little boy blue

anthony jay goldstein. ravenclaw prefect. seventeen going on infinity.

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

lisaturpins·:

She stays quiet as he speaks of what he hopes for—-a happy ending to all of this. She says nothing to that, because she does not see a happy ending for herself, for most of them—-even if they somehow win, even if the dark lord is defeated, how can they be happy after being tortured in school? How can someone like Dennis Creevey be happy after being sent to Azkaban? They may survive, but Lisa thinks it is a long time before any of them—-before she—will be happy.

Her hands still around the bottle she’d holding and her breath catches in her throat as the question leaves his lips—-a question she has known he’s wanted to ask for years, no matter how polite he has been in not doing so. But they are sharing, tonight, apparently, and whatever he’s had to drink has lowered his inhibitions enough to make him bold enough to ask.She is not angry; Anthony let her into his home, into his family, and for years never broached the subject—it’s more than she could have ever asked for. She just doesn’t know what to say—-how to begin to explain; and every time she opens her mouth to try she feels so utterly stupid, and ashamed of what her parents are, what she’s known them to be all this time without saying anything—-

“I—-it’s not like I realized it all at once, really. I knew, growing up, how they were. They’re not—-they weren’t—-like the Malfoys, you know, that obvious, but just…. the things they’d say, about families like the Weasleys and Longbottoms and—-” and yours, she thinks, “—and muggles, and when I got to Hogwarts I thought, you know, it didn’t make sense but—-it was just how they were. Old fashioned, maybe, a bit fucking annoying, but—-harmless, really, because they were—–my parents, what harm could they possibly do?”

She is studying her fingernails, now, determined to look anywhere but Anthony’s eyes, not wanting to see what might be behind them—-she will open up, this once, about her parents, and if she looks at him words will fail her, she knows. “Um, and then—-the summer before fourth year, when I came to you, it was—-the world cup, you know, what happened there—-I was there, at the campsite, and I—-I remember it was the middle of the night, and they woke me up, and gave me a portkey, and I was home. I was—–I had no idea what was happened, I was so worried about them, and then the papers came and I—-they didn’t say anything when they got home, and neither did I, but I—-I went looking, and I found—-fucking ugly gaudy masks and robes and—–they’re fucking Death Eaters, Anthony. They—-they helped torture that muggle campsite manager and his family. Not—-not for any reason other than they could and they—-they thought it was fun.” She has never shied away from the implication that her parents were involved in such things, but it still feels as though she has to tear the words from her mouth; the admit what she’s come from.

“I was so mad and I—I went to them and it was like—–like a pair of fucking strangers, like, I didn’t even recognize them, like I hadn’t lived all my life with them, because—–they were proud of it, proud of what they’d done—–said they followed him, that they did it for me, to make the world better for me—–like I’m supposed to be happy, or be fucking grateful that my parents want to torture muggles and kill muggleborns, and I just—-” She broke off, shaking her head, “I couldn’t stay.”

And so, there they sat, both red for different reasons. 

She wore the color so well, a melange of different shades to match all her anger and passion, her bravery and fury. Each one of them came up for air every now and then -- and increasingly so, he thought but dared not say -- in her little acts of retaliation, painting her into something equal parts unknowable and righteous. From the start, he’d accepted this as her own form of combat, knowing that Lisa was more suited to the sword just as he was to the quill. The world was getting darker by the day, its lights put out by people not unlike those she spoke of, and whatever hope he’d privately held for her was worthless to a girl who’d been stripped of the very ideal all those years ago. 

It wasn’t her face that told him of her anger, but the clasp of their hands, fingers still intertwined because he refused to let go, allowing him to feel the reverberation of absolute emotion emanating from Lisa as she spoke. He didn’t need to look to know she was crimson-colored by blood-soaked truth, and as he continued to stare at their hands, he knew he’d never held onto anything so tightly before.

Red tinged the whites of Anthony’s eyes and the sharp diagonals of his cheeks where the tears fell and dried, the inescapable mix of salt and water making its descent as soon as the mention of ‘growing up’ left Lisa’s lips. There had been occasions in the past where Anthony could hear words and not understand what they meant, sweeping his legs up from under him and leaving him in a mess of thoughts and misunderstandings that took too much time to decipher and only really ever accomplished the grand feat of properly pissing him off. (Michael, that old bitter voice couldn’t resist reminding him, fueled by liquor and a seemingly unceasing annoyance the other boy seemed determined to carry out.) There had been times where words were his downfall, his own unspoken thoughts choking on their possibilities like a paradox trying to achieve both things at once. (Mandy, his mind posited, flooded with the instant guilt of thinking about her now of all times, rather than the girl at his side.) And there had been times where he heard words slip past lips and they had meant nothing at all. 

This, however, was not one of those occasions. The words, this irrevocable  confirmation of a truth he’d never hoped for, hit his ears like the ringing of a train whistle, the vibrating hum of a gong, the scream of a flock of crows: all at once, and then hanging high above them, bells tolling for the tragedy written into Lisa’s fate from the moment she was born. He remained silent, knowing that these were words she could never take back, an admission that, once spoken, would never return to the spaces in her lungs, her brain, her heart -- whichever locked-up part of her she allowed open, if only for this moment, if only for Anthony alone. 

But it’s not just for me, he thought. The revelation was as much for Lisa as it was for anyone she chose to share it with, but that didn’t mean that it was a burden off her shoulders transferred onto the next person’s, and a part of him was pained over the idea that speaking those words out loud was just as painful as keeping them held inside, prompted by his own question. Even more painful was the knowledge that no one could carry this weight but Lisa herself. Not Sally-Anne, not even Anthony at his most Atlas-like, would ever be able to truly lift it off her shoulders -- but perhaps, the thoughts start, because Lisa’s words have led him to the conclusion, perhaps if she’d let us try, let us help, we could.  

“I’ll keep you safe, Lis’,” he started, finally breaking the self-imposed silence. “People like Sal and me, we... We care so damn much about you. Remember when you stood up to Snape when he was so cruel to her that one class? I remember I got so, just so pissed off because -- ‘Twenty points, Turpin,’” he intoned the phrase with a mock of his own voice before continuing, “but Sally-Anne... I swear, she looked at you with stars in her eyes from that moment on. And, eventually, I think I must’ve too, because... God, Lis’, you just mean the world to me. You’re my family, and you might be the only family I’ve got once this blows over.” He’d been staring at nothing in particular up until now, eyes newly fixed on Lisa with a seriousness unfit for two kids at a party, and tears trailed down the sharp alabaster plains of his face, feeling all at once like little more than a boy who longed only for something happy -- for once, something easy -- for the girl sat by his side.

“I know I’m not scary, but I could be, for you. No one -- no one, do you understand? No one will hurt you like that again, or I will kill them myself.”The notion was instantaneous, the reasoning behind it building up slowly but surely from the moment Lisa arrived at his doorstep, and he didn’t care if the action, or even just the thought of it, made him a hypocrite. Lisa was his sister and he’d never believe otherwise, lack of shared blood be damned. In a moment not terribly different from now, with both of them operating under the influence of alcohol, in their own little corner of their own Common Room, Anthony had asked her if this was what it was like to have a sister. Even if she’d never answered, it wouldn’t have mattered. The answer was absolute. 

He pressed a kiss to her temple, and wrapped an arm over her shoulder, hugging her much smaller frame to his body as a new question lingered over them both.

Is this what it’s like to shelter a hurricane from its own storm?

[ END. ]

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

abbotthannah·:

Hannah couldn’t help but laugh at his statement about Jabba the Hut, it was true, and she nodded in agreement. Her laugh faded, however, her expression turning into one of curiosity, her smile tinged with sadness. More than anything, Hannah hoped that it didn’t come off as pity – she knew there was no value in that feeling, she knew that Anthony wouldn’t appreciate it. The sadness came from a place of empathy – because she understood how he felt all too well. Having to suppress certain joys for the sake of their survival, something she hated, but became necessary in a political climate like this. Hannah tried and tried to illuminate the world with kindness, with good, but there were some things – certain things – that could never be replaced by the actual thing. A muggle coke, a pink sunset falling behind the Alps on Lake Como, a hug from her mother ( the scent, the feel, the warmth, the love )  and comic books. Unfortunately, Hannah could never conjure the same joy that came from reading comics but in that moment she knew she had to figure out a way to get her hands on one, noting mentally to owl Noah about it soon. 

“None of it is right, or fair, or okay, none of it is,” the acknowledgement, saying it aloud, weighed heavy because of course she knew – she knew it was terrible – what was the point of pointing it out? What could she possibly say to ease Anthony’s mind? She swallowed, because she didn’t want to appear weak, like she couldn’t handle talking about it with him – because she could. If anyone knew that, it was Anthony, but Hannah was so used to people seeing her for the anxious, emotional mess she was for years, an ode to the girl who cried at the drop of a hat, who was scared of breaking a rule more than breaking a bone, the the truth was, in the midst of all this horror –  she had something to prove. More to herself, than anyone else. She had to be someone, someone steady, someone she was working every day in and day out to be.

He was one of the most grounded people she knew, a stubbornness to rival Ernie’s, she worried on days like this that the honesty in which Anthony saw the world had become a dangerous dark pessimism. He had every right to see every dark corner, every horrible act committed for what it was – horrible – but Hannah’ll be damned if she let him drown in it. “I feel like you already embody the Beedle Bard in spirit sometimes, so, that’d be no good,” she tried a small joke, her laugh falling flat before a determined expression lit up her features. “Halloween is about being something other than yourself, for one night, even if it’s ridiculous and you know what? We deserve something like that. We do. And I’ll fight you if you say otherwise – you’d be a fantastic Robin. Jim Gordon? Magneto, even, that’d be an interesting take, yeah? I’ll even help charm and make a costume for you, if i’ve got to. I’ll ask Lisa for your measurements if you don’t give them to me.” 

He could have taken offense to her joke if he was being picky or cruel, but the former was something reserved for himself alone and the latter wasn’t in his nature. More than this, however, he knew that her words were entirely true. Anthony clung to adulthood from a young age, even before his adolescence began, never once wanting to be the leader, per se, but the commentator of the show, the one who told the audience to look away while he stared straight ahead, baring the brunt of whatever awful, horrible thing played out before his eyes. He had never known what it was like to be anything other than a young man still aching to be older, to be more, and when Hannah suggested alternative ideas so far flung from his original thought, Anthony wasn’t sure if should smile or frown. 

“If I were Magneto, I think the other students would throw coins at my head just to see if they stuck, and a costume where coins are getting thrown at me at random is one more suited to...well, you know.” He replied, his stoic countenance undercut by the humor hiding in his words. Still, he considered what Hannah proposed, knowing there’d be no convincing her of anything simple or ordinary, and a few characters and costumes bandied about in his head before he realized the truth of the matter.

It’s not the costume that mattered to Hannah, but that she wanted to see him having fun and being happy.

Genuine joy blossomed its way out of dormancy at the thought of this, and revealed itself in the small smile at his lips. It’s oddly comforting, being given the unspoken permission to be free of the responsibility he wore as a second skin, and he’s reminded that this ever-elusive, constantly fleeting semblance of happiness, of stability, is something that he, too, deserves. Halloween isn’t particularly a time of gift-giving, but some part of him couldn’t help but think of Hannah’s words as a present she’d never intended to give, yet the one he needed the most.

Still, it’s an uneasy shift to happiness, one that he can’t quite settle into just yet because the pursuit of it solely for himself is too unfamiliar to feel real, but he knew he had to offer Hannah something in return. “How about this -- Pick whatever you like, and it'll be my costume. I’ll even go as the Peter Parker to your Gwen Stacy, if you want.”

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

❝

It was the witching hour for recklessness now, and Anthony was caught under its spell, hastily bumping his way through crowds and stumbling into corners and rooms he had no business being in. This was the den of snakes, after all – blood purists, zealots, and enemies, protected like they were something holy, thriving on the injustices of the world. He wasn’t like Michael, who somehow managed to make a place for himself no matter where he was – and, consequently, ruin it in record time. And, even despite the festivities, the green and silver lining the walls and ceilings still haunted him, a cold reminder of where he was and who he was surrounded by.

The realization sent Anthony’s head spinning, rage coursing through his veins in equal measure with the alcohol, and he tumbled into the nearest corridor, not noticing who he’d stumbled on. A hot flash of anxiety rattled him when his eyes fixed on the girl – Mandy. His vision burned red at the sight of her, hating that he was always running into her, hating that it was she who always managed to find him when he needed her the least.

“I’m really bloody tired of meeting like this, you know,” he started, the shadow of Firewhiskey on his brain coloring his tone too dark, too angry -- too unlike himself, and yet true to form all the same. The words spilled, unbidden and uncaring, laced with venom and coated with rage. “Is it fun knowing that you’re just -- you just go around, using people, making them think that you’ll stick around, when -- Does he know, Mandy? Does he know what you think of his blood? Or is he just as dumb and blind as I was?” 

Anthony knew he hadn’t been truly blind to her views -- there was a reason they’d parted ways in the first place -- but he had been innocent, and innocence was just another way of failing to see even with your eyes open. 

“Just because you don’t have a heart doesn’t mean you get to go around breaking everyone else’s,” he spat out, the hushed voice incapable of sheathing the fury that lay beneath. “I didn’t know it at the time, Mands, but you broke my fucking heart. And, no, not because you’re something incredible, but because I -- fuck, I really believed in you. I believed in you to be a good person, to do the right thing, and it was a fucking lie. All of it. Any time you told me you cared was a lie, because I-I’m one of them, Mandy. One of the people you hate so much. So, go on, go hate us. Just stop playing your fucking games before someone else ends up hating you as much as I do.”

The scene is too familiar to one of the innumerable fights that led to their parting, and he can’t think of the last time he cursed so much. It’s just not him. More than this, however, the boy doesn’t want to allow all this rage to consume him, to swallow him whole. As if on cue, his feet dragged him away from her before his mind could fully comprehend everything that’s transpired between them. It's clear he had overstayed a welcome that disappeared along with the last true smiles they offered each other, replaced now by unplanned, clandestine meetings that leave them both scarred.

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

lisaturpins‌:

The party has lasted late into the night, as everyone knew it would—-they’ve all missed curfew, and its either stay in the relative safety of the Slytherin common room, or risk getting caught, getting detention, and potentially getting everyone else caught as well. Still, the night has worn on Lisa. It had been fun enough, spin the bottle and truth or dare—-she hates Pansy, naturally, but the girl did her a run for her money in in that game—-but everyone is increasingly sloppy now, and Sally-Anne is acting….. strangely, and Lisa could not seem to find a moment to get the girl to speak to her; if she didn’t know better she’d say Sally-Anne was avoiding her.

So when Anthony bounds over to her, his excitement is infectious, almost, and she throws her head back in laughter as he boasts, “I’m proud of you,” She starts, but falls silent in the next moment as he continues, head cocked to the side in confusion. Truly, she had not been thinking of leaving—-she just needed a moment of peace and the loo seemed the best place to get it—-but the idea of leaving the common room, of being back in her dorm, of sleeping in her own bed—-is tempting.

But when Anthony asks her if she is leaving—–he is not just speaking of the party anymore, and Lisa feels guilty, guilty to have made someone she cares about so much feel so wary of her flightiness, so worried that she would abandon him. She sighs, teeth worrying at her lower lip before she joins him on the floor, taking a breath to figure out what she means to say. Emotion is not her forte, but liquor has loosened her tongue and mind just enough that the mechanism that seems to stop any attempt of hers to speak freely of how she feels is gone; and for Anthony? She will try to assuage his fears.

“I think about it, sometimes. Sometimes I fucking—-I fucking hate this place so much, I hate this world so much—-it’s all so hypocritical, sometimes I just want to leave it all behind, leave this whole fucking society to the mess it’s created. But—-then I think of you, o–or Sally-Anne, or Hannah, and I know—-I know you’d never come with me, any of you, if I asked. I couldn’t take you away and keep you safe, I’d—-you’d be here, still, and I—-” She shakes her head, taking another gulp of her drink, the burn in her throat a nice distraction from the rapid beating of her heart as she admits just how much these people mean to her. “And I think of how—-disappointed in me you’d be, you and Sally-Anne, and I want to be—-I am…. I think, I’m better because of you both.”

She takes another drink, before nestling in next to Anthony, her head resting against his shoulder. “I’m not going to leave you, Anthony—-I wouldn’t leave my family.  And you are my family; they never were.”

Something about her is different tonight, and it reminds him of the moon, the start of a new phase, a shift in the tides. Lisa is no more separated from herself or the world around her than usual, but the usual collection of sharp edges, world-weary eyes, and guarded humor that accompany her every move is now replaced. There’s a particular openness that lifts through her skin, comes out in her words, and settles in the space between them, and Anthony brightens at the knowledge that some part of him has drawn this out of her.

The boy has never been scared in the traditional sense, not when he exists as a walking shield and sword in equal measure. The threats their world faces now are unnatural and terrifying, but inspire in him bravery rather than fear. It’s an uncertain reality now, but he’s somehow managed to find his footing as though it were no different than before, easily assuming the role of instructor and soldier in the face of something so clearly wrong. His fears have lived solely in what he knows must remain out of reach, in those select few he bitterly allows to slip through his fingers, if only because his love for them is too great to jeopardize their freedom. Lisa is chief among these, and when she begins to speak, he wishes he could tell her all this, and more, as though yet another plea could somehow wash away her distaste for their environment.

When the current of her words shift from want to need, he perks up, listening closer now, because it’s the only thing he can offer when he’s already bared his soul. It doesn’t go unnoticed that, somehow, the tables have turned -- it’s now Lisa revealing the things she holds closest to her heart, and Anthony blooms with pride at the knowledge that he has a place there, buried underneath the scars of the past and the fears of the future. His hand finds hers and he squeezes it lightly, as if to make sure that this -- that she -- is real. 

“I just... I want there to be an end to all this for you, you know? A happy end.” The words come out with self-imposed sobriety, a stark contrast to the drunken whine from before. “I wish, I dunno -- I wish you didn’t always feel like you had to run. I wish I knew why you started running in the first place.” 

And there it is, the only topic they’ve never broached, not even when the Dark Lord returned, or when the first wave of blood purist terror flooded their fifth year. There are enough pieces of the puzzle for him to know the general picture, he thinks, but this feels like the right moment to finally understand more, to know with certainty that he isn’t on the same path, the one that only results in pushing her far away and out of his life. 

“Why did you leave them, Lisa?”

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

WHEN: october 26, 23:51 WHERE: Slytherin boys’ dormitory WHO: for @terrywboot 

“ Send ❝ for my muse to drunkenly reveal something to yours. “

Even despite the drunken revelry, a certain level of sobriety had sunken into each one of them when Sophie’s spin landed on Michael. When the kiss commenced without argument, Anthony’s eyes drifted from Michael to Terry, wondering how exactly the former could operate without shame, while the latter was forced to bear it entirely for the both of them. A few more rounds passed, and he left the circle not long after Terry, electing to stay close to him while the other third of their broken little trio was hellbent on ruining the few good things he had at Hogwarts.

They sat in silence for quite some time, the off-and-on passing of Dragon Barrel Brandy between them the only sound resonating in the otherwise empty bedroom. He’d been positively giddy before the incident, eyes gleaming with drunken mirth as the games carried on, teenage debauchery providing a neat little bubble of happiness that Michael just had to pop. And now, the two of them were slumped down to the ground, drinking like two men who’d resigned themselves to unhappy fates.

Anthony hated idly watching Terry retreat into himself and what was sure to be a cycle of too-heavy thoughts, the boy’s usual silence suddenly ringing much louder after the night’s events. He grabbed the bottle abruptly and took a swig, drinking for courage as he revealed, “You know what, Terry? I wish Michael had never gotten hot.” It came out as a string of slurred words, betraying the serious intention behind the statement, and he attempted to fix his gaze sternly onto the other. “I’m serious, Ter’. It could’ve just been you and me, you know? Looking the way we look and all. I think… I think he wouldn’t be such a git if he,” the seriousness of his countenance broke to let out a laugh, “still looked the way he did in second year. Don’t you agree?”

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

WHEN: october 26, 1:57 WHERE: Slytherin common room WHO: for @lisaturpins​

“ Send ❝ for my muse to drunkenly reveal something to yours. “

Much too loud for the hour, and far too drunk for it to register, Anthony bellowed his surrogate sister’s name out into the open of the common room as soon as he caught sight of her platinum wig, the green-tinged tapestry behind her causing it to appear more garish than before. His feet hurtled him faster to her than he’d ever tried to run to someone in his life, and it’s a sad, sorry spectacle for those sober enough to see the attempt, what with Anthony knocking against the dark leather furniture and bumping past people without apology.

“Lis’, it was amazing!” He started breathlessly, the excitement -- rather than his piss-poor attempt at a sprint -- knocking the air out of him. “I did it! The shot, the one with the flames -- I made it happen! Enchanted the flames to dance and everything.” A hiccup escaped him, and his legs went shaky, hands grabbing at the tapestry for stability but being met with something solid in its place. The so-believed tapestry was, in fact, a door of some sort -- the exit, perhaps, and the thought of Lisa’s proximity to it caused his face to fall, countenance slipping from breathless exuberance to drunken sadness. 

““Wait... Are you leaving? Oh, no. Lisa, please don’t leave. I... I always get so scared that you’ll leave me without saying goodbye. You leaving me is my biggest fear.” He needed her to know that this wasn’t just the alcohol talking, that this truly was his perennial dread, the one thing he’d always failed to tell her even when her face, her very presence, was a constant reminder. It was his secret, one not even MIchael or Terry had managed to drag out of him. With a defiance only liquid courage could give, his legs folded to the ground and he sat squarely in front of the door before exclaiming, “I...I’ll plant myself right here if it means you’ll stay!” 

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

☁ TRUTH: Who here would you most like to make out with? or ⚡DARE: Perform your best rendition of Dancing Queen

His body goes angular at the question, the warmth from the alcohol no longer coloring his cheeks with rosy giddiness, but suddenly burning down his throat with every swallow. Of course it’s bloody Finnigan who asks such a humiliating question, though, he supposes, it’s just the name of the game. For a moment, Anthony’s thoughts warm to the idea of saying, “Michael.” He can picture the moment now, the curve of a smirk at his lips, not because it’s true – that would be the farthest thing from it, really – but because he’s too curious for his own good and wants to know just how far Seamus would go when caught between Michael and Michael’s best friend.

He decides against it, reasoning with himself that, as much as he’d like to know the answer, it’s just not worth the black eye or bruised lip. A separate corner of his mind, one lost to hiding and denial, argues that he only thought something so ludicrous to distract him from the real matter at hand: He doesn’t have an answer.

Anthony’s learned by now, from those halcyon days turned nightmare nights with Mandy, that love, infatuation, and all those supposedly wonderful feelings, only left you on the losing side in one way or another. Even with the free flow of alcohol, the giddy smiles, the silly games and playful questions, there was still a war looming overhead, and the meager amount of Firewhiskey he’d had wasn’t enough to get him to forget that. The rage and ache at the very thought wouldn’t allow it.

Instead, Anthony closes his eyes for a moment as he attempts to deduce the best candidate, clinging hard to his analytical penchant when the question deserves an answer rooted in something instinctual. Were rage and reading truly the only natural things left in him?

He resolves to say the name of the first person he sees when he opens his eyes again. “Ernie,” he finally replies, and swallows it down with a rather large gulp of Firewhiskey. Anthony can only hope that the boy won’t be upset at hearing his name hang off his lips, and that the amber liquid is enough to wash away the moment.

[marchofwarhq-blog]

Below the cut is an ask meme for our Slytherin party event. This is a bit different than a typical ask meme, so here’s how it will work:

Reblog this post to participate (you can still send things to other people if you don’t participate yourself).

Send a maximum of one symbol to each person who reblogs, so no one gets flooded with more than they can write. 

Unlike typical ask memes, the content of these replies will be considered just as “real” as a normal thread. 

For this reason, event memes do count towards activity. 

We also want to be careful with god-modding here, since anything you send someone is an actual event that will be happening. If you haven’t already discussed it, please shoot a quick message before sending a meme in order to make sure the other player is down with the idea / hasn’t already gotten too many of that same symbol. 

These memes can serve as starters for threads if you wish ! Just make sure you copy & paste the first reply into a new post rather than reblogging the original ask. 

They can also be short if you’d like — they’re meant to allow for quick, fun interactions like one would have at a party. Although if you’d prefer to go deeper into it, that’s fine too !

Keep reading

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

mcndys·: 

Hogwarts has a lack of privacy that makes Mandy want to break out of the damn castle. Not to say that she doesn’t love being seen – she definitely does, because why else would she spend one extra hour in the Great Hall every morning? – but it’s discomforting to know that the only time she’s isolated is when she’s in the fucking bathroom. But in the moments after dinner and before curfew, she finds solitude in the walk back to the Ravenclaw Tower from the Owlery after sending a letter to her parents. To her dismay, it was short-lived, as more and more people came into her view by the time she entered the Ravenclaw Common Room. A total of two minutes must’ve passed as she dropped off her coat on her bed and slipped back out of the Common Room, barely stopping to greet some of her housemates. 

She didn’t have to think about where to go instead. It was a last resort option, one that she swore she’d stop taking but has yet to do so in the past three years. Perhaps it was selfish of her to take advantage of a hideaway place that was discovered by somebody else who had shown it to her in confidence. Though every inch of that room reminded her of him, it left a hollow hole in her heart that refused to be filled. It was harder in the beginning, when she had drifted apart from Anthony, and Mandy would spend hours in the secret room he had kept for them – back when the hardest pill she had to swallow was seeing him everyday, when all she wanted was to go back in time and Obliviate their last fight from her mind. Gradually, she learned to deal with it, but she could never stop herself from avoiding the old tapestry. She always went once a week, when she was positive he was busy. Tonight would be breaking the routine in an impulsive move, yet she couldn’t bring herself up to go anywhere else.

It felt like a wave of relief washing over her, when she stepped inside without being seen by anyone else. Her shoulders relaxed, and she exhaled a deep breath she didn’t realize she was holding, from the comfort this room gave her. Naturally, Mandy found herself gliding towards the grand piano in the middle of the room, the tips of her fingers lightly tapping against a few keys. It didn’t take long until she abruptly ceased her movements, his presence already making himself known before she could even look him – she always did know how to recognize him without regarding the obvious. From the sound of his footsteps, to the change of aroma in the room. It was him, him, him.

Bracing herself, Mandy forced herself to swallow the goddamn pill before averting her gaze from the piano to him. “Hi, Anthony.” His name never felt so foreign on her lips, but he was wearing an expression she had never seen on him before with a tone that stung more than she’d like to admit. “Sorry, I wanted to go somewhere quiet, so I came here. I’ll just leave,” she spoke quietly, slightly caught off guard by his demeanor. She made it as far as where he was standing, until she stopped and turned her head to face him, unable to keep her emotions and curiosity at bay. “I… I know it’s not really my place to ask, but are you alright? You seem a little different.”

Anthony wondered, in the nature of lovers and dreamers who’d lost both inclinations, if he still would have stepped foot into the room had he known he’d be walking into history. When was the last time the two of them were here, together? Hell, when was the last time they had spoken more than two words to each other, out of desire rather than their affected courtesy? 

He canted his head to the side, teeth biting the side of his lip to keep unnecessary words from spilling out. There was too much tension already, what with Michael and the upcoming DA meeting, and now there was Mandy, his own personal memory on legs. Inescapably, his thoughts drifted to when he measured time in the context of another, days and nights belonging to her, to the both of them and their doomed little love affair. They had been children -- still were -- but the halcyon days of then felt so damn far from the warring nights of now.

Hi, Anthony.

Christ, he could have shattered at that alone. It was a reminder of gentler times: soft words whispered into each others’ ears, tender kisses grazing eyelashes -- moments filled with an innocence that just begged the world to tarnish it. When she brushed past him, seemingly on her way out, he was pulled from his reverie, thoughts no longer lingering on the past they shared

“No. No, that wouldn’t be fair. I came here after you, and...the piano’s more your thing than mine.” The words tumbled out solemnly, each one a new pain he swore he wouldn’t show, his jaw tightening itself in the process. When she asked after him, Anthony made his way further into the room, despite knowing that the right thing to do was to apologize for the intrusion and simply leave. But, of course, he couldn’t just leave. There was a familiarity here that he couldn’t just let go of, not when it presented itself so firmly in front of his eyes, like a fever dream come to life when life had been too difficult to deal with. 

He stared at the bookcase, the thin layer of dust on the ebony shelves a stark contrast to what had once been there: books of love poems and stacks of photographs, the perfect portrait of childhood infatuation. All too quickly, he responded, “I’m fine.” His shoulders raised and tensed as they always did when he lied. “There’s just a lot going on.” Anthony sighed, and turned away from the bookshelf to regard her, properly this time, now that his surprise at the sight of her wouldn’t color his words so razor-edged, as it had when he first stepped into the room. “You don’t have to...pretend to care, you know. You don’t owe me anything.”

[terrywboot-blog]

Character Posters: Ravenclaw – part 3 ( part 1 | part 3 )

“ You hit me with words I never heard Come out your mouth To be honest I don’t want it, no; As long as I wake up today You can’t take my youth away. “

@anthonygcldstein // @michaelscorner // @terrywboot

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

michaelscorner·:

Time: 14 October, evening Location: Room of Requirement Status: for @anthonygcldstein·

There was always something to be making up for: missing assignments, careless words thrown across the common room, laughs too loud in the library during silent hours. Lately, though, Michael’s transgressions seemed to be reaching new and terrible heights. First came Megan in September, then the incident with Sophie early in the week, and, of course, there was Anthony. The elephant in the room – or the Ravenclaw boys dormitory, as it were. 

It’s just the three of us now. Anthony’s words continued to haunt Michael through the halls, and, damn, he hated when Anthony was right. The cold shoulder was one thing, but this was different; a frost that permeated every space the two of them shared, exacerbated by their missing housemates and empty beds; three where there should be five. Maybe that’s why he did it, why Michael spent ten fucking days anywhere between cooly indifferent to outright hostile towards Anthony – because he would have to feel it, and Terry too, by association. And god knows how Michael loves to really drive his point home.

But he could only avoid the inevitable for so long. The Room of Requirement opened easily – too easily, like it was all but fucking waiting for him – and Michael stepped in with barely-concealed caution, galleon in hand in case anyone questioned his presence. No one did. No one gave him so much as a second glance, even the familiar faces, and maybe that made it worse. It definitely made it worse. The fact that Michael was there at all was damn near a miracle, and no one dared to bat a fucking eye. Except Anthony. Michael couldn’t miss the way he went stiff as their gazes passed each other; two headlights searching in the fog.

Time moved slowly, then all at once. Before Michael realised the younger years were shuffling out to their next classes, followed swiftly by the sixth and then seventh years. He blinked again and it was just the two of them: Anthony bent over some scattered flyers and Michael hovering in the corner, like a misbehaving dog waiting for its punishment. No. Michael was not the one in the wrong here – and, yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was. If Anthony was the one who needed atoning, why had finally coming to a DA meeting felt like such an admission?

Before too much of this short-lived courage could leave him, Michael closed the distance between them. “This isn’t –” Deep breaths. Michael readjusted the strap of his bag. “This isn’t, like, an apology, or a concession, or whatever, okay?” It certainly felt like one.

Like the flame that never expected a moth to relish in its quiet burning, Anthony flickered and tensed once his eyes rested on Michael, gazes meeting each other not in a show of dominance or antagonism but confusion, anger, and hurt burning at both ends. He supposed that somehow, somewhere, this was the natural consequence of their relationship. There was something uncommonly tumultuous stitched into their friendship, disagreements cropping up like growing pains, and yet they still found themselves bound by something not quite knowable, but simply inevitable.

For a time, Anthony believed this inevitability was their own form of respect, the shared feelings of a (mostly) harmless envy that fed mutual admiration. The ability to recognize the person past their propositions, the desire to stand by your brother despite the bickering. It didn’t take him long to latch onto Michael, all those years ago, with the world simple and quiet and simultaneously at their feet and leagues ahead. The innocence of that time instilled the belief that nothing but the world itself, desperate and clawing, could tear them apart.

And when the world did start going to shit -- although, Anthony was inclined to believe the world had always been that way; everyone was just starting to pay attention -- his grasp on Michael, and Terry, and for a time Mandy, as well, tightened. This, too, was inevitable; in times of uncertainty and war, a loosened hand was another way of saying goodbye without really knowing it. And he resolved to never let go of those who held pieces of his heart, his mind -- anything he could offer, really -- even when they reached out for someone else, something else. Equal part selfless and self-sabotage, that was how he made his way in the world, only ever acknowledging the former and realizing the latter once it was too late. Again, inevitable.

Still, Anthony never prepared himself for the other possibility, one that he’d never dreamed could exist as reality, despite the warning signs. What happened when one, or both of them, chose to walk away? 

He didn’t know the answer, but he knew that it rested somewhere in the space between them, the arm’s-length distance filled only with uncomfortable silence and the hollowed-out remains of their friendship. Truly, Anthony wasn’t sure if he should present his anger so openly to the other boy or deal him the same icy hand he’d been dealt throughout the week. Winning a fight wasn’t worth it if it resulted in this all over again, but that didn’t negate the fact that he still needed to be seen, to be heard -- properly this time, without the threat of tears or frustration getting the better of both of them, no prying eyes or eager ears, just two boys in search of an understanding.

Then again, was it even worth baring your soul to someone whose sentiment over the past week was, ‘fuck you’?

It was another question without a known answer, and he hated it. The unknowable had a way of weighing down decisions, of making him impatient at his own inability to decide, of frustrating him to no end, of shifting uncomfortably as his thoughts began spinning out of control, of -- breathe, you idiot. Calm down.

It was some time before he responded, mentally steeling himself against the anxieties at bay as his fingers fiddled with the flyers and notebooks in his hand. Coolly, he asked, unable to help himself from taking a swipe, “Still being a twat, then? At least you’re consistent.”

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

WHEN: 13 October 1997, after dinner

WHERE: secret room behind a tapestry, Ravenclaw Tower

WHO: for @mcndys​

The aftermath of Michael and Anthony’s fight was too sudden to be coincidental, too unfamiliar to be unnoticed, too much to be nothing at all, and Anthony turned away from the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower in an act of quiet defiance, unwilling to be met with harsh glances and icy words from both his possibly former friend and their fellow Ravenclaws. There were so few hiding places in Hogwarts where Michael’s hostility couldn’t reach, not when their little trio had spent the better part of seven years uncovering the camouflaged corners of the castle. Still, his feet dragged him away and further down the corridor, fingers grazing over the spaces in between portraits before they rested on the stray fibers of an ancient tapestry. The hideaway it sheathed had once been reserved for two young -- well, not quite lovers, but not quite friends, either (and certainly no longer) -- and he entered the chamber with an ease that could only be gained from believing one was alone.

Anthony’s joints seemed to sharpen and protrude as soon as he settled in the surreptitious room, the hair on his arms standing up in a mix of surprise when his assumption -- his hope, really -- proved false. It wasn’t the girl’s form that alerted him to her presence, but the aroma that filled the room. It was one he’d lost himself in for days on end, the harmony of her scent committed to his memory, now damn near assaulting his senses as he took another step into the room despite everything in his body telling him to turn back. He had no reason to be afraid -- the silhouette of the girl told him as much, though with the distance that now existed between them, perhaps safety wasn’t the wisest assumption to make. 

“Mandy?” The name was a lump in his throat, one he’d been trying to both swallow down and spit out ever since they parted, left ignored and cast aside along with the memories he held of their past. Feeling no other choice, he fixed his gaze on the girl as he asked, more unceremonious than he’d intended, “What’re you doing here?”

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

lisaturpins·:  

“Weaker? Bold words, Anthony; better be sure you can back them up. I’d hate to have to take care of your sloppy ass.” Lisa couldn’t keep a straight face at the thought; someone like her calling someone like him sloppy? Was one for the books.Her eyebrow shot up when he downed the shot she’d been keeping as a necklace (it was clever, for fuck’s sake), an amused smile curling her lips upward. “My, my, drinking on the job, Prefect Goldstein?” Her ribbing was good-natured; Lord knew she understood the need for the occasional drink. “Mmmm—-right, fine, come here then. If you do it with anyone other than me, you’d probably set the tower on fire; but I learned from Aberforth Dumbledore himself; he’s so much more than that nasty goat scandal, you know? Now, it’d be a bit better if we had some cinnamon, really makes a show, but I didn’t come prepared for that—” By now, she’s transfigured a few things in her bag into a shot glass, a pint glass, and a plate, taking her lighter out, “But this’ll do. Now, you drink when I say, all right? And try not to catch that little bit of peach fuzz you’ve got on fire.”

“Something tells me I won’t get in trouble with at least one of the Prefects,” Anthony offers in explanation, though even he knows that it’s all too easy to walk into the trap Lisa set out for him because the game is one he’s laid out for himself. With days spent spiraling into worry and concentration under the conceit of duty, Anthony can’t help but grab at the chance of something freeing, with no consideration to any dangers down this path, blindly believing that he’ll rise above it all. 

“Aberforth Dumbledore? Strange bloke, he is, but if you say so...” His voice trails off as he watches the items transform, temporarily transfixed by what is not exactly impressive magic, but a delightful scene nonetheless -- if only for the simple fact that there’s something intimate about it, preserved in their would-be sibling bond that, for a singular moment, feels almost untouchable. Almost. “Is this what having a sister’s like?” He muses aloud, raising the second smallest bottle up to the light as though he hasn’t memorized its color by now. There’s a defined excitement in his words, spilling out into one of those rare smiles only those closest to him ever manage to wrangle out. “Oh, get on with it already! Show me some magic, Lis’.”

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

rvncorns·:  

There was something he found perplexing about Anthony Goldstein and Noah knew that it lay within how steadfast he held himself. Where Noah existed between shades of grey, never here nor there in opinions or views, the world seemed staunchly black and white for the other. There was something enviable about that – being able to wholeheartedly back something without any hesitation or afterthought. The idea of ever reaching that point himself seemed far away, tenuous and ungraspable.

His own moral compass spun in circles: he was scared and selfish and more often than not did that affect his judgement and decisions. The good of others was less important so long as he ended up where he wanted. Fright can cause man to do awful things and Noah had never been an exception. Now, though, more than ever, some of his decisions had begun to cause an ache to settle within him. It was guilt and regret that ate away at him, only causing his doubts and misgivings to grow.

He listened as Anthony spoke, more conscious of his tone ( the certainty, the surety of it all ) than anything else; his expression was cautiously blank while Anthony prattled on. 

“Careful there, Goldstein,” his voice was measured, even, “You might want to be quiet about your extracurriculars. Some people might not take to kindly to hearing about them.” In just a few words, Anthony had all but owned up to being a part of Dumbledore’s Army. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional, but Noah’s eyes glanced towards the head table to see if anyone had caught interest in their conversation. “But I’m glad you all are so pleased with your abilities to provoke certain people.” 

“And of course I know that, but tell me: who here is looking for glory? All I’ve seen lately is your lot seeking trouble, but what’s to be expected?” He shook his head. “You’re following the lead that Potter set.”

“And them? –” Again, he found himself looking towards the Carrows. Once he was certain they were paying the pair of them no mind, he turned to Anthony once more. “They’re setting examples. They don’t need fame or any of it. They already know where they stand.”

Anthony found himself almost taken aback by what he was sure to be smugness intertwined in Noah’s words -- only almost, because it was all-too common knowledge that confidence was not a trait lacking in Slytherins, not when all of them paraded protection under the reign of the Carrows. He despised the lot of them, hated how they could walk around so freely while any other student from any other house was forced to tiptoe around a school that should have been home, each step halfway between a cry for mercy and a sprint towards safety.

The lanky boy didn’t need to follow the other’s gaze to know who he was referring to, and instead chose to narrow his gaze on the other, retorting, “Worried that you’ll be associated with us, Runcorn? In your case, I reckon getting your arse handed to you by the Carrows would actually do you some good.” It was a pointed deflection, and he knew it -- but more than that, his allegiance was clear from the start of Dumbledore’s Army. No threat or terror would ever make him renounce it, and he refused to explain his extracurriculars to a Slytherin, of all students. 

The lead that Potter set. He could have scoffed at the insinuation, but Noah’s words weren’t inherently wrong at face value. At its start, DA was rebellion in its finest form, students taking control of their education when the institution set in place had wronged them so violently. The changes between then and now didn’t lie in their methods of response at the continual breaking of bonds of trust. Rather, it was in the cries and sobs that echoed off the Room of Requirement’s walls with each list of innocents newly missing or captured, silence falling upon them only when the dead were pronounced. Dumbledore’s Army wasn’t just an off-the-books extracurricular; it was a family strewn together by their collective, continuous breaking, shoulders molded by supporting each others’ heads, tears forming bandages over irreparable damage. Nothing was quite a permanent fix, but for now, it was all they had.

Without invitation, Anthony sat down across from Noah, as if to challenge any ideal he may have held that Slytherins were untouchable. “If they knew exactly where they stood, they wouldn’t feel the need to continuously prove themselves to their Dark Lord. It’s not enough for them to thrive on causing terror. They need the validation from him, too. Or else... They’d become just as insignificant as you and your House seem to think everyone else is. Some values you've got over here, huh?” 

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

sophierropers·: 

His STRANGE tone confused her for a moment, her brows furrowing together as she processed it - then it clicked - what Anthony must’ve been thinking. He wouldn’t know how ironic it was, considering how little she really knew of Stephen. ( and besides, she was pretty sure she wasn’t his type ) “I… No, me and Stephen… Aren’t together. We’ve just been study partners since third year. It’s never been like that.” She assured him, as though it would’ve been WRONG for her to be dating someone else. Her and Terry had been broken up for a little while, surely she was allowed to date someone else ( besides, she did have someone on her mind, who absolutely was not stephen ) but that didn’t matter. Sophie wasn’t keen on dating with the way things were right now.  She wouldn’t blame Anthony for his awkwardness on the matter. It was commendable, in a way. The honour and loyalty he held for Terry was something she appreciated. “Sorry if this is ah, a weird request but… Could you maybe… Tell Terry I’d still like to be friends with him? He seems to try and avoid me and… I don’t want that. I care about him a lot, still.” Always will. There was something irreplaceable about a FIRST LOVE. Terry would always be important to her, and she wanted to keep a relationship with him. She didn’t expect for them to be best friends, or as close as they once were, but she’d still like to be his friend - if that wasn’t too much to ask.  “Classes and the duties are alright.” No, they weren’t. But it would  be silly to think otherwise. As if their seventh year wasn’t designed to be difficult enough. But Sophie could pretend. Not every conversation she had needed to be depressing, did it? “I guess my biggest problem right now is I don’t know what I wanna do when-” if “-I get out of here… I wanted to be a Cursebreaker for a while, but I didn’t get all the right NEWT’s for that… What about you?” 

He hated how damn awkward this whole conversation was, how he struggled to find the right words and ask the right questions, and how his lack of elocution stemmed not from ignorance or disdain for the girl sat near him, but distance. Sophie and he had been friends once -- or, something close enough to it. Some part of their history involved two people with enough comfort between them that they could sit in silence and find it as natural as a conversation, no hesitant questions or comments laced with nerves or tension. Anthony was certain there was some balance to be found, some even footing between his position between Sophie and Terry, but the tightrope waned thinner with every broken exchange of conversation, a self-imposed distance leaving him knowing veritably nothing.  “Right, of course,” he started, waving a bashful hand through the air as though it waved away his faux-pas. “I suppose I’ve been paying more attention to my own house than the other ones. Trying to make sure everyone’s doing alright.”

At the mention of Terry, Anthony’s eyes flickered from the girl to the table, returning back and forth every so often before sinking his teeth into his lip in thought, tensing lightly before realizing her request. Privately, he was glad -- no, thankful -- that Sophie was the one to bring him up, to break the silence on the topic that hung above their heads, looming with history and anticipation.  “Not a weird request at all, Soph,” Anthony offered with a nod, debating whether or not he should speak more on the topic, but knowing he’d regret it if he didn’t. “I, erm... I know it’s not really my place to say, but I actually think that’d be amazing. For you, for him -- for anyone around him, really.” A chuckle braced his words. “Might get him to say more than three words at a time.”

The maturity and respect Sophie held over the matter was truly admirable, almost enviable when he considered his own struggle to accept the new reality of a flame long burnt-out. Thoughts of Mandy and Wayne clouded his mind for a moment, threatening to become a chain of negativity before Sophie’s voice brought him back down to his reality. The topic of classes was something contained, something he could control -- school provided a sanctuary of sorts even despite the looming threats overhead. “Cursebreaker, eh? Dangerous stuff.” Even more dangerous now. “I’ve always been really good with creatures, so I was considering something in that field. Maybe go for Hagrid’s job when he retires.” Or worse. “Although, working to effect change within the Ministry sounds pretty damn appealing these days, too.”

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

michaelscorner‌:

Cold washes over him before Anthony finishes speaking, stomping out the flames that licked at his veins and sent his heart stuttering forward. Every muscle in his body relaxes. His hand, curled into a fist seconds ago, lays flat and limp on the table. All the air in his lungs tumbles out in one exhale, and Michael swears he’s hallucinating, because there’s no way – no fucking way Anthony just said what he heard. He wouldn’t dare. Michael’s vision funnels down to a point; he barely hears what Anthony says next; his pleas die in the air before they can even reach Michael’s ears. He doesn’t listen. He can’t.

Michael should be livid. Instead, he just feels hollow. His mouth runs dry and the world around them starts to swim, everything except Anthony and the fucking flyer under his hand falls away. He looks at his best friend – his brother – and it’s like blinking underwater; all the pieces are there, the shapes and angles and even the smell of him, but blurred, until Michael can no longer understand what – or who – he’s looking at. Is this who Anthony is now? On some level, Michael knows this is who he’s always been, but Anthony never been so hard to recognise. 

He wants to blame the lines of rage on Anthony’s face; his harsh voice and terrible words that come pouring out of his mouth. Michael doesn’t want to blame himself, doesn’t want to let himself think for even a second that Anthony is justified in his accusations, because he’s not and Michael isn’t convinced he understands the weight of what he just said. Nothing that comes after matters. His thoughts flick back to Noah. The fucking irony of it all is not lost on him. Slowly, feeling returns to his fingers, and then his chest, but they’re shot through with ice. 

“Fuck you, Anthony.” Michael’s voice is flat, detached, and maybe that makes it worse. He feels like he should be crying, but nothing comes; no release, only profound emptiness. “Fuck you for even suggesting that, and fuck you for being so goddamn self-righteous. You don’t get to decide whose life is worth more than yours. You don’t get to – ” He wants to look away. Fuck, he wants to run and never look back, but every muscle in his body is frozen. “I’m not going to watch you justify making yourself into martyr, because there is none. I just won’t.”

Fuck you, Anthony.

They’re words he’s only ever heard Michael say in jest, under the protection of competing test scores or the intoxication of Firewhisky, with a silly, stupid grin on his face and the gleam of mischief in his eyes. Spoken like this, however, they’re warring words that can’t be unsaid, three words that take them from two friends on opposite sides of an argument, to two boys on shaky ground in an increasingly destabilizing world.

He’s always thought they were quite alike in form, sharing the image of long limbs and a penchant for wit and wonder, but it was clear that they had been stitched with different virtues, each one excelling in different facets of goodness. Now, Michael’s words make him understand that their sins are different, too. Anthony was too sophisticated to be savage, too refined to be rough; unlike Michael, he couldn’t force meaning behind an insult as a means of retaliation. They’re playing a game of opposites, one that Anthony refuses to win if it means throwing daggers into the heart of his – possibly former – best friend. 

Suddenly, whatever words he’s allowed to leave his tongue feel too harsh and biting to swallow back down, and his conscience is weighed down by his own poison, mind bubbling with questions and accusations he forces to keep unsaid. It’s an exercise in self-control, and he knows that whatever patience he has is slipping out of reach, threatening to spill over into a quivering bottom lip and watery eyes. He’s angry. Outraged, even, and disappointed, too, but none of that compares to how goddamn overwhelming it is to be so alone in a sea of friends, in the house of his family through magic, and, most importantly, in front of his brother. Were he someone else, it would be all too tempting to turn the finger towards Michael, to curse at him, storm off, and never look back.

But he’s not someone else. He’s Anthony Goldstein, and he keeps marching on even when the walls cave in, when the earth begins to quake – when his best friend speaks his worst fear into existence and all but leaves him in the dust.

He doesn’t know how to be ice like Michael, how to be so in command of his fears and anger that he’s reduced to the cold of spiteful stares and unforgivable words, but he does his best impression in an effort to seem unbroken by the events that have transpired. “Maybe you’re right, Michael.” The words are spoken like a concession but without any of the truth, and he knows both his next question and its answer even before the words leave his lips. “After all, what possible reason would anyone have to risk their life over someone so hateful?” 

His feet take him away from the other boy, things gathered in hand and the fragments of a friendship left scattered in the space between them. He’s leaving without being fully committed to the act, and stops at the stairwell leading up to the boy’s dormitories when he thinks he’s out of Michael’s sight. It’s the only kind of ending the boy could ever tolerate when it comes to those closest to him – not a period, just another goddamn comma, but when his tears begin to fall, Anthony can’t help but wonder if this truly is the end.

[anthonygcldstein-blog]

lisaturpins:

Lisa can read the emotions on Anthony’s face as he speaks, but the apologetic slant of his shoulders takes her a moment to truly understand—that it is her he’s apologizing to, her he thinks he’d insulted. Truthfully, she tries her best to view herself as wholly separate from her upbringing (a can of worms that she knows she cannot ignore forever, but will ignore for now), but even then, at his words she can’t help but still, fingers fidgeting as they reach into her pocket to play with her lighter. He gives her too much credit, she thinks. She is not like her family, like the life she left behind, but—-but she is not untainted from her origins, she fears, and there are moments—-particularly when Anthony is looking at her with such pride and affection—that she feels, somehow, like a fraud. “I try,” is all she can manage to reply, not one to ever want to give in to the sentimentality of a moment. She does try; it is all any of them can do, she guesses.

 She glances around the common room, avoiding his eyes as words come up she does not want to delve into. Addiction. Function. Coping. Were it anyone but Anthony bringing this up, her rage would flare unchecked against them—-or she’d do what she could to turn the tables on them, shine a spotlight on their own failings (except Sally-Anne, but Lisa does not think the other girl would ever say this to her—no, only Anthony is bold enough to do so and know he can get out unscathed). “It’s not as serious as all that, Anthony,” She shrugs off his concerns, “We all have our things.” She is not worried about him confiscating her stash; she can get more, and she will, if she has to. “Well, if you’re not going to let me keep it, then I hope those rounds made you thirsty, because Lisa Turpin does not condone the waste of quality liquor.” She leans forward, eyes shining with fondness, and a bit of teasing, “C’mon, Goldstein, it’s been forever.”

The atmosphere is too sentimental for the two of them, too much of what Lisa detests and what Anthony normally shies away from, and the they fall into the safety of silence between friends, letting the moment pass. We all have our things, she says, in a blanket statement that he refuses to let envelop him. “Do we?” He muses, failing to realize his own. (Silly boy, doesn’t the weight pressing on your lungs tell you something?) It’s obvious, really, even despite the non-traditional nature of his coping mechanisms. It’s the way he piles on responsibilities and shoulders other’s burdens, or how he’s too drawn to the dangerous and broken to realize when he’s in too deep – they’re all there, masquerading as a point of prides because there’s so little left in the world he can claim as his own.

“Yes, and it’s been forever for a reason,” the boy rationalizes, though it doesn’t escape him that his grip has just tightened on the small vial of Firewhisky he examined earlier. Anthony’s mouth curves into something that implies there’s more to come, his mind foggily revisiting a birthday party he can remember the start of, but certainly not the middle or the end – the best bits, Michael and Terry often remind him. He raises the vial to his nose, the strong cinnamon scent sending his nostrils abuzz with warmth. “It smells weaker than I remember.” It’s a bold statement from a boy who hasn’t had the drink in months. He can’t deny that there’s something intoxicating to the amber liquid, something that propels him to bring the vial to his mouth and down its contents in one go. “Blimey,” Anthony manages to say through a few coughs, as the drink sends all manner of feeling and warmth coursing through his body, electricity pumping his veins with something akin to courage. The words tumble out of his mouth before Anthony can stop them, the particular blend of thirst and mischief making way for an eager question that surprises even him. “I’ve never done it before, but… Isn’t the true way to drink this by lighting it on fire? A backdraft, I think they call it.”