Niche crossovers, niche ships, niche character interpretations. If you're looking for absurd amounts of effort and zero curb appeal, you've come to the right place. AO3. FFN.
finished the first set of revisions for the second chapter of my enstars novel !! here's a preview to celebrate:
“Lower your voice before someone hears you,” Eichi practically pleads.
His friend-turned-enemy sneers. “You didn’t seem too concerned about being overheard when you asked this vermin about demons.” He practically gnashes his jaws at Rei.
“Vermin?” Rei repeats, clearly pleased with this development. He leans back on the mahogany desk, ignoring the garnet-upholstered chair on the other side of it. “And before we’ve ever had a drink together. What a presumptuous lad you are.”
“We’re too young to drink!” Keito shrieks. “This is the company you keep, Eichi?! A boy who encourages underage drinking?”
finished the first set of revisions for the second chapter of my dragon age crossover novel ! chose a description my friend liked of the antivan villa as a preview to celebrate:
The servants put their all into preparing the drawing room for the visitors. Fruit bowls adorn every table in the room, each so overfull it’s a wonder there aren’t grapes and mangoes rolling across the floors. The white and blue basketweave tiles have been scrubbed to a gloss, and the jacquard-woven rug is so fluffy and deep that it holds the indents of his footprints in the places he stepped. Another wooden table sits atop the rug, bearing an ornate coffee pitcher and gold-rimmed cups. Behind the table is one of the estate’s crowning pieces: the gold-threaded and tasseled sofa with its cobalt pillows, reserved for special guests like the ones who will be occupying it today.
August 2029
Dear Jihyun,
It isn’t Christmas this time, but I had the thought that I should write you a letter anyway, because I don’t want you to forget everything we talked about at lunch last week. Talking to them about business will be the easiest thing you’ve ever done. It’s when they want to talk to you about things like how much they love you even though they have done nothing to prove it that the conversations become difficult. Before I impart my valuable advice on you once again, though, I do have to complain that I still don’t understand why you’re approaching them for help. Whatever they have to offer you, I can find it faster, secure it better, and pay higher for it. But you’ve always been a stubborn one.
Summary: After a particularly difficult performance, fine celebrates with sundaes. Keito finds out and has an unexpected problem with it.
Status: Complete
Wataru is stretching his quads by the mirror when an angry student council vice president storms into fine's dance rehearsal, flanked by the little princess who looks at once smug and distraught, and the butler, of course, following not far behind.
"Hibiki!" Keito bursts with a force that could perhaps shatter the glass of the academy's gym if he really put some effort into it.
"Ah, the right hand man!" Wataru greets him. straightening up from his lunge.
"Oh, you're here for Wataru?" Eichi asks, sounding relieved (a little traitorous of him!). "I thought I was about to be lectured."
If he were here for you, Eichi, our princess wouldn't be looking so pleased with himself, Wataru thinks, but he doesn't say it, because that would shatter Eichi's illusion that his intuition is magical.
"Oh, you're next, don't you worry," Keito sneers at him and Eichi pouts, folding his arms.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Wataru asks sweetly, which is befitting for what he's pretty sure he's in trouble for this time, unless one of the many, many booby trap pranks he has set up in the student council room went off. According to Eichi, mere possession of ice cream is expressly contraband, and consumption is practically a federal offence. But Wataru knew Eichi wouldn't be the one to take the fall, despite the right hand's empty promises, and he can hold his own just fine against such a non-threat.
"It's apparent you've made a full commitment to living up to your title of Masked Pervert," Keito begins his scolding, pushing his glasses up and marching over to Wataru to stand within what he assumes Keito would consider to be an intimidating distance, but not so close that he has to be over-aware the two of them are breathing the same air.
"I admit I favour the Masked Freak translation, myself," Wataru counters, and motions a hand to set up his levitation trick. This is going to be a long conversation, and there's nowhere else to sit but the floor.
"Stop doing that!" Keito demands. "Your exhibitionism is incorrigible!"
"Ah, but isn't it so impressive how he casually breaks the fourth wall?" Eichi defends him, earning a glare of his own.
"No it is not!" Keito insists. It's apparent he's made a full commitment to never having fun or letting anyone else have fun ever.
"Do tell me more about my exhibitionism," Wataru tries not to roll his eyes, returning to the subject. It's fun to be lectured by Keito for things he actually does to Keito. Less so to be lectured for ruining Eichi's life and health and et cetera because he suggested getting ice cream and Eichi agreed.
Keito stares at him and for a moment seems at a loss. Anger and disgust twist his lips and wrinkle his nose, and Wataru can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to find words for the repulsive and audacious acts he's about to punish Wataru for, which is... slightly confusing, actually? Is Eichi lactose intolerant or something?
No, that's impossible. He drinks milk tea just fine.
Finally, Keito parts his lips.
"You ordered him an aphrodisiac sundae."
"What?" Eichi bursts into giggles, and Wataru says, "I beg your pardon?" before he can think of a witty reply.
"You heard me the first time," Keito folds his arms, pushing his glasses up carefully with one hand, but Wataru wishes Keito would for once care to answer someone else's wish because the words that just came out of his mouth are too ridiculous to comprehend.
Not wanting to appear too confused to the audience, he clears his throat. "I must confess I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." Well. At least it sounds rehearsed.
"Chocolate," Keito hisses. "A full-fat chocolate sundae with brownies and hot fudge, you debaucherous loon."
He can't possibly be serious.
But Wataru has never known the right hand to have a sense of humour.
He wants to shoot Eichi a panicked glance but he might as well just throw himself in the trash if he's going to be that much of a traitor to his act.
The right hand has left him with no choice but to... find some way to play along.
But his brain is like an old TV with scrambled signal.
"What a sad life you must lead then," Wataru offers weakly before his mind finally latches on to Willy Wonka, and he pushes that energy forth with as much force as he can muster. "A world in which chocolate is reserved only for those who are depraved enough to taste it! I take it the good right hand has never indulged in the pleasure?"
"That's completely different," Keito fumes as if expecting Wataru to understand.
"If I recall correctly," Wataru goes on. "Does our very own Yumenosaki Academy not honour the day of our old Saint Valentine with festivities involving idols handing chocolate directly to our fans~? Ah, it's a seminary of temptresses! You could call it an orgy, even!"
"Enough, Hibiki!" Keito shouts, and Wataru sneaks a casual glance at Tori, who, to his relief, looks just as lost as Wataru feels. "That isn't the same at all and you know why."
"I fear the Right Hand overestimates my talents," Wataru casts his gaze to the wood floor sadly. "Unfortunately, incredible though I am, I am simply a magician, not a psychic. So please, do enlighten us." He gestures dramatically to the little princess, taking advantage of his bewilderment. "It appears the audience is struggling to follow this contrived plot."
Keito's face changes for a moment as he registers that Tori is still here, and he gives Yuzuru a pointed look. "Out, both of you."
Tori complains but looks relieved to scurry out of the room with his butler, and Wataru wishes a little that he could go with them. He's a touch too out of his depth to find this funny, although he's still possessed of enough faculties to know it's objectively hilarious.
"It's different," Keito seethes slowly once the other two have left the room, his teeth clenched and dutiful in their role of guarding his tongue. "Because Eichi's a slut."
"Keito?" Eichi shrieks, and grasps outward for anything nearby to hold onto before realizing there's nothing and falling into a cross-legged position on the floor, his entire body shaking with silent, incredulous laughter.
"Am I wrong, Eichi?" Keito challenges, but Eichi seems unable to breathe, and Wataru runs to his side.
"Look what you've done," Wataru reprimands Keito, feeling conflicted between guilt and smug gratification at for once being the one who gets to fret over how the other hand is affecting Eichi's health. "Are you all right, Eichi? Of course such preposterous assertions could result in episodes of laughter so all-consuming that even my lungs may not be able to handle it, and they are powerful, strong things!"
Eichi waves his hand desperately in Wataru's face before grabbing onto his arms and burying his nose in Wataru's shoulder, releasing a stream of hysterical sobs.
Keito is unmoved, planted firmly where he stands with his arms tightly crossed.
"See?" he points at their embrace accusingly.
"Ah - yes -" Eichi sputters. "H - how slutty of me -"
There seems to be more to Eichi's thought than that but he can't get it out between his gasps for air. Wataru actually is a little worried, grateful for the inhaler he keeps up his sleeve during their dance practices, but not quite concerned enough to bring it out yet.
"I assure you, Right Hand, I had no such deviant intentions," Wataru says, but the fact Keito would even accuse him of this makes firm that he'll never believe him. "I merely wanted to share a common celebratory delicacy with the precious members of my unit."
"Then why did you insist on ordering for him?" Keito retorts.
"That was for the humble reason that that sundae is my favourite item on the menu, and I thought Eichi would enjoy it," Wataru explains, absolutely certain now that, regardless of what anyone else says about him, he is the most patient person in the universe. The thought of trying to explain this situation to Rei nearly makes him shudder.
Eichi hiccups, his laughter subsiding, and at this point he's just hugging Wataru for the sake of making Keito feel justified, perhaps.
Wataru sighs.
"Can you get your hands off him?" Keito growls, and Wataru reluctantly levitates himself out of Eichi's arms.
"You're so mean, Keito," Eichi whines, and Keito presses his lips together.
"The two of you are absolutely exhausting," he declares.
"I think we have more of a right to be exhausted right now than you do, Keito," Eichi protests. "Everything you just said was so insane I felt like my heart was about to stop."
"I wish it did," he snaps.
"I must say," Wataru offers. "I'm impressed that someone who appears on the surface to be so straight-laced and predictable can be so full of surprises. You are truly a wonder to behold, Right Hand! In spite of my unflattering nickname that you so shrewdly brought up at the start of this conversation, even I could not have predicted that such a ludicrous and fantastic accusation would ever be made of me! Amazing!"
Eichi sighs, lying back on the floor and massaging his chest. "I think I prefer your surprises, Wataru."
"Don't say that," Wataru warns him. "I fear the imaginative and jealous sister-in-law will read all manner of innuendo into it..."
"Everything the both of you do or say is innuendo," Keito grumbles. "You can't convince me I'm crazy, everybody knows this."
"Touché," Wataru grants him. "But aphrodisiac sundaes are a bridge too far, even for the two of us, I'm afraid."
"Not Eichi," Keito snorts. "You're not off the hook, Hibiki. You know how he talks about food."
"To be fair, he probably assumes I'm being metaphorical," Eichi says, and Wataru is suddenly struck by the reminder that this room has two crazy people in it, not one, and that neither of them are him.
He licks his lip.
"Have you ever perhaps considered that your view of others' intentions is, ah, coloured by the people with whom you keep company?" Wataru suggests to Keito as politely as he can.
"That's a question to ask Eichi," Keito rolls his eyes, and Wataru is overcome by the urge to hit him with something. Something large and hard, preferably. (Is that what she said? Ugh, Keito's going to have his brain doing this all day...)
Some fights, you just can't win.
"Perhaps we should call the princess and his butler back in for our dance rehearsal now, Eichi?" Wataru suggests, and Eichi raises a hand toward the ceiling for a moment before letting it drop to his side.
"Ahh, I'm in no condition for a dance rehearsal now," he laments. "This is all your fault, Keito, you ruined our practice with your conspiracies... I can still oversee the rehearsal for the three of you, though, of course."
Eichi doesn't need to oversee their rehearsal, Wataru is definitely sufficient, but he knows Eichi just doesn't want to be left out and nods. "I shall go retrieve them, then!"
Keito opens his mouth, but Wataru disappears in a puff of smoke before he can throw him any further off his rhythm.
What did I get myself into? he wonders, not for the first time, but never for the reasons the Oddballs would expect.
Characters: Eichi Tenshouin, Wataru Hibiki, Tori Himemiya, Yuzuru Fushimi
Relationships: Eichi Tenshouin/Wataru Hibiki, Wataru Hibiki & fine
Links: AO3 | Second Chapter
Summary: After a particularly difficult performance, fine celebrates with sundaes. Keito finds out and has an unexpected problem with it.
Status: Complete
Notes: The first chapter is fluff and the second is humour - enjoy!
"My dear friends, would it be imposing upon your busy high-class lives overmuch to suggest that we celebrate with sundaes?" Wataru swivels on his heel to face the rest of them, posing the question so quickly after the curtain fell that Eichi has to pause and replay the words in his mind before he understood them.
Tori had asked fine for help creating an original dance for one of his classes, and after a whirlwind of complex rehearsals that challenged all four of them to climb a steep learning curve, Tori passed the assignment with flying colours. Eichi made the executive decision to incorporate the dance into fine's actual routine, and tonight they performed it together on a true stage for fans for the first time.
"After all, tomorrow we start dance practices again to prepare for the midsummer festival," Wataru points out, and Eichi looks to Tori, surprised to see his eyes are shining.
"A sundae would be a perfect reward for me," he boasts, doing a little twirl. "After all, someone as sweet and delightful as me can't be caught eating something bitter, or sour, or bland -"
He stops abruptly, gaze falling halfheartedly on Wataru. "Uhh, not that I want to do anything Long Hair suggested," he disclaims.
"But it sounds like you do want to, little princess," Wataru raises his eyebrows and Tori grimaces.
"The young master's tastes are troubling as always," Yuzuru sighs. "No matter how lovingly and faithfully I prepare your meals, toiling for hours to ensure your nutrition needs are well met and your meals befitting one of your status, you would gladly trade away my blood and sweat for some cheap ice cream..."
"Who says it has to be cheap?" Eichi chimes in at last before Tori can quip that Yuzuru should spend more time trying to meet his taste needs. "I can cover it, if Wataru knows a place." Eichi beams at him. "As always, you're full of exciting ideas for how our unit can pass the time. I think sundaes would be splendid."
Wataru bows. "I am always delighted by my Emperor's low threshold for amusement," he grins at Eichi, and Eichi raises an eyebrow at him. "Bonding activities which are standard routine for other units become magical and grand festivities among the members of Yumenosaki Acadamy's crown jewel - the ever-impressive and incomparable fine, of course!"
"Your talent for giving backhanded compliments is something to behold as well," Eichi intones, but Wataru's smile doesn't budge, which makes Eichi smile back a little for some reason only God can know.
It turns out Wataru does know a place (of course). By now it's quite late at night, and Eichi's heart thuds in his chest as Wataru takes the four of them downtown and into a place with an unassuming frontier - a plain black storefront with characters in white for the title - into a quaint restaurant with pink walls and delicate white metal tables that remind Eichi of Yumenosaki Academy's garden terrace. Art lines the walls - illustrations of ice cream, of course, and colourful lamps hanging from the ceiling illuminate the room without conflicting too sharply with the dark scenery outside.
Basically, it looks fun, and that means Eichi definitely isn't allowed to be here.
"... just my presence at this establishment would be enough to raise my family's ire," he confesses once they've sat down and everyone else has decided what to order. Eichi doesn't know the first thing about sundaes; he's expressly forbidden from eating most desserts, and now the others are looking to him expectantly. "I honestly don't know where to begin with choosing something for myself..."
"This shop does seem high class," Yuzuru comments, poring over the menu. He'd tried to raise concern about Eichi's dessert-banned status during the cab ride here, but Eichi pointedly changed the subject. Yuzuru's smart enough to know when not to press and start looking for alternatives instead. "I'm sure I can find something suitably healthful for you, President."
"There is no need for that, Sir Butler," Wataru chirps, and with a wave of his arm Yuzuru's menu disappears into his sleeve. He raises his hand for the waiter to approach their table, and promptly instructs him to bring over the strawberry special, a matcha ice cream with red bean, and a hot fudge brownie sundae. "For our illustrious leader," he says, pointing a finger toward Eichi as if he's a volunteer in the audience of a magic show.
The waiter nods, scribbling down Wataru's words before marching off.
"The service here is very efficient," Eichi comments, but Tori's eyes are wide.
"A hot fudge brownie sundae?" he asks. "Is - is that really okay for the President?"
"I don't have any food related disorders or allergies," Eichi says defensively. "It's true that it's important to eat well when you're ill, but my family overdoes it with the concern, they honestly do."
If Tori weren't here, he'd complain about how none of it is really about his health anyway and more about image and propriety, but that's not appropriate table discussion for nouveau-riche.
Eichi pauses. "It's true, though, Wataru has made a felon out of me. How exciting, dodging my chauffeur by taking the taxi and then eating in a forbidden ice cream shop~"
Wataru's eyes are wide as if with concern, but they're gleaming. "What would happen if the Emperor were caught committing such a grievous violation?" he asks, then drops his jaw and smacks his hand against his cheek like he's just heard a juicy scandal. "Perhaps we should disguise you, Eichi? For your safety, of course!"
"Oh? What sort of disguise?" Eichi leans forward toward Wataru too, folding his hands under his chin.
"No way, we can't disguise the President!" Tori exclaims before Wataru can respond, crossing his arms in front of his chest in the shape of a big X. "This is the first time I've ever been seen with him casually in public!"
Eichi tilts his head. "Is it really the first time?"
Wataru nods vigorously. "Indeed, it seems in all our preoccupation with elegance and perfection, we've overlooked one of the most sacred components of teamwork... frivolous outings, of course!"
The words feel strange coming out of Wataru’s mouth. Yuzuru seems to agree, because he frowns, eyebrow quirked skeptically, but doesn’t say anything.
When after a few moments Wataru’s smile hasn’t faltered, Eichi voices what everyone's thinking. “… I thought you were something of a loner, Wataru? I had no idea you valued ‘team bonding exercises’ so much.”
“Not to mention that you’re fine’s enemy,” Tori narrows his eyes. “You can say whatever you like, Long Hair, but you can’t fool me into getting all buddy buddy with you.”
Eichi feels bad for his irritation. It’s not like it isn’t his own fault Tori hates Wataru this way, but they’ve been working together for nearly five months now - even longer than Tori’s worked with Eichi, since he was in the hospital at the start of the year. He doesn’t deserve to escape reminders of all the awful things he did to Wataru and other innocents last year, but the fact Wataru still has to deal with the consequences of it in his own unit…
He pushes a hair behind his ear. “Tori, I wish you wouldn’t speak to our dear Wataru that way. He’s not fine’s enemy, he’s its greatest weapon.”
“An enemy, a weapon…” Wataru muses, a smile playing on his lips but not quite reaching his eyes, and Eichi instantly regrets his word choice. “So many potential roles to play, for a regular person it would be difficult to choose! But of course, this Wataru Hibiki can play them all, if the audience wishes it. For your wish is my command, and I belong to everyone!”
Why do you always have to say that? Not that Eichi has the right to contradict him, but Wataru’s ‘belong to everyone’ thing is insufferable.
“And what’s your wish, Hibiki?” Yuzuru asks, rousing Eichi from his annoyed daze and reminding him with startling intensity just how sexy that mole on his cheek is. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he follows up with his usual politesse, and Eichi feels like he could kiss him.
“Ah, the butler asks intriguing questions,” Wataru beams at Yuzuru.
“You’re right, it is intriguing,” Eichi agrees before Wataru can somehow change the subject. “What role do you want to play, Wataru?”
But Wataru’s eyes are on the waiter returning to their table. What terrible timing … but he can’t linger on the thought when a giant frosted glass shaped like a strawberry is placed in front of him, a bed of chocolate brownies lining the inside and three scoops of French vanilla ice cream piled on top. Chocolate syrup spills paths over the deluxe hills, pooling like molten lava at the bottom of the glass.
He stares at Wataru, eyes wide in astonishment. “I’m meant to eat all of this?” he asks in disbelief.
“This looks so goooooooooood~!” Tori squeals, and Eichi tears his eyes away from his veritable mountain to survey the other boy's order. It looks like something out of a movie, precisely piled strawberries, whipped cream, and a neat slice of waffle sticking out of it like the sail of a ship. Yuzuru’s cup is smaller by comparison, red bean flanking a neat scoop of green, and Wataru …
Hm.
“Where’s yours?” Eichi asks. He finds he can't remember what Wataru ordered for himself. Ah! He must be about to magic something ridiculous from thin air. Eichi scans the shop eagerly, looking for hints around the room as to what it might be…
“Ah, well, as the humble left hand of the Emperor, whose weak appetite for sweets is legendary,” Wataru begins explaining, and Eichi turns back to him quizzically. “I thought I would lend you my services!”
Oh?
“You’re going to share with him?!” Tori screeches.
Eichi can feel red sketching itself across his cheeks, so instead of answering, he sticks his tongue with a spoonful of - ah!
Heaven!
Eichi closes his eyes as the hot thick chocolate mingles with creamy vanilla in his mouth. The juxtaposing temperatures accompany one another like a well-played harmony, with flavours rich and well-rounded, warm brownie melting on his tongue…
He's startled from his trance by the clink of another spoon against his glass. Wataru’s eyes sparkle, and he tosses blue hair casually over his shoulder.
“I take it you like it~?” he asks.
"Mm, Wataru, it's a dish fit for an angel..." Eichi sighs.
"They do call chocolate the devil's food," Wataru grins at him, and Eichi spoons up another bite, settling comfortably in his seat to watch Wataru help himself to his bowl. Somehow seeing Wataru eat always feels like peeking at the man behind the curtain, like someone so marvellous and sublime beyond human capacity shouldn’t need to go through the kinds of routine system maintenance everyone else does.
After a few silent moments of appreciation for the concerts happening in their mouths, Tori speaks up. “You never answered Yuzuru’s question, Long Hair.”
Wataru takes his time sucking on his spoon, then points it at Tori with a wink. “I’m flattered the princess is so curious about me~” he says.
“Hmph,” Tori crosses his arms, but quickly uncrosses them to catch a drop of ice cream melting down the side of his bowl.
“We’re all dying to know, Wataru,” Eichi says in his humblest, most flattering voice. “Indulge us, won’t you?”
“Hmm,” Wataru taps the side of the glass, sending quiet chimes dancing across the table. “I suppose it’s a role I haven’t quite mastered yet, if it truly isn’t clear to you all which I have chosen to play…”
“Haven’t mastered?” Eichi repeats incredulously. “ You ? Impossible.”
“Even the most talented magicians begin as novices,” Wataru laments, and Tori taps his foot impatiently.
“Can you just spit it out already?”
“I’m not sure my heart can take much more of this suspense, Wataru,” Eichi agrees.
Wataru sighs, then snaps a finger and his hair arranges itself into a pile on its head, twisting itself secure into a bun.
“Eww,” Tori breathes, and Wataru digs his spoon into one of the brownies, twirling it into the ice cream mountain and then coating it in the hot fudge pool.
Once it’s disappeared into his mouth, he puts down his spoon.. “… Was it not ever so obvious that I’m trying to play the role of a friend?”
I just finished this book, and man, y’all. I really liked it. “Really liked” didn’t always translate to “was riveted by” or even “consistently enjoyed reading,” but I have to say—as a queer woman, as a mystery aficionada, and as someone from a family of addicts, with her own complicated past and present history with substance use/abuse—that I feel tremendously grateful it exists.
Maggie Terry takes the mystery-novel cliché of the hard-drinking police detective or private eye, and tweaks it in ways that leave the reader surprised at how seriously she suddenly must follow through on this familiar premise. Maggie Terry the character spends the entirety of this novel dealing with issues which—not only are they issues most alcoholic detective characters don’t have to face, but they’re two or three steps down the road from the issues those characters don’t have to face. Usually, the detective’s hard drinking is either a more-or-less static reality in their life (Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, Jessica Jones at least in Season 1), or it generates narrative tension due to its degrading influence on the detective’s ability to do their job, in which case the question is more: will they acknowledge the problem and work to get better? (Nate Ford in Season 2 of Leverage, or [I hear] Jane Tennison in Prime Suspect). In Maggie Terry, that whole process of degradation, disaster, confrontation and acknowledgment is already in the past. As the novel opens, Maggie’s girlfriend has left her and taken their daughter; she’s been kicked off the NYPD and put through an inpatient rehab program; she has a sponsor; she goes to NA meetings multiple times a day; she’s 18 months sober—but she definitely hasn’t stopped being an addict, mentally or emotionally. All of that apparatus, the meetings and the sponsor and the starting a new job, that’s what’s saving her life. But it doesn’t bestow upon her a life to be saved. Eighteen months sober doesn’t REMOTELY mean that Maggie is “doing well,” or that she is “not a trainwreck.” She is emphatically still a trainwreck, from start to finish. It’s just that now she’s a sober one.
And that continuing trainwreck quality is something I sincerely prized about this book. So many depictions of addiction flinch from the grinding tedium and constant rawness of recovery. Much like romance plots, the focus is on will-they-or-won’t-they: will they kiss? will they pick up that bottle? It’s a tragedy if they take that drink, or a happy, life-affirming ending if they don’t. While Maggie is still tempted on a near-nightly basis to go back to using, the focus of Schulman’s book is less on whether she’ll lapse, and more on the other parts of recovery: a “recovery” that’s really more like building from scratch a life and a personality that never fully developed in the first place. Spending a couple of decades making substance use the center of one’s priorities means that the rest of one’s development—the evolution of a personality, the cultivation of interests outside oneself, the ability to empathize with other people and sometimes put others ahead of one’s own interests—gets put on hold. Maggie spends the majority of this book trying (and often failing) to come to grips with who and what the “she” is who she’s supposed to be rehabilitating and recovering. She is 42 years old, but she has the self-involved crisis of personality, and the awkward inability to interact with other people, of a teenager.
As a reader, that self-involved quality is sometimes tedious and frustrating to read. Maggie’s self-pity and her lack of self-knowledge are often rough going. But they ring EXTREMELY true. And Schulman also does a great job of illustrating why they ring true: because what else is Maggie going to focus on? What else does she have? Without drugs, her life and her concept of self don’t just feel empty: they genuinely are empty. Her family of origin is toxic and also alcoholic; her previous professional connections are severed due to her disease; her ex-girlfriend and daughter are out of bounds to her; but more than any of this, the organizing principle of her life and her self-concept has been removed, and she has nothing to replace it with. She’s starting to rebuild from the very bottom, and it’s an exhaustingly destabilized and tedious process. I don’t think I’ve ever read something that confronts that reality in quite the way Schulman does here.
(As a side note: I also really appreciated the depiction of navigating AA/NA as an atheist. Maggie doesn’t believe in a higher power, which makes the 12-step program a rough fit for her; this is something with which I have intimate family experience, and Schulman’s depictions rang very true.)
In any case: not a light read, but a very good one.
Links: AO3 | FF | First Chapter | Previous Chapter
Jihyun does not technically live at school. This is a detail that’s more or less negligible, the sound of Jumin’s car horn beeping outside to remind Jihyun that it is exactly 4:57 a.m., and that once again he’s taken too much precious time spreading butter over the pain de campagne his parents seem to always have in the house even when they’re out travelling, moved too slowly pulling uniform-standard socks over his feet as the sun rose outside his window.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, crashing into the back seat, and Jumin says, “Sometimes I think if we didn’t pick you up each morning, you’d never come to school at all.”
“I would come,” Jihyun insists, faux offense mocking itself across his features. “I’d simply be…”
“Late,” Jumin fills in, rolling his eyes. “You’d show up for your photography class, then get lost in the hallways and fail to attend anything else.”
“The art room is easier to locate than our classes,” Jihyun says, but then Jumin raises his eyebrows at him and Jihyun is left with no choice but to look away. “… I concede.”
“Heh,” Jumin smirks, and Jihyun smiles privately to the streets moving ever quickly outside his window. There are some benefits to spending all his time at school: being surrounded by students is preferable to being alone at home. Jihyun’s name is spoken often enough in the hallways, generally in relation to Jumin, but his classmates are eager enough to engage him in their conversations even if they don’t invite him to coffee afterwards.
Links: AO3 | FF | First Chapter | Previous Chapter
Jihyun does not technically live at school. This is a detail that’s more or less negligible, the sound of Jumin’s car horn beeping outside to remind Jihyun that it is exactly 4:57 a.m., and that once again he’s taken too much precious time spreading butter over the pain de campagne his parents seem to always have in the house even when they’re out travelling, moved too slowly pulling uniform-standard socks over his feet as the sun rose outside his window.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, crashing into the back seat, and Jumin says, “Sometimes I think if we didn’t pick you up each morning, you’d never come to school at all.”
“I would come,” Jihyun insists, faux offense mocking itself across his features. “I’d simply be…”
“Late,” Jumin fills in, rolling his eyes. “You’d show up for your photography class, then get lost in the hallways and fail to attend anything else.”
“The art room is easier to locate than our classes,” Jihyun says, but then Jumin raises his eyebrows at him and Jihyun is left with no choice but to look away. “… I concede.”
“Heh,” Jumin smirks, and Jihyun smiles privately to the streets moving ever quickly outside his window. There are some benefits to spending all his time at school: being surrounded by students is preferable to being alone at home. Jihyun’s name is spoken often enough in the hallways, generally in relation to Jumin, but his classmates are eager enough to engage him in their conversations even if they don’t invite him to coffee afterwards.
Besides that, though, there’s the photography teacher, a woman of perhaps thirty years. Jihyun had initially enrolled in the course out of simple curiosity, but on the first day of classes, Ms. Jong gave him an appraising once-over and declared, “I like the look in your eye.” She waited patiently when Jihyun’s hands were shaking too much to handle the camera, this tool Rem had seen others use so many times in this life and the last, the tool she’d been mimicking use of with her phone since an afternoon in middle school. In retrospect, it seems silly, if Rem had ever asked for a camera her parents would surely have provided it, but the thought hadn’t occurred to her— not like that.
She pointed the lens at her teacher, and Ms. Jong smiled when Jihyun closed his finger over the shutter. Since then, he’s acquired a camera of his own, a semi-permanent fixture around his neck as he sits with Jumin in study halls and attempts to help others in his night classes with questions he barely understands himself.
For his birthday, Jumin gives him a corkboard, and at Jihyun’s questioning tilt of the head Jumin says, “You don’t have anywhere to put those photos you’re always taking, and I know you won’t think to buy one for yourself.”
He doesn’t mean it as an insult, and Jihyun doesn’t take it as one. Dew on the branches of early April, close shots of Jumin— his hands, the place where his striped shirt collar meets his neck, and now the sun-bleached grass and flowers in an array of colours fully bloomed decorate the once-bare walls of a bedroom he hardly spends any time in.
Ms. Jong has perfect posture, wears her hair in a bun atop her head that never seems to fall out of place as she flits about the studio, nods approval, asks questions of students, and raises her hands to frame imaginary shots.
“I hear she has a tattoo,” Ahn whispers to Jihyun, pencil sketches and eraser dust cluttering her workspace. “On her hip, that’s what Sung-min told me. She hides it under the long shirts, but he saw it peeking out once, he said.”
Decorating one’s body with artwork; it’s one of the most beautiful ventures Rem imagines a human can undertake, and when she lets the word ‘tattoo’ slip into conversation with her teacher late after class one day, Ms. Jong agrees.
“It may not look very professional, but I think all art is a form of expression,” Ms. Jong says.
“What does photography express?” Jihyun asks, and Ms. Jong pauses for a moment, touches the pen she’s stored behind her ear in thought.
“What do you think it expresses?” she asks, and Rem is much worse at answering questions than asking them. But lingering in her dreams is Misa’s smile in the photos on her internet browser, the way the sun reflects on mountains in the early morning, the shimmering fabric of gowns in the photos Jumin gave Rem of his father’s wedding because he didn’t want them.
Jihyun’s face is blemished, as are the faces of many others in his year. Not Jumin’s though— Jumin has a dermatologist, and though he’s offered Rem the opportunity to see his several times, she’s not certain even with all her parents’ money it’s worth approaching them about. Light Yagami never had any, that Rem is aware, even though he was only just emerging into adulthood when she knew him, and neither did Misa— but Misa had an elaborate routine, strawberry-scented scrub that Rem can’t appreciate properly until she’s at the mall with Jumin one day, taking turns sniffing the different fragrances in the store.
“I suppose you like that one?” Jumin asks, and Jihyun pauses, candle still at his nose.
He closes his eyes and inhales again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I think I like it… but that may just be because it reminds me of someone.”
Jumin reaches over and gently takes the candle from Rem’s hand to smell it himself. “Who?” he asks, wrinkling his nose just a little before taking another whiff. “Hmm. This is all right.”
“You don’t know her,” Jihyun says, and Jumin sets the candle back on the shelf.
“I forgot you know people I don’t know,” he says, and Jihyun laughs, maybe because Jumin has no idea, maybe because Jumin is right.
“I think my favourite is the one that’s meant to smell like the sea,” Rem says, and her friend nods his approval.
Jumin likes the scent of pomegranates, the look of vertical stripes, the sound of music that employs cellos— often regardless of genre. He reads avidly— nonfiction mostly, though he enjoys the occasional light fiction novel, and he can guess to Jihyun the probable ingredients of the marinade for any given steak after a single bite.
Rem looks at the photographs on her wall, the simple monochrome shirts and coats of her wardrobe, the carefully bundled and string-tied envelopes of every letter Jumin ever sent her. Ms. Jong’s black heels click across the floor, Sayeon’s phone charms dangle from the zipper on her backpack, her mother’s paintings decorate the walls of every corridor in her home, and when Rem opens the door to Jumin’s car to spend her entire day at school, he says, “You’re late,” and Ms. Jong says, “I like the look in your eye,” and Min-a says, “Thanks for being such a good listener,” and Seojun says, “How do you get your hair to wave that gently?,” and when she looks at them, they look back at her.
“I have to go to a dinner tomorrow,” Jumin sighs, dropping his books in a neat stack on the desk before their night class starts, and then takes the seat beside Jihyun. “And I can’t decide on a stupid tie to wear.”
Seojun stands straight from where he’d been leaning on Jihyun’s desk. “I’ll talk to you later I guess,” he says. “Text me about it, though, maybe?”
“Did I interrupt something?” Jumin apologizes.
“Class is about to start anyway,” Seojun shrugs, and Jihyun promises to send him the message, though Rem isn’t sure explaining that she combs her fingers through her hair until it arranges itself into something that looks deliberate will be much help to him.
“What kind of dinner is it?” she asks Jumin, and Jumin presses his fingers to his eyelids.
“I’m meeting with a business partner of my father’s, I believe,” he says. Jumin doesn’t technically work for C&R International yet, but this is a regular occurrence. He describes his father’s insistence on involving him with the business before he’s graduated high school as “being offered opportunities.” Rem has had enough with opportunists, but Jumin’s relationship with his father isn’t for her to question.
“Try green this time,” she suggests, and Jumin pauses for a moment.
“Which one?”
“The one that alternates with silver,” she says. “It’ll look nice with your eyes.”
“All my ties look nice on me,” Jumin tells her, but agrees to take her advice as the lesson starts.
Ms. Jong adjusts Jihyun’s hands with hers to suggest better angles, apologizes when she finds him alone in the darkroom, though she couldn’t possibly have ruined his photo with the sliver of light she let in before quickly shutting the door. She leans back in her seat and waits as Rem tries to gather her thoughts, gesticulating with her arms to try to describe the images in her head that she can’t draw or speak, only capture on camera. Ms. Jong nods, and Jihyun’s exhales cleanse through his system.
“I’m thinking of dying my hair,” he tells Ms. Jong one day.
“Oh?” she asks, and Jihyun pauses a moment, then nods. Rem’s hair— the closest to hair she could get, once— was pink, and ugly, and as Rem lies awake in Jihyun’s bed at an hour she knows is going to make her late on Jumin again in the morning, she thinks it was one of her favourite things about her old appearance.
“It’s not expressly forbidden in the regulations for this school,” he explains, and Ms. Jong smiles.
“They might make it so if you dye it, you know.”
Jihyun shrugs, but that doesn’t relieve the feeling that something is weighing on his shoulders.
“Dye it,” Ms. Jong tells him.
Perhaps he should’ve brought Jumin with him, pushing open the door to a small hairdressing shop in the mall. The people in the pictures on the window smile less convincingly than Misa used to, or else tilt their chins away from the camera, eyes hooded and lips pursed in a grimace. The Internet was some help in recommending this place as somewhere she could access using public transport, but the advice she found on bleaching and dying hair were all things she already knew from watching Misa turn her hair blonde.
The first thing to hit Jihyun is the smell, soapy and fresh, hairdressers moving around carrying scissors like the teachers in Kindergarten always said not to. The clients are of all ages, relaxing in dryer chairs and describing their desired cuts. The customer closest to the door looks around sixty years old with a magazine grasped in her wrinkled, manicured hands.
“Can I help you?”
The man behind the counter dries his hands and then folds the towel into a perfect square, laying it down next to a computer mouse without taking his sharp, green eyes off Jihyun the entire time. Jihyun can see the faintest hint of brown behind the contact lenses, exactly like Misa’s were.
“I was hoping to bleach and dye my hair,” Jihyun tells him, and the man types something into his computer.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes,” Jihyun says. “I was told Hae-il would be available?”
The man smiles. “That’s me.” His hair is short, sleek, a silver that absorbs the lights of the shop instead of reflecting them. He asks Jihyun a few more questions, and Jihyun realizes he forgot to choose a colour to dye his hair to. Hae-il tells Jihyun it’d be better to bleach it after he’s chosen a colour so they know how light to go with it, but he’s already here and doesn’t want to wait anymore.
“Well, if you want it really light, you’ll have a few days to decide, I suppose,” Hae-il says, leading Jihyun to a chair positioned in front of a mirror. Jihyun squints for a moment under the harsh lights. “I can make it any colour you want, probably.”
Jihyun believes him. The shop’s website lists that Hae-il’s work has been featured in many magazines throughout the years since starting as a stylist, and Jihyun doubts even Misa would’ve been able to afford him without some great effort. Hae-il nods approvingly when Jihyun tells him his budget, and while it’s not a habit of his to make extravagant purchases, this feels important somehow. Hae-il places a booklet of colours in Jihyun’s hands to flip through while he does his hair.
Hae-il doesn’t talk much when he’s working, his eyes focused and intent, cutting strands of hair away with a precision that reminds Rem of Jumin. Occasionally he catches Jihyun staring at his hands in the mirror and gives him a small smile that makes Jihyun’s cheeks go red, much more red than Jihyun would ever give them permission to.
“Your hair is really nice,” Hae-il comments. “Thick, healthy.”
The bleach feels strange against his scalp, not really stinging but not exactly pleasant either, and Hae-il is impressed with how light Jihyun’s hair goes once they’ve washed it out and blow-dried it.
“Your hair is pretty dark, so I thought we might need two or three sessions, but I actually think depending on the colour we should be able to put it on today,” Hae-il says. “Or, well… I can, anyway.”
His confident grin makes Jihyun laugh, running a finger through his now-yellow hair in awe. His reflection looks like a different person, his skin less pale, his blush deeper.
… Great.
“Have you decided on a colour?”
“Um.”
His finger is on the page in the booklet with the different shades of pink listed, but now that he’s being asked to make a decision, he’s not so sure. He glances at Hae-il, who’s rolled a chair over to sit beside him. The other man’s back is straight, nails painted plum.
“I feel something toward the colour, I guess,” Jihyun tells him, tracing his finger over the page. “Like it was important to me once, in another life.”
Hae-il watches him carefully. “And what about this life?”
Jihyun sucks in a breath, and Hae-il stands. “Well, no rush.”
Jihyun’s already been here for hours. Six hours, to be precise, though it doesn’t feel nearly that long. Time in the human world never feels very long, though.
He picks up his phone. Maybe he should ask Jumin— no, he doesn’t want Jumin to know he’s doing this, and Jumin’s even worse than Jihyun is at making colour-related decisions, anyway. He looks up at his reflection.
His eyes are still his most striking feature, their blue the most colourful part of his face at the moment. As a shinigami, her eyes were yellow, like caution tape, or a more highly saturated version of what her hair looks like right now. The blue is pale, almost green, like the sea-scented candle beside her bed, the one she’d chosen to take home after almost three entire minutes of sniffing the one that reminded her so much of Misa.
Her chest squeezes and she looks down again, absently flipping through the pinks back into the purples, and then to blue.
Jihyun raises his head and signals for Hae-il to return.
Notes: So this fic has been annoying me literally since I wrote it over a year ago because even though I think the ideas in it are good, I wrote it past midnight when I was supposed to be doing other things so it’s super rushed and badly written and I felt like that’s a shame since IMO it’s a good fic? So anyway I finally rewrote it, and I changed the title. This takes place before and during the Chuunin Exams.
Links: AO3 | FF | My writing blog
“Did you hear?” Neji hears, the fifteenth loud, frantic whisper to cut through his thoughts this morning. “The heiress is going to be participating in the Chuunin Exams!”
Neji grits his teeth as a Hyuuga branch member approaches him, attempting to distract from his actions with the act of mopping like this isn’t the compound where everyone can see everything. Neji can’t remember this relative’s name, but it doesn’t matter here. The slightly older man bends his knees and puts his face close to Neji’s hair.
“I know you don’t like it, but…” the relative starts, pole of the mop pressing into Neji’s shoulder as Neji struggles to maintain a position that suggests the man is invisible to him. “No matter what happens, if you’re paired with the heiress, you must throw the match.”
Neji keeps silent, refusing to spare any words or draw attention to himself for this person. He’d already tried that with other members of the branch house who’d felt the need to do this in the last few days, and it did nothing to stop more and more from coming to bestow their worthless advice upon him.
After a few moments, the man finally pulls back, pushing his weight into wiping the wooden floor around Neji’s feet. Neji turns away, padding back to his original destination of the dojos. Although Neji’s eyes can’t see into the one reserved for the main branch, not even special protective jutsu could protect the main house’s privacy when the sliding door barrels into the wall at the end of its track, and Hiashi Hyuuga stamps out. Behind him, Hinata Hyuuga stands, shoulders rounded to huddle into herself. Her branch member sparring opponent heaves heavy breaths, but as far as Neji can tell without activating his Byakugan, bears no actual wounds. Hiashi passes by Neji, his hand twitching just barely as though about to curl into a fist.
we, in a manner akin to that of a man who once was, in Rome, an orator of significant skill, who was then for his elegance of speech renowned and now for his elaborate structure of sentences cursed by generations of scholars of Latin, the language which he spoke and we now study, Cicero, write, rather than by any efficiency, functionality, or ease of legibility have our words, our honors, the breaths of our hearts, be besmirched.
Not many jnſtances of Punctuation - but for many Daſhes – et words Capitaliz’d for emphavſis, but not logicaly - ſpeeling and word Endings varied Gratelie - and the long S - ſ - vſed in at the ſtart and Centre of wordes - & the short “s” vſed only at the end - as with the U and V, and the I and J - but v and j only at the ſtart of wordes (we diſtinguishe not between Vouels and Conſonants, only decoratiue Letteres). Ye letter “y” being in lookes cloſe to an Olde letter “þ” which is vſed as “th” - Y may be vſed in the place of TH - but only ſparingly - and ſtill Pronounc’d the ſame as TH. Long and rambling ſentences - ſeeminglie without end - a paragraph can conſiſt of One whole ſentence, and ſhort ſentences are rare – we ſcribe like hiſtorical Modern English – and other european Languages.
I saw some #discourse go by about how adults shouldn’t be in fandom writing about younger characters because it’s uncomfortable and gross to younger people to have adults ‘thinking about them’ in romantic/sexual terms.
1, This is not a restriction that any writers in any other venue have to deal with, wtf, or the entire YA genre would be banished; 2, Excuse you, children of Tumblr, no one is thinking about you.
If other people in fandom are older than you, by definition, they have been your age. When fans write about younger characters, we’re not peering through a keyhole at young people now and creeping on them.
We are drawing on our own experiences, thoughts, feelings and memories of what it was like when we were that age.
No one has the right to ask older writers to cut themselves off from their own past just because young’uns don’t want to acknowledge that people in their 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, all of them, were also young once. I’m 41, but I remember vividly what it was like to be 14. If I write a high school AU, it’s about my high school experience, even if I were to set it in the present day and decorate it with some (probably comically out of touch) Stuff The Kids Are Into Now. If I write a high school AU with sex, it’s because I remember that too! I’m not thinking about kids today, why would I– I have my own experiences to draw on. And honestly, sometimes there are things about being young that you don’t really understand until you’re much older and have some perspective– and that’s worth writing about.
If someone is genuinely a creeper, you’ll know, because they’ll ask you questions about you. But people who aren’t even directly interacting with you, who are just expressing themselves in fiction, are not a threat to you, and it’s not creepy for them to draw on their own experiences and their own past to write about younger characters.
THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITER’S DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMN IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT I’M USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS
#this conceptualization is so erotic #i can just imagine claudine holmes caressing the body tenderly…….. #queer history #music history #and sexism too obv #but i just love it #or maybe a duet…….a trouser mezzo singing his/her heart out #and the sweeping gown and gloves of the violinist #woo im getting tingly (via @peachpulpeuse)
I love this, and I especially love that it made you think of Claudine. Also I find it HILARIOUS that anyone’s antidote to the dangerous homoeroticism of female violin-playing was instead female CELLO-PLAYING oh my god.
