloomy whereas you were a perfect ray of sunshine – maybe that’s why he was so attracted to you. You had been lovely to him, normal, and bubbly – getting him his coffee with a smile and a few jokes peppered in to brighten his day.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you so he came in to the shop the day, and the next, and the next – like clockwork. He tried to tell you after a few weeks of friendship that he liked you – had feelings for you but he chickened out every time.

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she does just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now, I know my love for her goes on

You were perfect to him; you were beautiful and graceful but you also didn’t take anyone’s shit. He found something gorgeous in everything you did – it was like magic how you could be so bright in a world that seemed so grey. He started dreaming about you, thinking about what being with you would be like.

After Eudora and Lila, he didn’t think he was fit for a relationship – they always seemed to end badly so he hadn’t tried in a while after getting over them both but that changed when he met you. He had figured out very quickly that he was falling in love with you as when you poured him his morning coffee; he thought to himself, ‘God, I love this girl.’

Do I have to tell the story?

Of a thousand rainy days

Since we first met?

It's a big enough umbrella

But it's always me that ends up getting wet

Finally, Diego mustered up the courage to ask you to get a drink with him one night. You agreed almost instantly and suggested that you go out that night, if he wasn’t busy – which he wasn’t.

You sat in a bar, you didn’t know the name, and told him your entire life story – your dream to be involved in filmmaking and photography for magazines and film posters. You told him that you loved capturing moments in time with your camera, so the moments would last forever.

He told you bits and pieces and you could tell he was keeping a lot to himself but you didn’t mind, you could tell he was a reserved person and you didn’t want to push, but over the next few dates he opened up more and more about his siblings and his past relationships. You sympathised as you hadn’t had a great relationship with your family – not as bad as his – but not great and you too had had a lot of crappy past lovers.

I resolve to call her up a thousand times a day

And ask her if she'll marry me in some old fashioned way

But my silent fears have gripped me

Long before I reach the phone

Long before my tongue has tripped me

Must I always be alone?

You had been going on dates for a good month before you raised the question of a real relationship. Diego was hesitant at first but was overjoyed that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. You spent the next few months falling deeper and deeper in love with him, imagining your future together and planning your lives.

Diego was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong, for the plot twist in the story where you turned out to be a double agent or a long lost sibling, but it never came. You assured him that you were as in love with him as he was with you and he finally came clean about everything – the Umbrella Academy, his superpowers, time-travel and the Commission.

He waited for you to run or leave but you just said, “Cool.”

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she does just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now, I know my love for her goes on

After ten months, you moved into the Umbrella Academy mansion with him and met his amazing family. They accepted you as one of them and Allison even offered to teach you to fight which you graciously accepted – just in case.

You learnt all their little things over the first few months and after living with them for a while you were; the only person able to make coffee how Five liked it, the only person Klaus could confide in about the dead, the only one who knew what to say when Allison got worked up about something some dick said to her, you were the only one in the house who could relate to all of the family and they were all determined to help Diego when he told them he was going to propose.

At your wedding, you danced to your favourite song – a song that reminded you of Diego. He held you close to his chest as you danced and you sung along to the music, “Every little thing she does is magic, everything she does just turns me on, even though my life before was tragic, now, I know my love for her goes on.”

A/N: Hope you enjoy! Follow my instagram @ cxplqnce and I take requests :)

#diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves imagine #diego hargreeves one shot #diego hargreeves x reader #umbrella academy

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incarnateirony · 3 years

Text

Pre-Rewatch Notes

So since I’m going to be doing a mix of in-timeline and full retrospective text value of the canon, one of the things I’d like to actually get out of the way is the Key Concepts of the eras, most explicitly Kripke and Dabb as the start and end.

The Key concepts are the single most important framework in media studies. They have evolved as a means of understanding a text by using a critical framework, rather than just making unconnected and meaningless observations. Throughout the course, you will need to refer to the Key Concepts and use the terms you learn when analysing media texts. One way to remember the Key Concepts is to use the mnemonic "RAILING". Representations, Audiences, Institutions, (Media) Language, Ideology, Narrative, Genre.

(also sometimes called MIGRAIN if using Media Language to clarify rather than spoken language)

With this as my note in front of the cut, I’m going to drop the rest behind one while I try to sort out the RAILING of the show before I even try to start establishing long term collective rewatch arguments on the canon. I do also invite some discussion on these, as in, if you feel my markers are off, or if I’m missing anything that I could probably negotiate the text.

Pulling, for my sanity, from here [x]

SO FIRST TO DEFINE:

Media Language This is how media producers communicate their ideas to the audience. Below are some examples to think about when considering media language:

Images used

Words used

Use of colour

Signs and signifiers

Connotative meaning

Use of sound

Iconography

Camera angles and picture composition

Institutions The companies who produce the media. Fox, Disney, CNN, the BBC, Warner Brothers etc will have a set of Institutional Values; beliefs on aspects of life e.g. their political stance or moral beliefs etc. Also, whether they have to make large profits for a board of directors. These institutional values will guide what their media products include. You should consider who made a particular media product and what impact this has on that product.

Genre The style of the media form.

A film could be Horror or Action.

A book could be Fantasy or Thriller.

A computer game could be RPG or Sports Simulation.

A website could be News or Social Networking.

Representation How media producers show a thing, person or group of people.

May be positive or negative.

Why have they chosen to show them in this way?

Think about the 5 w’s: who, what, where, when and why?

Audience

The people who buy and consume media.

Who are they?

What do they want from the media product?

How does the media product fulfill these wants?

Use theories such as Uses and Gratification theory.

Ideology Ties in with Institution.

What values and beliefs underpin the product?

How does this fit with the values of society?

Narrative How is the text structured?

Use Todorov’s Theory of Narrative Structure.

Use Propp’s Character Theory.

Use Strauss’ Theory of Binary Opposition

I’m going to use VERY shorthand notes on these moving forward.

So here’s what I see off the cuff:

KRIPKE ERA

Media Language Faded film stock to denote horror; darkness; emphasis on SFX like footsteps. Grim cinematic. Eventual christian imagery overlapping urban myth icons. Faded color palettes. Fairly classic color use (pink or white for femininity or purity, etc). Nostalgic classic rock/music. Nostalgia, general. Muscle cars. "Classic american masculinity." Hopelessness seeking hope.

Institutions WB, CW, and the timeline of 2005-2009. Kripke, Singer. Manners. McGee. Sgriccia.

Genre Horror, survival, drama

Representation Americana, working class america, "american masculinity", fraternity; Sam and Dean vs the world with occasional help from other friends or family in the life. Metanarrative hostility to issues like queerness reflective of both time and institution at the time.

Audience Originally targeted at young/teen men (to “not be like other girl shows on the network”), became split demographic. Split conservative and liberal demographic. Discussion on how these are handled will come up over the study.

Ideology Fraternal bonds. Arguably, family. Hero's sacrifice for the greater good.

Narrative Campbell, Hero's Journey; Rule of Cool; Christendom; Man vs Divine

GAMBLE

Media Language Film stock, brightness, saturation at fairly standard media level -- sometimes unstable. Standard cinematics. Residual christian imagery overlapping lovecraft. Decline in classic music from Kripke. Unclear or unreliable interpersonal messaging. Arguably southern gothic. Hopelessness.

Institutions WB, CW, and the timeline of 2010-2011. Gamble, Singer. McGee. Sgriccia. Norman Bee. Edlund.

Genre Teen Drama, Adventure

Representation Established characters Sam and Dean. Fraternity. Sam and Dean vs the world.

Audience Originally targeted at young women, became split demographic. Split conservative and liberal demographic. Discussion on how these are handled will come up over the study.

Ideology Brothers quarreling; fight monsters; I don't know. Did she know? "Everything is tragic but have some dick jokes"

Narrative Lovecraft. Does anyone know. "I need to make more episodes"

CARVER

Media Language Brightened film stock with increased saturation establishes fantasy setting. Smash cut interruptions to former grim cinematics offset more hopeful visuals. Fairly media standard lighting and color use in related fantasy cinema. Found family. Hope against hopeless odds.

Institutions WB, CW, and the timeline of 2012-2014 (arguably 2015). Carver, Singer. Glass. Sgriccia.

Genre Fantasy, Adventure, drama

Representation Widened character base. Widened hero's journey arcs (castiel). Masculinity messaging of the past has not vanished, but has dampened and become less hostile to the LGBTQ and woman audience. Regular Cast widened (Crowley, Castiel)

Audience Split gender demographic. Split conservative and liberal demographic. Split age demographic from targeting vs duration. Increasingly digital demographic and marketing; begins increasing queer, poc and other audience. International boom (Netflix deal, digital 2012+). Discussion on how these are handled will come up over the study.

Ideology Found Family, Hope against odds. Free Will highlighted. Destructive or harmful relationships. Humanity. The human journey.

Narrative Self-established TV episodical, largely internal lore, residual christianized mythos or christendom. Castiel acquires first proper hero’s journey personal arc/lens. Multiple relationships vs world, man vs world

DABB

Media Language Carries from carver; largely identical but more close-up shots and interaction shots for drama focus. Internal color pallate unique to its own while still interacting with Carver standard media pallate.

Institutions WB, CW, and the timeline of 2015-2020. Dabb, Singer. Sgriccia. Buckner, Leming. S15: Berens. CW has begun rebranding into a “queer friendly” platform with unreliable results.

Genre High-fantasy, drama, arguably soap.

Representation Carries heavily from Carver, plus. Expansion of queer creatives adds queer voice to the text. Queer text manifests over time into show's canon text. Lack of metanarrative hostility has become space for queer text. Attempted routine inclusion of women, queer characters. While not a queer piece, establishes queer narrative with roots as far back as Kripke. While still maintaining strong leads, Regular Cast and other leading cast has expanded (Crowley, Castiel, Jack, other major recognizeable faces: Rowena, Wayward). It flirts with ensemble presentation without ever landing on it wholly.

Audience Split gender demographic skewing towards women. Split conservative and liberal demographic skewing towards liberal. Multiple generations of demographic from longevity. Primarily digital demographic and marketing (top 99.9% digital but a bottom live ratings performer on live TV outside of the CW); primarily queer, poc and other audience. International boom. Discussion on how these are handled will come up over the study.

Ideology Found family. hope against odds/defining the odds. Free Will vs authoritative power. Psychological rebuilding*. The family journey. The family unit. Non-nuclear families. (finale not withstanding)

Narrative Self-established TV episodical, largely internal lore, subverting christendom and authority with alchemy or gnosticism. Optimism vs Nihilism. Contrasting ending (see: Nihilism) Campbell. Other characters, like Jack, begin claiming narrative presence like Carver era Castiel, whereas Castiel maintains or expands on his. Man vs Divine vs Man IS Divine

These will be used to address the text during the large scale rewatch.

Each era has its own parameters to best address its showrunners’ visions in. Each era will receive snapshots unto itself, or snapshots also only in regards to how it adapts to the previous text. On the other hand, as half the goal is also a full retrospective to address the complete body of the text since the show stands as a complete body of word and I shouldn’t change my tools over and over again throughout for the complete-text study the same way I will by showrunner era.

I’m going to make a PITCH on the most likely way to give this a strong reading through to prepare what targets to keep an eye on as they evolve. This may change along the way if at any point I realize the first-glance overview was wrong, but

OVERVIEW MIGRAIN

Media Language The growth from hopeless dark into vivid potential; the lost heroes still oblivious to the world, their vision distant and dark to begin. Contrast faded dark to vivid and bright as much over timeline as Carver did between shots. Consider addressing the increased interpersonal camera work that blooms in later seasons for commentary in regards to the increased interpersonal complexity and growth of the cast.

Institutions WB, CW, and the timeline of 2005-2009 as the holdover of some audience being maintained with inevitable pressures from the outside world of 2020 forcing change.

Genre Survival, drama, fantasy

Representation Americana, fraternity, family; Split Hero's Journey Narratives. Late-end queer story affirmation demands a look at the body of the text for its queer journey throughout, though the work itself should not be expected to perform as an LGBT genre work but rather a Survival-Drama-Fantasy work with queer characters. Loved ones versus external forces.

Audience Too shifting to consider in the target read anymore.

Ideology Expanding knowledge. Growing expansion of the world first to find, then surpass and subvert God--or at least their intention. The growth out of expectations of work or behavior into passions and dreams. Finding and pursuing hope. Fraternal bonds. Family, Found Family. Queerness. Hero's sacrifice for the greater good, but to find and define what that greater good is, one must know the self through the family. Free Will vs authoritative power. Psychological rebuilding*. The family journey. The family unit. Non-nuclear families.

Narrative Campbell, Hero's Journey; Occasional intertext (On the Road, Vonnegut, Lovecraft). Varied mythos, best collected and then addressed and subverted through gnostic thoughtform per the ending.

Comments, critiques, criticisms, ideas to add, things I may be missing?

#polol #the great rewatch project #RAILING #MIGRAIN #meta

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lotusthekat · 4 years

Text

Elegia

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: T

Relationships: Lars & Steven, Lars/Sadie, Lars & Lion

Characters: Lars Barriga, Steven Quartz Universe; MINOR ROLES - Sadie Miller, Lion; other characters are only mentioned

Summary: The Pink Lars is a donut like any other. It might be more vibrant than others, both in appearance and taste… but it hasn’t been deprived of its own essence. It hasn’t been brought back as something else, and it has no scar as a haunting reminder. No, the Pink Lars is a cake donut like every other, and everyone loves it.

(Lars would’ve probably changed the name, but he doesn’t want to ruin the nice act from Steven.)

*Takes place after Letters to Lars (s05e16)

Word count: 3.173

AO3 / Fanfiction

A/N: Hello, SU fandom, here’s some good ol’ Lars-centric angst. :) This is probably the biggest existential nightmare I’ve ever written (and I blame Neon Genesis Evangelion for that), so I hope you like this, lmao.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - past canonical character death, thoughts of death, fear of death, trauma and implied past bullying(?)

Elegia: Greek/Latin form of elegy. Also the name of a song by New Order.

el·e·gy

a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.

It’s really been two months or so since he’s been away, and it’s quite obvious when Lars returns to the Big Donut; finding not Sadie, but the town’s former mayor. Obviously, he’s been informed by Steven’s letters back in space, yet he wouldn’t contain his surprise. Just Mr. Dewey working at the Big Donut seems to have been attracting a lot more costumers now.

Lars knows he can’t exactly eat, yet Steven insisted he had the pink donut named after him. The Pink Lars is so, well… pink, that even the dough itself isn’t the ordinary donut color. Steven actually orders six of the desserts – as it turns out, it’s become one of his favorites, right along with the chocolate donuts he regularly buys.

There’s quite a lot of people in town today, under the soft, warm blue sky. Steven and Lars soon settle in a bench at the boardwalk, the former already handing the latter one of the pink donuts.

“You think you can give it a try?” Steven wonders.

Lars is, admittedly, not hungry. He has eaten pieces and bits since getting back home, otherwise nothing much. Though a bite might not hurt.

“I guess so,” He accepts. Soon enough, Steven already puts a donut in his mouth. He enjoys it.

Lars, on the other hand, stares at his. It’s possibly the pinkest thing he’s seen – besides Lion and… himself. The donut, however, doesn’t have the same pink tone. Its frosting is sparkling and appealing, but it’s closer to purple, filled with pink sprinkles over a dark pink dough. The difference between his own skin and the food probably goes unnoticed to others’ eyes at first; on the outside, they’re both pink.

Despite the name, Lars knows they’re not the same. The Pink Lars is a donut like any other. It might be more vibrant than others, both in appearance and taste… but it hasn’t been deprived of its own essence. It hasn’t been brought back as something else, and it has no scar as a haunting reminder. No, the Pink Lars is a cake donut like every other, and everyone loves it.

(Lars would’ve probably changed the name, but he doesn’t want to ruin the nice act from Steven.)

“… Lars, are you okay?”

Realization hits him. Lars has really just been contemplating a donut and Steven is reasonably concerned. The pink teenager releases a sigh, to filter the deepness of nonsense filling his head.

“Yeah.” He barely holds up a smile when he returns the donut to the box between him and Steven. “I think I’ll pass. I don’t have the stomach right now… literally.” He lets out a forced laugh.

Steven doesn’t laugh or smile in return, whereas Lars avoids the kid’s big concerned eyes. The younger boy swallows.

“Lars, I…” Knowing what he’s going to say next, Lars doesn’t wait for him to finish.

“It’s okay, Steven. I’m…” He bites his own lip. “I’m glad to be here.”

He’s saying the truth, clearly. But…

… no, Lars doesn’t want to sound selfish and ungrateful. Not to Steven of all people. The half-human boy saved his life, and sure, nothing could be the same again. Lars can’t eat the same way as before; he can literally not function like a human being anymore… but he’s glad he’s gotten this second chance. To be there for the people he loves. To be himself.

(But pink, pink, pink.)

Home has changed. He has changed.

Even so, everyone is fine with him becoming pink. Including his parents. They’re definitely shaken at what happened to Lars, and they were brought to relieved and terrified tears upon finding their son again. Yet almost a few weeks later, it’s almost as though he… hasn’t been to space, even though things are different now. If that makes sense.

Sadie is a lot more open and confident now. She sings with all her might, encapsulating the horror films she’s binged into her music. The Cool Kids are themselves, continuing to live as regular teenagers and discovering new interests, whilst giving life to their instruments. Lars cooks and bakes, and he laughs along with his friends. He introduces the Off Colors to the good things of life on Earth. Steven helps with that, as well as his own gem family. The Rutile Twins, Fluorite, Padparadscha and Rhodonite are having the time of their lives, free, loved, joyful. But most importantly, everyone embraces Lars. Everyone accepts who he is.

Everything is good.

(And Lars can’t accept it.)

Lars realizes he’s afraid of the dark.

The darkness was once a place of comfort for him. No one could really see him there. It was endless, omnipresent. Lars often found himself there.

Yet even with the skyscrapers revealing the night sky, today the boy can’t fathom his bedroom without the reassuring light of his lamp, or any background music at all.

(Holes might catch him. Silently, holes might swallow him again, before Lars can scream for help.)

Lars doesn’t need to sleep, but he knows he can. His eyes almost drift off, almost give in and rest. Yet right now his thoughts are loud and clear. His heart may not beat fast, yet his brain works like a machine nonstop.

His ears are filled with the somber music from his headphones. The lyrics, tragic but hopeful.

Lars thinks.

He thinks of Sadie’s hand against his. Her smile brightening when he’s in the same room. He feels her pressing her head against his shoulder, soft blond hair light to his face. Her macabre voice as Sadie Killer, her make-up, the lights and lasers behind her. Beautiful in every way.

He remembers Steven’s bouncy retellings, his patience, his kindness. Lars remembers the kid’s deep honesty, his comfortable presence. Lars feels their hugs, especially as he’s the one who hugs first nowadays.

Jenny, Buck and Sour Cream are their own souls as he’d always known. They’re fun to be around. They’re smart, funny, and supportive. Genuinely the best friends he could ever have.

He talks to his parents more. They’re more involved. They bake together at the kitchen often, his mother teaching desserts that aren’t in his recipe notebook. She helps him with the following potlucks that the Cool Kids plan. They hug, they say “I love you” to one another. They call him Lars.

The Off Colors look up to him. He’s their captain. They love his home, they excitedly watch the sun setting every single day; they have fun in the rain, when the sky doesn’t crack with lightnings. They trust his guidance, and they will follow him until the very end.

They… love him.

(Why?)

Lars is himself now. He’s open, he’s happy, he’s better.

(Why? Why?)

(Pink. Of course.)

(They love pink. They love the Pink Lars.)

He finds the stars above him. They’re suddenly so small in contrast to outer space.

He doesn’t sleep.

Pictures.

His home is filled with pictures. Many, many faces. So familiar, yet so unknown.

Lars sees him. Not the Pink Lars. Him.

Young, young Lars. Orange-skinned. Dark hair. Brown eyes.

A rare smile of such a young boy. A short-tempered kid excluded from his classmates. One that began pushing away the few people who cared. A boy that screamed and locked himself in his room far too often.

Briefly, Lars sees his own reflection on the glass.

Pink skin. Bright pink hair. His right eye, a saturated color, cut by a dark scar.

Gone.

The boy is gone.

(Why does Lars miss him?)

Something that represents him.

Ube. Purple, creamy, tasty. A childhood memory. The pride in a child’s face, dirtied with speckles of purple.

The Pink Lars. Pink, round, soft, alive; sprinkles as a special touch.

Both so full of life.

Both, true to their essence.

They’re them.

Lars is himself.

(Is he?)

Sadie asks him if he’s okay.

They’re watching a horror film together. Lars can barely pay it any mind.

She takes his hand and kisses every pink finger of his. Her eyes, worried.

Lars smiles sadly.

“Yeah, of course. I’m even better when I’m with you.”

(Sadie looks far from convinced. She knows Lars. She knows he’s always struggled with openness and vulnerability.)

The blond girl says nothing, instead snuggling closer against him, his arm pulling her deeper into his chest. Lars feels relaxed. He enjoys staying like this. He listens to her heartbeats. Her warmth enters his pink veins, butterflies shyly filling his stomach.

(For a moment, he feels like he’s never become pink.)

You brought me back to life! Just… let me be somebody who deserved it.

Somebody who deserved it.

(Did the orange-skinned boy not deserve it, then?)

(He was just a boy. Sure, a kid who made a lot of mistakes. Too many. Who let outside opinions get the best of him. But he could’ve grown, too. Maybe, if he were given a chance other than the inevitable.)

(Did he not deserve a chance, too?)

Can't you see that I exist?

And I don't need an exorcist to let me out

Look at me and I'll appear

Why can't you see that I'm right here, that I’m right here?

Why can't you see me?!

I think I might be

A g-g-g-ghost.

(I'm calling you from the other side.)

Today, he’s alone at the beach.

Usually, Lars joins the Off Colors, and sometimes the Cool Kids come along as well. Now, he’s hiding his hands inside his pockets, lonely steps on the sand. The sunset is the same explosion of colors as every other sunny day.

It’s blue, pink, orange and yellow. The sun reflects on the water, which hits the sand softly.

Its pink is livelier than his own.

The orange is there, too.

They’re here and alive.

Lars stays and watches. Alone.

It’s all so distant. So far away.

Maybe they know the truth. Maybe they’re keeping their distance.

Lars doesn’t try to reach them. It’s probably for the best.

Like that, he’s not expecting to be startled by a big creature staring at him.

Lars almost falls back on the sand, only to realize it’s safe.

Lion.

The only other creature that is as pink as him. Same hair (or mane). Eyes that are not scarred but are deeper than other eyes he’s seen. As if the feline has seen years and years of experience, without sharing words about it.

“Hey, buddy,” Lars greets him, voice quiet.

As usual, the big cat says nothing. Still, he gazes at the pink space pirate and understands. Lion snuggles his face against Lars’, who sighs and hugs him back, arms tight around his neck.

Lion practically has no heartbeat, unlike Sadie, or Steven or anyone else. His deep breaths are the only remaining of life he has.

The distant seagulls sing somewhere. But somehow, all Lars listens to is Lion.

His eyes blur.

The town is so distant.

… Literally.

Lars casually figured out that he can walk on water like Jesus now. That’s something. He told Steven and the boy was enthusiastic about it, of course. And well, it is cool. He can see the fish swimming down him, and he gets to touch the sun that reflects on the water. Otherwise, he can’t go for swims anymore, while everyone else can.

He’s fine.

There’s no sun or powerful colors this time. The sky is clouded, foggy, yet the ocean doesn’t react too much. The water is usually not furious, anyway.

It might rain soon.

Lars can actually sit on water, too. So, he hugs his own knees and thinks. Stays.

…

Someone is coming.

“Lars?”

Looking up, he finds Steven riding on Lion, with a puzzled look.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hey, man,” Lars gives him a finger gun. “I’m just chilling here. Got to use my Jesus privileges now, am I right?”

Steven doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look remotely reassured.

(He understands. He wouldn’t find it funny, either.)

Isolated dripples begin surrounding them.

“Come on, let’s go to my house,” Steven offers. “It might be dangerous staying here.”

Lars hums, noticing the fish have all gone away. He stands.

“Okay.”

In the way, Lars tries to throw in a joke or two about the whales he found near him earlier. Steven still won’t laugh or find it endearing. And Lion simply listens.

When they enter the beach house, the rain starts coming down. The ocean practically disappears in the fog now.

(He almost wishes he stayed.)

The falling water outside is the only sound you could hear, besides the questions in the kid’s puppy eyes. Instead of answering them, though, Lars has an idea.

“Hey, what do you say I bake those space cookies you like so much?” The older teen offers, patting the boy’s shoulder. “You have the ingredients, right?”

“I think so, but…”

“Great! You can help me if you want.”

He ignores Steven’s frown and heads to the kitchen, already knowing where the ingredients are thanks to memory. Lion lies somewhere near, attentive. Though unlike other times the three of them have shared the kitchen, the big cat might not want to attack the ingredients today. Lion is as lazy as the rain day.

The baking session is… surprisingly quiet. Lars is the one that does the talking this time, trying to cheer the kid up. Steven doesn’t seem fazed. He just follows the steps. Lars’ smile will falter little by little, yet he keeps going. Maybe that will change by the frosting, Lars hopes. The kid loves frosting the cookies, more than he does.

But then, Steven is just… there. Staring at the star-shaped fellas without any enthusiasm. Staring concernedly at them, as if something is wrong with them, even though they’re perfectly fine.

“Hey, Steve,” Lars lowers his voice and puts a hand on his back. “What’s wrong?”

(He knows what it is. And Steven knows that he knows.)

For the first time, Steven looks away and hugs his own arm.

“I… I think I should be asking you that.”

(Lars shouldn’t be shocked. He isn’t.)

“I… I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked how you’ve been lately,” Steven admits. “I was so excited to have you back home, and have everyone see you again, that I thought you’d be fine.” He sighs and adds quieter, rather bitterly at himself. “But I’ve never been good at asking the right questions.”

Lars contains the harsh breath that tries to escape, and he gently pats his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay, buddy. You’ve got nothing to worry about me.”

Steven looks back with something akin to disbelief.

“Lars—”

“I mean it, I’m okay.”

“But you’re—”

“Kid, I swear, I’m fine.”

“I don’t want to force you—”

“You’re not forcing me, Steven,” Lars reassures him. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“You’re—” Steven observes dumbly and groans. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”

(It’s the same look from the pictures. From the gone, lost boy.)

(Revolted. Pushed aside.)

(Hurt.)

“T-There’s nothing to talk about!” Lars defends.

“I’m not stupid!”

“I never said you were!”

“Then why are you treating me like I am?!”

“Steven, it’s fine! I’m fine-!”

“NO!” Lars steps away. “STOP LYING TO ME!”

Whatever words were about to be said, they disappear at the sudden voice raise. At the angry – no, frustrated, tearful eyes. The clenched fists.

(Why does Steven look so much like him?)

Steven covers his own mouth, scared of his outburst. He recomposes himself or at least tries to.

“I… I thought we could count on each other. I thought—” He sniffs. “I thought, after we were stuck together, after everything we’ve been through, w-we could… be there for one another. You were there for me, you’re always there for me.” He pauses, his eyes more and more painful to look at. “But now you’re… you’re suffering, and you want to, what, you want to hide it from us? From me?”

Lars’ heart drops. “No- No, no, Steven, I’m- I’m fine—” He almost approaches again, only to get yelled at.

“Stop! I don’t need to be coddled! And you don’t need to hurt yourself for me! For anyone! Y-You of all people told me that!”

After that, Lars has become completely silent. There’s nothing around them, nothing but the rain falling outside, the shaky breaths coming from Steven, and Lion’s observation. The cookies are abandoned in the counter.

(And somewhere, somewhere far, a boy is screaming from his room, locked away.)

(Crying.)

“Lars…” Steven’s anger has dissipated again. “I’m sorry. I know I messed up. I know things won’t be the same again, and I know you want them to be. I’ve noticed.” He hugs himself, guilt filling his avoidant gaze. “Believe me, if I could go back in time, I would’ve never let you go in that ship. I would’ve never let you…” He shuts his eyes for a moment, clutching his own shirt. “I wish I could fix everything. But I can’t. And I’m really, really sorry.”

Lars would have opened his mouth to reassure him. He would have pulled him in a hug and tell him again and again that it wasn’t his fault. But Steven seems to catch onto that thought, because he then says:

“Even if I didn’t mean to… and even if I saved you in the end, I… I still did this to you.” He pauses. For once, he takes in a deep breath. “So, I promise you, I’ll do what I can to make up for it. I… I don’t know much about my powers.” He begins taking a step forward. “I don’t know how to feel about them most of the time, and I’m still trying to understand how Lion’s work, too, but…”

Steven looks up at him, eyes sparkling like the starry sky Lars sees every night.

“We… we can figure out. Together.” He looks away again, adding, “If you want.”

Lars locks the gaze with him, and before he registers it, a laugh escapes him.

“Yeah.” He swallows a sob. “Y-Yeah… I’d- I’d like that.”

For the first time, Steven smiles yet he immediately bumps into the other’s waist, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

“I’m so sorry…” The kid repeats. Once Lars returns the hug, he freezes when he catches Steven’s following words.

“… You never deserved to die.”

It’s nothing more than a whisper, only for him to hear.

And yet it feels like a complete punch. The good kind of punch.

Lars loses it.

They cry as hard as the rain. So much that Lion eventually joins the hug, offering his support.

Later, they create the cookies together with more delight and trust. They’re more… alive than all the others they’ve baked until now.

Tonight, Lars gazes at the stars with tranquility.

(He lets the boy free.)

#steven universe #lars barriga #steven quartz universe #su lion #sadie miller #larsadie #fanfiction #death tw

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crossbows-and-moonshine · 5 years

Text

Such a Softer Sin (Chapter twenty seven)

(Chapter one) (Chapter two) (Chapter three) (Chapter four)

(Chapter five) (Chapter six) (Chapter seven) (Chapter eight)

(Chapter nine) (Chapter ten) (Chapter eleven) (Chapter twelve)

(Chapter thirteen) (Chapter fourteen) (Chapter fifteen)

(Chapter sixteen) (Chapter seventeen) (Chapter eighteen)

(Chapter nineteen) (Chapter twenty) (Chapter twenty one)

(Chapter twenty two) (Chapter twenty three) (Chapter twenty four)

(Chapter twenty five) (Chapter twenty six)

I don’t even know what to say about this one, it’s super short and nothing important happens, it just came to me and I had to fucking write it. I’m sorry lololololololol

I'll post another after this to make up for it.

--------------------------------

Lila and the boys were sat side by side on the couch, a big bowl of popcorn in Lilas lap that was almost empty. They had decided to rent a movie and Murphy had suggested Titanic. Lila shouldn't have been too surprised, especially when Connor wanted a Charles Bronson film, she figured Murphy was just trying to save her from that hell and pick something she might like. She had seen the film a fair few times but it was one of her favourites. She didn't count on it actually being one of the darker twins favourites too though. The scene with the old couple came on and she heard Murphy sniffle beside her. She glanced to him, eyes widening as his eyes were glued to the screen, he was tearing up and she bit her lower lip to stifle a snort as she turned to her left and looked at the other twin. He looked almost bored as he stuffed another handful of popcorn in his mouth. Lila discreetly nudged Connor in the side and he looked at her curiously. She gestured to his brother and he barked out a laugh. So much for being sneaky.

“Are ye fuckin’ cryin’ again? Ye've seen the thing like ten fuckin’ times brother!” Connor snorted loudly, taking great pleasure in fucking with him about it. Lila felt bad now for drawing attention to it.

“Fuck you! It’s fuckin’ sad! They just accept the fact they’re gonna die tegether, that's real love that is!” Murphy huffed, scowling at his twin, although it wasn't very scary when he had tears streaming down his face.

“The fuck did ye want te watch it for then if it just makes ye cry like a wee babe?” Connor teased incredulously, making his brother sneer at him. Lila just looked from one to the other, she could feel the impending brotherly ass kicking a mile away.

“It's a good fuckin’ movie! Not like yer fuckin’ western bullshit ye try te force on us!” Murphy glared, hands flailing around.

“Now hang on a fuckin’ minute, ye fuckin’ eejit, those movies are fuckin’ gold and if ye can't appreciate it then ye can just... go and fuck yerself!” Connor yelled, so offended that his twin dare speak ill of his precious westerns.

“They’re a pile o’ shit and ye know it. At least I’m fuckin’ sensitive, lasses love that shit. Just look at Lila, tell me brother, who’s she sat closest te? You or me?” Murphy asked shooting him a smug smirk.

Lila blinked a little, looking at him, indeed noticing she was leaning right against him, gravitating towards him since he had been crying whereas his twin had been sat there unaffected. She sat up straighter shooting Connor a sheepish look. Connor squinted at his brother and pursed his lips a little.

“Ye fuckin’ little shit! I bet ye planned it all didn’t ye? Puttin’ on the waterworks just so ye can have her te yerself? Ma would be fuckin’ ashamed o’ ye!” He huffed, pointing a finger at him. Murphy was about to reply when a knock sounded from the door and all three of them turned to look at it, almost like they had expected the woman herself to be on the other side, ready to come and smack the shit out of them for bickering once again.

Lila slipped off the couch and she could hear the twins start-up arguing again as she made her way to the door. She knew it was all in jest though, this was just par for the course with these two. She opened the door and Rocco beamed a grin at her. She gave him a hug before he came in. He glanced to the twins arguing before the tv and noticing the film.

“Titanic? Again? The fuck you wanna watch that shit for when it just makes you cry?” He asked incredulously as he looked at the darker twin. Connor boomed a laugh at his brother as Murphy sat up shooting his best friend an indignant scowl.

“Fuck the both o’ ye!” He huffed before looking at Lila. She was biting her lip trying so hard not to laugh, the whole thing was comical. Even Rocco had apparently seen the boy cry whilst watching it.

“Not you though m’girl, ye didn’t take the piss outta me.” Murphy smiled sweetly at her, making her feel oh so guilty.

“Is that right?” Connor asked slowly, a sly smirk spreading across his face as he leveled his gaze on the redhead. Her eyes widened as she saw Murphy look at him suspiciously and she shot him a look to say ‘shut the fuck up’, but he wasn't having any of it.

“What was it ye said this mornin’ sweetheart? When I told ye he’d cry like a babe when he watched it? ‘I’m not surprised, he cried at a dog shelter commercial the other day’...” He grinned at her, making her cheeks flush as Rocco barked out a laugh.

Murphy looked at her, his mouth agape, looking so offended and betrayed she almost laughed out loud again.

“Ye fuckin’ traitor!” He yelled, standing up and squinting at her as the boys just continued to laugh at him.

“It was a sad fuckin’ commercial! All those wee dogs with no home, just fuckin’ waitin’ te be loved...for Christ's sake, now look what ye did...ye set me off again!” He practically screeched as he turned around and wiped his eyes. Connor almost fell off the couch from laughing so hard and Lila shot him a look. It was amusing but Murphy was always so endearing, he was so sensitive, he often reminded her of a young boy, it was too sweet. She walked over to him, standing in front of him and looking up sheepishly.

“It was a sad advert Murph, I’m not judging you, I love how sensitive you are, I wouldn't change you for the world.” She smiled sweetly up at him. It made his face brighten with a beautiful smile and she could practically see his chest puff with pride.

Lila glanced to Connor to see him making a face and mocking her to Rocco and when he caught her eyes he blanched like he’d been caught by his Ma. She just shot him a playful glare. She wrapped her arms around Murphys middle and he squeezed her tight, always loving her hugs. He turned them around a little and Connor squinted at him, so he gave him the finger with a smug smirk over their girl's shoulder, making his twin scoff and Rocco laugh at them.

“I felt that.” She mumbled into his neck, causing Connor to laugh at him. She moved away and Murphy shot her an innocent smile which just made her snort at him. These two would be the fucking death of her.

She sat back on the couch and Murphy sat by her side, Connor squinted at him as he wrapped an arm around her, clearly not happy with the earlier turn of events where she was attached to his brother.

“Can we watch my movie now?” He asked petulantly. Lila made a face and Murphy heaved a dramatic sigh.

“What movie did you pick man?” Rocco asked excitedly, he was also a fucking fan of Connors movies, Lila and Murphy, however, not so much. Before Connor could answer though, Murphy beat him to it.

“The Dirty Dozen, its always The Dirty fuckin’ Dozen, did ye even have te ask?” He whined, laying his head on Lilas' shoulder as he laced his fingers with hers.

They watched the movie though, of course they did, Connor had been good enough to watch theirs with minimal complaints on his behalf so it was only fair they returned the favour. The lighter twin watched with rapt interest, even muttering the words every now and again. Lila and Murphy would share amused glances at each other when he did. It was amusing to see him so engrossed in something like this, even if it was one of those fucking movies. Despite the bickering and the playful teasing banter, the four of them lived for this time together. The boys, Lila and Rocco were like their own little weird family. Rocco had always spent a lot of time with the boys, they had adopted him like a weird Italian brother they never knew they wanted, but since Lila came along, they spent even more time together, she got them to do things like eat real meals or watch movies, rather than just sit and get wasted every night. It was nights like this where they just enjoyed each other's company, doing nothing of real import that made them all happy.

Taglist; @risingphoenix761 @arlaina28 @daryldixonandfrogs

#boondock saints #boondock saints fanfic #murphy macmanus #murphy macmanus fanfic #connor macmanus #connor macmanus fanfic

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lostinfic · 5 years

Text

Dissonance and Harmony | 5

Pairing: Roderick Peterson (Nativity 2) x Alison Crosby (The Canterbury Tales).

*You don’t need to have seen either film.*

Summary: Alison wants to boost her pop music career whereas Roderick needs to restore his reputation in the world of classical music. Neither of them is above using “irregular” means to get what they want, so when she joins his choir, they are in a unique position to help each other… if only they could get along.

A/N: Apparently, turtlenecks are called polo necks in the UK. Here’s a link to the bells video Roderick shows her.

Rating: M | Word count: 5,4k

Part 1 and 2 | Part 3 and 4 | Ao3

♪ ♪ ♪

Today, when Alison arrives at the theatre earlier, it’s not in the hopes of time alone with Roderick, but for a job interview with Vera, his associate.

Vera asks her a few questions, but she’s a no-nonsense type of woman who quickly sees that Alison has all the requirements both in terms of job experience and people skills.

“I can see why Roderick recommended you for the job,” Vera says as they shake hands.

“I can see why you two are business partners.”

Alison will work at the ticket booth during the day and show performers around when they arrive ahead of their concert. Some nights, she will guide people to their seats and bartend during intermission. The pay is average, but it will compensate for the hours she can’t work at the pub anymore. And there’s a tiny chance she’ll meet interesting people in the business. Still nowhere near the 7000‎£ her ex-husband is suing her for.

There’s an hour left before the beginning of choir practice, enough time to call her friend in Canterbury. Lisa is an old friend, and, more importantly, a terrible gossip. If anyone in Canterbury knows the reasons behind John’s lawsuit, it will be her.

Alison sits in the staircase, and tells her friend the little she knows.

“He’s suing you?” Lisa exclaims. “I can’t believe it. You know, even after you left him, he kept defending you. He was clearly in denial.”

“Aaww. What’s made him change his mind, then?”

“I’ll give you the straight tip: he’s dating the new solicitor in town.”

Lisa has a lot to say about this woman, but Alison focuses on only one thing: with every party emotionally involved, there will be no easy way out.

“If I could talk directly to John, I’m sure I could convince him to drop this,” Alison says.

“Use your loaf, Crosby: he thinks you manipulated him once, he’s not gonna talk to you again.”

“Fuck.”

“Besides, you’re famous now, so what’s the problem?”

“I’m famous?”

“We all saw you on the telly this summer with Robbie William.”

“That was once! I replaced a backup singer at the last minute and never saw him again. I work in a pub and sing in a choir. That’s it.”

When Alison hangs up, she heaves a long sigh. She has some answers now, but not the ones she wanted. If John thinks she’s rich and his new girlfriend convinced him to take advantage of this, she has to prove them wrong. But how if they won’t even talk to her?

Footsteps echo in the staircase, and she springs to her feet. It’s Roderick, shaking rain off his black trench coat as he walks up to his office. Butterflies erupt in her stomach. The man she insulted then impulsively hugged. The two days off they’ve had since that event haven’t decreased her embarrassment in any way.

He stops two steps lower than her. For once, they’re at eye-level.

“Are you alright?” he asks when he sees her.

She smooths her hair self-consciously. “Erm, yeah. Yeah. So, have you heard back from the investors?”

“Yes, we were lucky, Vera told me they couldn’t stay to watch after all. So they didn’t see that disastrous performance.”

“Oh, good. Whew.” She mimes wiping sweat off her forehead. “Unless they left because they’re not interested in sponsoring us after all.”

“No, they’ll be back next Friday… They said they liked the choristers they met in the lobby.”

“That’d be me and Marcus. Guess choosing me for my good looks is already paying off,” she says it good-humouredly, not an accusation, just banter. She tilts her head to the side with a mischievous smile. “My, what a fetching polo neck you’re wearing today.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m practicing.” She flutters her eyelashes exaggeratedly.

“You might not want to sound so sarcastic.”

“Noted. You really do give the best advice, Mr Peterson.”

“Thank you.” He puffs up his chest slightly. “It comes from my extensive experience as a teacher and mentor.”

“See what I did there? Not so sarcastic this time, was I?”

She smiles smugly, and Roderick rolls his eyes, but there is a certain fondness to the way he shakes his head.

“Well played, miss Crosby, well played.”

“I’ve got it covered. So, we have till Friday to improve and dazzle the investors?”

“Not the word I would’ve used, but, in essence, yes,” he says. “Are you going to the coffee shop?”

“Nah, brought my own tea today. Gotta save money.”

“Ok. I will see you in eighteen minutes.”

Alison skips down the stairs, whistling a show tune.

There’s nothing she can do about the lawsuit now, but there is something she can do about the investors.

They had two days off after the last practice session. She’d spent the better part of them reflecting on Roderick’s words and her behaviour towards the choir. He was right, she was making it all about herself and acting like a brat. She still plans on using the choir to boost her own career, but in order to do so, the choir must perform well and win, and that can only happen if they work together. So last night, carried along by a surge of generosity and fondness towards her fellow choristers, she baked a whole lot of cookies.

In the basement, where they’ll practice today, she folds out a table to display the three batches of cookies (chocolate, double chocolate and shortbread) with cute napkins.

As she waits for the others to arrive, she sings “Tiny Dancer” to herself and explores the room with improvised dance steps.

She spends so much time at the Lux Aeterna theatre now, it feels like a second home. She calls it simply “Lux”, like an old friend. “I’ll be at Lux all day,” she’ll say sometimes. Lux. Light. Even the basement is luminous somehow. Cold November sun streams through small stained glass windows and creates a colourful pattern over the exposed stone wall.

She grew up in places like these: church basements, school auditoriums, community centres. Cupboards full of old costumes and stage props, mismatched chair, yellowing paper on bulletin boards. The scent of dust and incense lingers decades after. Her love of the stage, and backstage, started young, at 4, when a speech therapist suggested she tried singing to overcome a light stutter, and suddenly she could express herself so fluently. These spaces she associates with freedom now.

“Nice choreography,” Marcus says as he rolls down the back entrance access ramp.

Cold wind rushes in with him, and Alison gathers the cowl neck of her sweater dress over her cheeks.

Marcus helps himself to four cookies and, after some small talk about their weekends, cuts to the chase and asks what happened backstage with Roderick last time.

“We had a row. He called me a brat. I called him selfish,” Alison sums up.

“And yet you’re still in the choir?”

“Yeah, it’s all fine now.” She waves dismissively. “I guess he kind of needs me.”

“How so?”

She sits down next to him, leaning forward to confide in him.

“You know how on the first day you asked why he’d chosen me. Well, he told me. It’s for my… sex appeal.”

Marcus removes his cap to run a hand through his light hair. “Whoa. Makes sense, I suppose. Some people think you’re sleeping with him.”

“What? Who? No! They thought we were off shagging backstage or something?” An image flashes through her mind: shutting Roderick up with a kiss mid-argument and being lifted against the wall, amongst the ropes and pulleys, nibbling on the skin under his turtleneck to leave a hickey— she wipes out the thought. “It’s not like that. He’s soooo not into me. That’s just ridiculous. He wants me to, I don’t know, seduce the judges or attract a male audience.”

“Will you? How do you feel about that?”

“There’s no harm in that, is there? I wear something nice, stroke their ego a bit, brighten their day. That’s what I’m best at.” Alison shrugs and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I just feel… daft for thinking he’d chosen me for my voice.”

“Don’t say that. You’re a good singer Alison. Bit of a diva, but nothing that can’t be fixed.” He pats her knee playfully. “It’s like I said that day. He must’ve thought you have a great voice too. He wouldn’t have chosen you for your looks alone.”

“I suppose, yeah. Has he mentioned using your disability?”

“No, but I noticed that whenever there’s a more plaintive part in a song, he always gives it to me. But, hey, I get to sing more than the other blokes. More exposure for me if a talent scout comes to the concert.”

More people come in, and Alison quickly offers them cookies. Some are wary of her sudden generosity, but no one refuses a freshly-baked cookie.

Janet and Abel in particular are grateful for the pick-me-up after what they saw in the lobby: new posters advertising their concert in December. It features a blurry photo taken, unbeknownst to them, during one of their practices and a large close-up of their conductor, with “Roderick Peterson’s choir” written in bold letters. The information spreads as more people arrive, and pictures taken with mobiles circulate.

“We didn’t even get to choose the choir’s name.”

“I reckon we won’t get a say in the setlist either.”

The poster bother Alison too, but mostly because it’s derailing her plan to become everyone’s friend and lead them to victory. Hoping to change the mood, she tells them about the potential sponsorship. “Mr Peterson and I talked, and we agreed that we must impress these investors,” she says. She might be exaggerating her part, and that won’t help with the rumours, but it’s worth it to see Clarissa seethe. Except she’s not the only seething one, the fact that Roderick himself didn’t inform them of this, adds fuel to the fire.

Annoyance rises in Alison, she sighs heavily and crosses her arms. You don’t understand, he cares about us, she wants to say, but bites her bottom lip to stay on their side.

“Why didn’t he tell us last week? We would’ve sang better,” Janet says.

“Because the quality of your performance should not be contingent upon the presence of investors,” says Roderick from the doorway. They all startle and turn around to him. “I expect you to be at your best. Every. Time. Is that clear?” No one dares speak. The threat of eviction from the choir still hangs above their heads. “Besides, you should not concern yourselves with administrative matters.”

Marcus breaks the silence by clearing his throat, everyone watches intently as he rolls up to Roderick. “With all due respect, Mr Peterson, you’re not teaching children anymore. You can consult us.”

Roderick clasps his hands behind his ram rod-straight back. Only a slight contraction around his jaw indicates his annoyance. “Thank you for your opinion, Mr Bailey. Now, let’s begin.”

They take their places in the middle of the room, Roderick at the piano, and sing through the usual warm-ups. Inhale for four beats, and hum the breath out on the same note for another four. Chests lifted, shoulders straight. Their abdomens widen and flatten simultaneously, each of them an alveoli of the same lung. Dissatisfactions are forgotten. Music prevails. “Lauda Mater Ecclesia”, “Saint Nicolas, Op. 42”, “Thou, my love, art fair”.

Alison fights her instinct to draw attention to herself. It’s not easy, just as it isn’t easy for Roderick to give compliments, but he manages to do so. In as much as “adequate” and “reasonable” said looking like he just threw up a little in his mouth can be considered compliments. She likes to think she was instrumental in that change of attitude. It no less surprises her when, at the end of the next practice, he asks, “Which song would you like to work on this week?”

Glances are exchanged, but no titles offered. Alison can’t think of any song what would not cause him to scoff.

“Well?”

Abel hesitantly raises his hand. “Maybe something by Eric Whitacre?”

“Whitacre? Seriously?” The choristers hold their breaths. “Okay, I suppose we can try that.”

The next day, Roderick hands them new scores. “Who wants to sing the solo? Everyone is welcome to try.” He has never asked before.

Alison starts raising her hand, but lowers it. He’s said “the more you try to make it about you, the less it will be”.

“Miss Crosby?” he asks.

“I— I don’t know.”

“This isn’t some test designed to torture you.” He sounds impatient, but there is something encouraging in the way he nods at her.

“Okay.”

“Take 15 to study the score. I’ll see the soloist individually.”

Alison goes into one of the small, soundproof booths that line the basement. As she studies and hums the notes, she realizes how differently she’s approaching this part. Unlike she would have three months ago, she immediately thinks of it in terms of its place in the whole of the song. She wonders how to complement the others rather than stand out.

“I wasn’t ready before,” she remarks when Roderick joins her in the room.

“Show me what you understand now.”

Her pulse quickens. This is her chance. She can’t let him down. She strikes the pose, relaxes her jaw, and sings the first lines.

Roderick interrupts her with a cluck of his tongue. “The notes are perfect. But you must put your guts into it.” He stretches his hand over her stomach and presses it into her flesh.

The contact jolts through her, and she gasps.

“Again,” he commands.

She holds his gaze and leans into his hand. This time, her voice is infused with determination. It erupts from her core until she’s completely out of breath.

“That was better.”

He swiftly leaves the room, leaving Alison to lean against the wall, bewildered.

♪

When Roderick arrives at work the next day, Alison is working in the ticket booth by the entrance of the theatre. It’s not a demanding job— answering phone calls, printing out tickets, selling to the occasional walk-in client— so he knows she has time to talk with him.

He’s just come back from their coffee shop, one black coffee in hand, and a beverage for her too. It’s some awful seasonal concoction. He thought of her when he saw it advertised in the window, and he needed something to smooth things over. His conduct yesterday, touching her like that, was inappropriate. He knew he could get so much more depth out of her. He’d wanted to rouse that boldness she has, and it worked. But she has to learn to engage it by herself.

He places the clear plastic cup in front of her, glad to put the artificial scent of peppermint and vanilla away from him. Her eyes widen at the sight of the indecent amount of whipped cream, but she expresses none of the enthusiasm he expected.

“I didn’t get the solo,” she says.

For a moment, he fails to see the connection. “Oh, miss Crosby, you’ve known me for some time now, have I ever cajoled someone when I was displeased with their performance?”

She giggles and grabs the drink. “Not quite your style, no.” She sips noisily through the straw. “Mmmm. It’s the one called Elf Brew, innit? Want a sip?”

“No. I’m a vegetarian so no elf meat smoothie for me.”

“You’re funny.”

He finds he doesn’t mind this new habit of hers of flirting with him. It’s all a laugh, of course, she doesn’t mean any of it. But it lets him know she’s not upset about what happened.

“So, I didn’t not get the solo?”

“I’m still considering my options. Luisa did very well too.”

“Right, yeah.” She shrugs and swirls the straw around her drink. “I mean, Whitacre's her favourite composer. It’s more her thing than mine. She should probably get it.”

Roderick arches an eyebrow in surprise.

“We’ll find something else that’s a better fit for me, yeah?” she adds.

“That’s more like it.”

She offers a smile that fades quickly. He pretends to take an interest in the brochures around her booth.

“But I’m trying, though,” she says. “I’m making an effort to really be a part of the choir.”

“I noticed.”

He wonders how long that will last, but it seems his words had an effect on her. Just like her words had one on him. She was right, he had been making the choir all about himself. And Marcus was right too, he isn’t teaching children anymore. It’s all getting in the way of his success.

“I decided to make changes to the posters that created such a stir,” Roderick announces.

“Really? That’s very cool of you. ”

“Today in fact. Can you do something about your face?” He gestures vaguely in front of her.

Her smile vanishes. “What’s wrong with my face?”

He could kick himself for phrasing his request like that. He explains that a photographer will arrive shortly to take new photos for the promotional material. She rushes to the bathroom with her handbag. Ten minutes later, Alison comes out with a fresh coat of pink lipstick, loose hair and, somehow, glitter on her eyelids.

In the auditorium, the photographer asks her to sing while he snaps photos around her. Then she smiles and poses with a binder of music sheets. He’s efficient, he’s worked with Roderick before and knows what he wants, but he’s taking more pictures than necessary and getting too friendly with Alison. She, of course, is enjoying every minute of it. Roderick should be annoyed with this kind of vain attitude, but she remains professional and focused.

“Beautiful. You’re a natural, luv. Lean over. Okay, cross your arms. Yes. Look at me.”

“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Roderick intervenes.

“But we’re only getting started,” the photographer retorts. “I think we need her in a skirt. No? Okay, you’re the boss. Alison, here’s my card if you’re interested in modelling—”

“She already works for me,” Roderick insists, shoving the photographer’s bag in his arms.

After he’s gone, Alison asks, “D’you want me to tell the others there’s gonna be a photoshoot when they come in? I can text them right now.”

“No, we’re not taking pictures of the others, your face will suffice.”

“It’ll be only me? Outside on the marquee of the theatre? On a busy street in central London? Whoa.” She smiles brightly.

“Well, there will be my face too, and then you underneath me— I mean, under the title. Anyway.”

“I see. I suppose it’s like I’m representing the choir. The others— I just… Okay. No. That’s for the best.”

♪

By Friday, the new posters aren’t up on the marquee yet. Good. Alison doesn’t want them to distract her colleagues on this important day when the investors are coming to hear them sing.

She joins everyone in the auditorium. They all scrubbed up well.

“Nice shirt, Marcus,” she says. “Love your scarf, Janet. Luisa, new haircut? Beautiful. Abel you shaved!” There’s a thickness in her throat that isn’t from stress. She’s overcompensating. She should have insisted her friends be in the promotional photos too. She argues with herself that she let Luisa have the solo. And if her pretty face helps sell more tickets for the December concert, than she’s helping everyone. In a way. Being pretty is her thing, and if that’s all she is, then she bloody well deserves her face on a poster. But the guilt doesn’t go away.

She redirects her thoughts to the present when Roderick walks on stage. He greets the investors who are standing at the back of the room. They haven’t introduced themselves to the choir so as not to raise their hopes. They prefer to watch from a distance to better assess their performance. Love of music isn’t their only motivation, they need this association to reflect well on their business, and their logo on the program to pay off.

Roderick’s gaze sweeps across the choristers, and Alison smiles at him. No vein throbs on his forehead, and the movements of his hands and arms are more fluid; they have his back, and he knows it now.

They run through warm-ups and the song they know best. Nervousness strains their voices a little bit, but they cover up each other’s misses. Luisa sings the solo beautifully, and Clarissa is perfect, of course. Alison simply can’t be mad at either of them.

After the first hour, Vera walks on stage to introduce “your new sponsors.” Alison is the first to shake their hands with a warm smile.

“You have great potential, and our bank always believed in encouraging young talent,” they say in a speech that sounds like a marketing pitch.

True to her nature, after the rehearsal, Alison invites everyone to the Blue Bear pub’s Open Mic night to celebrate. Marcus accepts right away, and convinces others to do the same. Even Roderick agrees after they beg him in chorus. “Only for one drink.”

In the theatre’s lobby, a handyman is putting the new posters for the concert. The ones that feature Alison prominently. She doesn’t usually shy away from attention, but when her friends notice it, she wants the floor to swallow her. She sputters some excuses. Thankfully, Marcus smooths things over. “I’m too happy to be pissed right now, let’s not spoil our mood.” No other complaint is voiced, but Alison knows they’re all still thinking about it.

At the Blue Bear, Javier is surprised to see her. “Your shift only starts in an hour.”

“I know, I brought some friends to hang out and sing. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course, I don’t mind customers.”

“I’ll just grab a few things.” She passes behind the bar and picks up a bottle of whiskey along with glasses.

“Paying customers, yeah?” Javier says.

Elife is there too, with her bandmates. “You didn’t have time to go out for my birthday, but you have time for your new friends?” she accuses Alison.

“I’m sorry. We got the sponsorship! It’s like a team-building activity, it’s work.” She hugs her friend. “I’ll introduce you to Marcus, you can thank me later.”

They push tables together to sit the dozen choristers who came. Roderick sits at the head of the table, he raises his glass to them.

“As Bach once said: ‘I was obliged to be industrious. Whoever is equally industrious will succeed equally well.’”

“That’s it?” Marcus whispers. “Alright. Cheers!”

Janet is the first to go on stage to sing “Back to Black”. Alison’s focus shifts to Roderick. Does he even know Amy Winehouse? She’s a genius just as much as Beethoven. Even sitting at the same table as them, he’s distant. This pub, with its hunting ephemera on the walls and hanging lamps made out of beer bottles, is a far cry from his modern theatre. She’s sure he thinks it’s not good enough for him. Nothing is good enough for him.

She grows annoyed, but she doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Maybe because he called her self-absorbed yet encouraged it by having her pose alone for the photographer. He should have asked the others too or at least explained his decision to them. She’s not the only guilty one. It’s infuriating that he can he be so caring one minute— bringing her tea, finding a solution to her problems, saying she’s sexy, hugging her, smelling good, and that little smile he has sometimes— yet so distant and annoying the next.

Why didn’t he give her a solo? She improved. She worked hard. Why does he want only her face and not her voice? How is she supposed to sing with her guts when all the songs he chooses are hymns to a deity she’s not sure she believes in? Singing with the others is uplifting, but the lyrics are meaningless to her.

“I’ll show him,” she mutters to herself as she makes her way to the stage. Impulsively, she chooses a song by Carly Simon.

Alison keeps the microphone on its stand but puts her two hands over it, she undulates her hips to the first guitar notes.

“You walked into the party. Like you were walking on a yacht,” she sings with a voice deeper than usual.

Her friends cheer when they recognize the song and sing along to the chorus.

“You're so vain. You probably think this song is about you. You're so vain. I'll bet you think this song is about you. Don't you? Don't you?”

She presses her hand to her stomach as she belts out the last lines. It’s cathartic. Her frustration dissolves. She bows to the applause. Feeling better, she saunters off stage.

She crosses Roderick’s path as he’s walking to the exit, putting on his coat.

“You’re going already? It’s not ‘cause of the song, is it?”

“I thought it wasn’t about me,” he says with a playful tone. “I liked it.”

She wishes his approval didn’t make her feel so warm inside.

“Thank you for coming, it means a lot. To everyone.”

“Thank you, Alison. Good night.”

As he walks away, she considers insisting he stays, but Javier calls her to begin her shift.

Alison dons her apron and goes around the tables whiles her friends keep singing on stage. They’re absolutely killing it. Marcus’s rendition of “I Believe I Can Fly” has the crowd cackling, and a few minutes later, he and Elife are snogging like their lives depend on it. Janet and Luisa sing a duet, and are soon joined by a tipsy Abel. And the night wouldn’t be complete without “Bohemian Rhapsody” which she has time to join between two orders.

They stay until closing time, at 11. Alison takes the booze away from them, and goes around wiping tables while they discuss the choir.

“We should sing more songs like we did tonight.”

“We were so good.”

“More people would come to the show.”

“I’ve had enough of bloody hymns.”

“Do you know what we should do? Mash-ups!” Luisa says.

This suggestion is followed by a chorus of enthusiastic agreement.

“Mr Peterson will never let, though,” Janet complains.

“I don’t know,” Alison says. “I mean, he’s been making an effort to talk to us more like we’re actual humans. He’s trying, no?”

“That’s right, he has been making an effort,” Luisa agrees, “since you talked to him.”

They all turn to Alison with intent stares and mischievous smiles.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re going to ask him to change the setlist.”

“Oh, no, no.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Janet replies.

“We’ll forgive you for the poster,” Luisa adds.

“Fuck.”

♪

Roderick starts every day by swimming laps in the pool on the first floor of his building. The cool water stimulates his body and mind. He loves to feel the stretch in every muscle from forearm to calf as he crawls and kicks his legs. A musician must stay in shape, but he never liked sports.

When he was 13, his mother (who worried about his social skills and the effect of them of practicing piano alone for so many hours) asked him to join either a sport team or the school choir. He chose music, of course. In no time, he’d surpassed the choir director and was doing the arrangements himself both for the choir and the school band. And thus was born his love of choral music because, for the first time, he was part of a group, of something bigger than himself and free of his father’s shadow. And yet, it’s that feeling of belonging he wanted to run away from today.

He reaches the end of the pool and hangs on to the edge, panting. He hasn’t completed his usual thirty laps yet and he’s already out of breath. The whiskey and late night are affecting his performance. What was he thinking? Fraternizing and drinking with them. The frontier between conductor and choristers must never be crossed. If he gets too close to them, he will lose his objectivity and authority. It will affect his decisions and won’t be good for the choir. Hell, he’d almost given Alison the solo right after she sang for him even if he hadn’t heard the others yet. He had to keep his distance and a cool head.

Of course, keeping his distance would be easier if he hadn’t given her a job at his theatre.

“Hey, Mr Peterson. Here’s your mail,” Alison says, entering his office.

“Thank you.”

No fraternizing. Not crossing the line. He keeps his eyes on the computer and sees a file he saved yesterday, a video that reminded him of her. Bloody hell.

“Wait. There’s something I want to show you, come here.”

She joins him behind the desk, and he plays. It’s woman with bells sewn onto her clothes, each makes a different note, and she plays a medley of Christmas songs by tapping them all over her body.

He watches Alison rather than the video, praying she will think it’s funny. She laughs and he reclines in his chair.

“Oh, this is brilliant.”

“I was thinking we could get you one of those seeing as how you like to draw attention.”

“Oi! Cheeky.” She bumps him with her hip. “I don’t think the others would like that, though.”

Her sharp tone tells him there’s more to her statement, but she changes subject before he can ask.

“Mr Peterson, can I talk to you about something?” She wrings her hands. “Last night, we had an idea.”

“We?”

“Yeah, the whole gang, well, those who were at the pub. We were saying we’d love to sing more popular songs. Maybe do mash-ups? You know, when you take two or three songs and blend them together.”

“Like a quodlibet?”

“Maybe.”

“Darling Alison, the only reason mash-ups work is because there are too many bland, interchangeable songs out there. If a song isn’t interesting enough to perform in its entirety, we should be ignoring it. And if it uses excellent songs, it’s even worse, it completely ruins the integrity of the piece.”

“So you do think pop music has integrity.”

“You missed my point.”

“We could mix them with classical music. Like Steve Hackman did. Coldplay with Beethoven, Drake with Tchaikovski…”

“That little punk.”

“Tchaikovski?”

“Hackman. It’s derivative.”

She crosses her arms and looks at him seriously. He mirrors her pose.

“Alright. If you agree, I’ll do the thing you want me to, you know, be sexy for the judges or whatever.”

“Was refusing ever an option?”

“Well, you can’t force me to be sexy.”

“So far, I haven’t even had to ask you to do it. You charmed the investors of your own accord.”

“I can be ugly.”

“I doubt it,” he replies without thinking.

She smiles and her determination wavers, but not for long. “Flattery won’t work.”

“I doubt that even more.”

“Roderick, please,” she whines.

“We’re not throwing away the songs we’ve already worked hard on. We’re doing a traditional choral concert. That’s it.” He strikes the air with his hand to underline his words.

She sits on the edge of his desk, in front of him. Oh, she’s a stubborn one, but her perseverance doesn’t displease him.

“Can you honestly say the ‘traditional’ way has worked out for you?” she asks.

“Yes! I’m one of the tops in my field.”

“Lately, I mean.”She taps her knee against his. “C’mon, it’d be fun!”

“Alison, this is my livelihood. My life. Fun is not enough.”

Her shoulders slope. He’s getting through to her.

“Okay. I understand. I really do, but—”

“Miss Crosby.”

“No, listen to me.” She leans forward and braces herself on the arms of his chair. “We can do it better than it’s ever been done before. Because of you. Because you’re one of the tops. I trust your judgement and your talent to make the most amazing… quodlibets.”

“If this is another one of your flirting jokes…”

“It’s not.”

It’s hard to think with her so close. Her floral perfume. Her front teeth digging into her lower lip. Her hand so close to his arm, he can feel her warmth. He looks up to the ceiling and sighs.

“Can you come to my home tomorrow?” he asks her.

“Your home?”

“I can hardly carry my whole album collection here. Bring your music, we’ll look through it.”

She squeals and claps her hands, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to hug him again. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

So much for keeping his distance.

#Teninch Fic #mutual pining #slow burn #Roderick Peterson #Alison Crosby #Lostinfic writes stuff #Roderick x Alison #d and h

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