this story breaks free here; tales from the back pages

fanmix: here beneath my lungs | spring awakening

2009-11-07T00:51:54Z

What is this, Katie? Aren't you that fanfic whore girl?
Yes. Here's an explanation: This started when I listened to "Welcome Home, Son" by Radical Face and thought that it was the absolute perfect song for Moritz. (Really, it is! Look at the lyrics!) And then I continued to collect songs until I had ~~ten~~ eleven and this mix.

Although it's marked as a "Spring Awakening Fanmix", it's really a mix about Melchior, Wendla, Moritz, and Ilse, with a bonus track that's purely silly for Otto. Features some Regina Spektor, Stars, Death Cab For Cutie, the aforementioned Radical Face, and Kate Nash, among others. There are ten songs plus a bonus, all in MP3 format, and a .ZIP of all the files.

(Yes, I know Melchior and Wendla have a tree coming out of their heads. IT'S SYMBOLIC, OKAY.)

o1. I Guess I'm Floating - M83
They were children, once. It wasn't so long ago, but it's hard to remember.
[instrumental, with the interruption of childhood]

o2. Us - Regina Spektor
More perfect than the moon.
Then they'll give us a talking to
Because they've got years of experience
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious

o3. Brighter Than Sunshine - Aqualung
She's in love with love. (Wendla)
What a feeling in my soul
Love burns brighter than sunshine
Brighter than sunshine
Let the rain fall, i don't care
I'm yours and suddenly you're mine

o4. Old Dances - Kate Nash
A woman before her time. (Ilse)
Your lips are darker than before
and the bags under your eyes are blacker than they were
and there's something different about your skin
and nobody knows how you got home last night

o5. We Looked Like Giants - Death Cab For Cutie
As they fumble, they learn how their bodies work. (Melchior & Wendla)
God damn the black night with all its foul temptation
I become what I always hated
When I was with you then
We looked like giants in the back of my grey subcompact
Fumbling to make contact
As the others slept inside

o6. I am a Pirate, You Are a Princess - Play Radio Play
Childhood games are so far behind them. (Moritz & Ilse)
I am a pirate you are a princess
We could sail the seven seas
Bring back some presents
For all the people
Everyone will love us

o7. 20 Years of Snow - Regina Spektor
She's an artist; she's unique. (Ilse)
I'm twenty years of clean
And I never truly hated anyone or anything
Twenty years of clean
Twenty years of clean

But I got to get me out of here
This place is full of dirty old men
And the navigators with their mappy maps
And moldy heads and pissing on sugarcubes

o8. Welcome Home, Son - Radical Face
All the sadness in his soul. (Moritz)
All my nightmares escaped my head
Bar the door, please don't let them in
You were never supposed to leave
Now my head's splitting at the seams

o9. The Night Starts Here - Stars
And what will become of them, now? (Melchior & Wendla, after)
The night starts here, forget your name, forget your fear
You drop a coin into the sea, and shout out, "Please come back to me"
You name your child after your fear, and tell them, "I have brought you here"

10. Set Fire to the Third Bar - Snow Patrol
He thinks of her in the quiet moments. (Melchior)
I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
And I, I pray that something picks me up
and sets me down in your warm arms

BONUS TRACK:
867-5309/Jenny - Tommy Tutone
To Marianna, Love, Otto.
You're the girl for me
You don't know me
But you make me so happy
I tried to call you before
But I lost my nerve
I tried my imagination
But I was disturbed

.zip (mediafire)

.zip (megaupload)

All individual links go to MediaFire -- it that's not working for you, I'll gladly upload them somewhere else. :)

Also hey just tell me if the download stuff isn't working, or hey just ask if you're confused about the songs or something.

ships are launching from my chest (part 1) | sa!hs!au (!)

2009-10-26T19:21:10Z

Title: Ships Are Launching From My Chest
Fandom: Spring Awakening (High School AU)
Rating: G
Characters: all
Summary: Part one of three; the high school AU. This is the elementary school years, in which Wendla goes to kindergarten, marriages are made on the swingset, pirates tramp through the neighborhood, and a home is set up in a tree house.

Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline
Like a row of captured ghosts over old dead grass
Was never much but we made the most
Welcome home
- "Welcome Home, Son", Radical Face

It is the first day of kindergarten, and Wendla Bergman picks dandelions on the way to the bus stop. She is wearing her favorite blue dress and shoes that feel too tight on her feet, but it doesn't matter. She gets to ride the bus today, the big yellow bus with wheels that go round and round, round and round, and she couldn't be any happier.

Her mother tells her to stop picking weeds.

Wendla gives her a sunny smile. "They're flowers, Mommy," she corrects. "They're yellow like the bus."

Part of Anja Bergman wants to wrap her daughter in her arms and take her back home, where they can eat milk and cookies all day and never have to worry about growing up. Wendla is perfect like this, little and grinning, a bouquet of dandelions in her hand. She never wants this to change.

Wendla only sees her happy smiling face as she peers out the bus window and waves her tiny hand at her, waving waving waving until she can't see her anymore. There's only a moment when her eyes are wet with tears, forgotten as soon as Melchior laughs from the seat across from her and Ilse's.

"This is so cool!" he says.

And Wendla knows it will be, if Melchior says it's going to be. She is wearing her favorite blue dress and shoes that feel too tight and has a special purple lunch box with flowers on it, and she is on the big yellow bus, wheels going round and round.

--

Wendla giggles. "Look, Melchi! We're married!"

Melchior laughs back, pumping his legs back and forth as he swings. They swing in matching arcs high up over the playground. He reaches his hand out and tells Wendla to take it.

"I'll fall off!"

"No you won't. It's okay. Look, I can do it fine."

His voice sails over the jungle gym and the monkey bars.

Wendla bites her lip and takes one hand off the chain, stretching it out and out until Melchior can grasp it.

"I'm doing it! Look at me, Melchi!"

His laughter sails over the playground and the world.

--

Moritz should probably be mad that half a dozen people just walked into his room, but that's not the way things work around here. They've skinned their knees on the same driveways, climbed the same trees, ran through the same sprinkler. They're stuck together like gum in tangled hair.

They're the best of friends.

"Yo ho ho!" Ilse yells. "And a bottle of rum! What be you doin', scallywag?"

"Huh?"

"I said what're you doin', scallywag? Answer or you walk the plank!"

"Nothing."

"Psh," Ilse scoffs. "Yar. The ship is sailing in five minutes. If you're in favor, say 'aye'!"

Moritz looks at the tip of her plastic sword, an inch from his face, and feels like he doesn't really have a choice.

"Aye!" he says.

"Aye!" Ilse, Melchior, Wendla, Anna, Martha, and Georg chorus.

They traipse down the stairs and out Moritz's back door, past the laundry Mrs. Stiefel has hung up on the line, past the swing set. Thea and Ernst run at them from Ernst's backyard, Otto trailing behind them, an eye patch over his eye. He stumbles and falls into Ernst, who tries his hardest to catch him, but Otto is a big kid and Ernst is thin as a stick, so they topple over into Thea.

"Jeez," Ilse groans. "You are the worst pirates ever. I'm gonna throw you overboard."

"We're not on a ship, Ilse," Melchior points out.

She crosses her arms. "That doesn't matter!"

"Well, it really sorta—"

"Just c'mon!" she interrupts, and stomps towards the street.

Melchior, Wendla, Anna, Martha, Georg, Moritz, Thea, Ernst, and Otto follow her. She’s the kind of girl who walks in her little hop-skip and starts a parade. In eye patches and pirate hats, the ship crew walks down the street for a daring and dangerous adventure.

"Hey!" Ilse calls as they're passing in front of number six, and walks across the lawn.

"Hey, you!"

The blonde boy sitting on the front steps looks at her.

"What are you doing in my yard?"

"Who're you?"

"What are you doing in my yard?"

"So you're the new kid! I haven't seen you before. You know Mr. Down used to live in this house? He had glasses and black hair and a limp."

"What are you doing in my yard?"

Ilse cocks her head at him. "Walkin' to Melchi's. Duh. You could come if you want."

He seems to contemplate for a moment, and then carefully sticks his bookmark in his book and jumps off of the steps to join them.

"My name is Hanschen Rilow," he says.

"I'm Ilse. And this is Melchi, Wendla, Georg, Otto, Thea, Anna, Moritz, Martha, and Ernst."

They all wave hello, and Hanschen Rilow looks at them with a raised eyebrow. "How do you do?" he asks.

--

The best spot on their street for playing pirates or princesses or robbers is Melchior's tree house, hands down. Moritz might even say it's the best place for playing pirates or princesses or robbers in the whole world, but he's never been to the whole world, so maybe there is a place.

Though he doubts it.

Today they're pretending the tree house with the pirate wheel is an actual house with a real fridge and not just a cardboard box that Georg's drum set came in. Melchior is the dad, Wendla is the mom, and Thea and Ernst are the kids. Anna and Georg (recently married), a baby doll named Julia, and Hanschen (their son) are the next-door neighbors that live on the ground in the playhouse. Ilse, Martha, and Otto are cousins who live on a houseboat. Or, you know, the Gabor's deck.

Moritz, well, he's the new puppy that everyone wants to play with.

"Honey, I'm home," Melchior calls out as he climbs up the ladder to the tree house.

"Oh, good. Sweetie," Wendla laughs. "That's good. Come on. Did you see the new puppy? His name is..."

She shrugs. "Uh, Moritz, what's your dog name?"

He barks.

"Lightning!" Thea interjects.

He barks again, wagging himself in agreement. Melchior pats him on the head. "So, Ernst, what did you do today?"

"Uh, played with Hanschen. We were running and I woulda beat him if he didn't bump into me on accident."

"Good for you, Ernst!" Melchior smiles.

"I saw Anna's new baby!" Thea boasts. "But I think Otto drew on her face or somethin' 'cause she has orange on her forehead and I definitely didn't do it."

Fanny Gabor can see them from her kitchen; Ilse sick of sitting on the deck with Martha and Otto and instead running up to the tree house and saying that house is boring and that they should play fairies or something cool. "All in favor, say 'aye'!" she orders.

Georg immediately groans in disapproval, sticking his head out from the window of the playhouse and yelling that fairies are dumb, and totally uncool, and for girls, and Ernst's "aye" dies on his lips. Ten years old is different than five years old, after all.

Fanny watches her own son step in, can hear him suggest that they play pirates instead. It's an old favorite, she knows, and soon they'll be running through her house to find hats and bandanas. Melchior will hug her before he runs out again, and she wonders how long that will last. Will he be too old to hug his mom in a year? A couple months? A few days?

She makes them all stop, bedecked in their pirate gear, and she takes a picture of them to hang on the fridge that isn't just a box from Georg's drum set. Martha smiles her soft smile, Thea beaming beside her, Anna standing next to them with straight shoulders, Georg holding bunny ears up behind Otto's head, Melchior in the middle with his arm around Moritz, Ilse and Wendla sticking out their tongues, and Ernst standing with Hanschen on the right, arms looped together.

born to black in a perfect blue sky | spring awakening

2009-10-10T17:34:33Z

Title: Born To Black In a Perfect Blue Sky
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing, sensitive material)
Characters: Reinhold, Rupert (not slash, bee-tee-dubs)
Summary: Snapshots from Reinhold in the reformatory.

You've never been a good kid.

Your uncle's hand is heavy on your shoulder as you walk, the bleak grayness of the building looming ahead of you. Its shadow traps you.

The guard catches your elbow once you get near enough; your uncle drops his hand.

He doesn't say goodbye.

You think the dingy room is empty until a low voice drawls, "You're the new one, huh?" from the cot pressed up against the far wall.

"Yes."

"Who're you, then?"

"Reinhold Kohler."

He sits up, face lit by the glow of a single owl lamp. A shock of blonde hair peeks out from under his uniform cap, the same that you're clutching in your own trembling hands. You're surprised, because you thought this place was for degenerates and criminals (like you), and he looks polished and neat.

That is, until a smile creeps onto his face, lips curling up. His eyes are on you, dark.

You hate people like him; words instead of punches.

"Rupert Fuerst. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

He extends his hand for you to shake.

It's sticky.

You wake up screaming into the blackness of your tiny room for a fortnight.

Your eyes always dart around, searching.

You don't know what you're looking for.

Dieter's being an arrogant fucker, so you hit him.

It feels good, after all these weeks.

Real good.

It still feels good, even when his arm swings back at you. You don't duck.

You never duck.

His fist slams into your face, sliding across your cheek, crashing into your nose.

It isn't the first time it's been broken, the dull thud and the crack and the searing pain.

Still feels good, even when there's the sound of heavystompingpounding footsteps against the concrete and a hand wrenches your arm behind your back.

A litany of curses falls from Dieter's lips.

Feels even better when you can bite your tongue and not say a word.

Bread and water, every day. Rupert sits beside you, Ulbrecht across from him, Dieter across from you. Knives and forks are kept away, like that heals the scars.

You're not even sure how long you've been here.

Ulbrecht and Dieter laugh loudly. Why, you're not really certain. "She was a damn whore, anyway," Dieter is saying, licking his lips.

Rupert makes a noise in the back of his throat. "You're too much of a twat to even try to touch a girl," he says.

"Fuck if you know!"

You do know boys like Dieter, spinning the same yarn over and over again. You've heard it too many times to believe it.

"Oh, I know," Rupert says with a leer. "Why d'you think I'm here?"

Dieter and Ulbrecht shake their heads.

"Why're you here?" you ask to oblige him.

"Raped a girl," he says.

No pause.

Eyes cold and steely. Face set into a smirk.

No flicker of remorse.

You've heard this story before, too.

He doesn't stop unbuttoning his trousers when you walk into the room.

"You too, then."

Coins jangle in Rupert's pocket.

You'd take them, if you thought you'd get away with it.

"Where're those from?"

Hesitation, for a moment. "The guard. Tall one with black hair."

"He gave you money?"

A barking laugh is too loud in your tiny room, bitterness stinging the air. "It's payment."

"For what?"

"They don't have their women around here, do they?"

Realization looks bad on your face.

You're sixteen years old today.

"A man," your uncle would say, pipe in his mouth.

You don't really feel like it.

Everyone hates each other, everyone hates the guards.

You hadn't realized how young you were until you stood next to them. They tower over you like the reformatory itself, and you're shadowed by their shiny boots and neatly combed hair.

You miss being home, where you're a god among men.

(Boys, really.)

"Just got to make them happy," Rupert explains, mouth split into a smirk.

He lounges back on his bed; you nurse a bleeding lip.

"I'm not a little bitch like you."

"That'll change."

His words are full of promise.

Sometimes, you sleep together like brothers, warm under the same itchy blankets, because it's too hard to sleep alone. When your own Heinz was alive, you slept like this on the cold ground.

That was before everything went to hell.

It's like that, sleeping in the cold room, Rupert's arm thrown over your chest.

It always takes you some time to drift off. Rupert talks in his sleep, mumbling for his mama and his sisters.

When you ask, offhand, how Anja's doing these days, your eye shines purple for a week.

One gray morning, like every other gray morning, you find it feels better to have some coins in your pocket, even if you can't get the taste of the guard from your mouth.

The auburn-haired guard stops shoving you into formation as you march around the concrete yard.

Rupert grins.

You scowl.

"There's a new one today," Rupert tells you over bread and water.

It's harder than anything to forget your first day here, but you've managed.

Gabor's voice breaks as he cries out "Animals!"

Honesty, if it even exists anymore.

He'll learn his fancy words and feelings mean nothing here, under the shadow of the reformatory, guards in tall boots.

He'll learn he's alone, even with everyone around him.

He'll shatter like they all have.

He'll forget what it feels like to have a friend, a brother, a mother.

He deserves this, so you laugh and groan, eyes wild.

You've never been a good kid.

our arms fill with miracles | spring awakening

2009-09-30T20:47:31Z

Title: Our Arms Fill With Miracles
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: PG
Characters: Melchior and Wendla
Summary: His best friend is dead, and he finds himself there again, hay prickly against the back of his neck.

Yes, a heart should always go one step too far
Come the morning and the day winding like dreams
Come the morning every blue shade of green
Come with me, go places
- "Go Places", The New Pornographers

He finds himself there again, in the cool darkness. The hay is prickly against the back of his neck and he can hear the pitter-pat of watery footsteps marching on and on outside. He's separate from that, safe inside the hayloft. The air is stale and it hangs limply, the weight of memory tugging on it, pulling it down. He and Moritz used to fall back against the hay, laying side-by-side as sunlight streamed in, making the specks of hay that floated in the air glow. It shimmered, way back then. The whole world shimmered, and golden halos surrounded their perfect, beautiful heads.

He doesn't hear her climbing up the ladder, doesn't notice her settling down beside him until she softly says, "Melchior?"; his name like a question.

Melchior's head jerks toward her, still beautiful but no longer perfect. All the smiling sunshine was stolen from her, as he became a thief. She's soaked to the bone, hair sticking to her forehead and dress clinging to her body. Her mouth is set into the same line everyone's is, lips caging words she was taught not to say, arms trapping movements she was taught not to do.

Children grow up so fast these days.

"Melchior?" she says again, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"It isn't your fault, Wendla," he tells her stockinged leg.

She tips his chin up so he has to meet her eyes. "Still." Her fingers are light and cool against his forehead, smoothing his brow. "It's terrible, Melchi. You shouldn't be here alone. He was your best friend."

Her voice cuts too close; it's too soon, he's too raw. He turns his head away. Her fingers slide down his cheek, his neck, his shoulders, brushing stray pieces of hay off of him.

"It isn't your fault, either," she whispers into the darkness, birds flying out of their cage, the soft fluttering of wings echoing in the hayloft as they escape into the musty air.

She can see his fears written all over his body, tattooed into every shift in his eyes, every furrow of his brows.

His shoulders tense under her hand. This is what he tells himself, steadily, like the drum of rain on the roof. It isn't his fault his best friend died. It isn't his fault, it isn't. But then there's Moritz's ghost in all the empty places: the desk next to his, the window across from his, the right side of the path. The emptiness hurts more than the headstone behind the church.

Melchior's head tells him to blame them — everything they did to Moritz, everything that drove him over that precarious edge. Melchior only gave him the truth; only armed him against ignorance.

But the lies didn't destroy him, did they? comes a whisper from his heart. It makes him sick, because of course he didn't kill his friend, of course he can't shoulder the blame — that's not his responsibility, even if he sometimes wants to it be. He can't be reasonable with the whisper, can't lecture to it; it's seeped into his brain and haunts him everywhere Moritz is not.

Wendla reaches for his hand, entwining her small fingers with his rougher, larger ones.

Pulls him up towards the sky, like he pulled her up towards the too-hot sun.

Says, "Melchior. It isn't your fault."

Presses her lips against his cheek, like he pressed his hand against her breast.

Says, "Don't think like that."

A breath escapes him, one he's been holding for days, it seems, as Wendla wraps her arms around his neck. He buries his face in her shoulder, inhaling the smell of puddle water and openness. She holds him close, the simple beat of her heart a soothing rhythm against chaos. The memory of golden air swirling around the hayloft is somehow less distant.

She shares the rain with him. It soaks through his shirt and to his skin, a promise that the world is still growing outside, even if it came to a stop in his own head.

"Wendla," he breathes into her dress.

Her hand comes up to rest on top of his head, fingers stroking through his hair. His mouth forms the words thank you against the curve of her neck.

He's surprised to find her blurry when he looks back up at her. He'd forgotten that he was allowed to break, that he could reach out and have a hand take his. Wendla brushes his tears away with her thumbs, gently. She kisses him, and there's still a newness to it, a kind of uncertainty. It's flawed just like they are, here in this place where gold surrounds them even though it's too dark to tell.

The kiss lingers in the emptiness between them, their foreheads pressed together.

Also, if y'all want to request any sort of fic from me, I'm totally game and lacking inspiration at the moment. Anything you'd like?

through a glass darkly | spring awakening

2009-08-27T02:21:55Z

Title: Through a Glass Darkly
Fandom: Spring Awakening (title from the first book of Corinthians)
Rating: R; for sensitive material including non-explicit abuse and incest, scenes of a mild sexual nature, and character death.
Characters: Martha, Ernst(/Hanschen), Moritz. (When you're reading the fic, their sections go in that order.)
Summary: This is the price we have to pay for growing up, is all.
Note: Thank you to calloohxcallay for helping me with this. :)

Her room is dark and quiet, and she hopes that it stays that way forever (or at least for tonight), without ragged breath and heavy footsteps and words whispered low and dangerous. There's creak in the hallway and a frantic prayer that it's her mother this time, or the cat, or her sister.

It never is.

--

It's all shiny and gold, for a few moments, and words like love and happiness taste sweet on his tongue. He could stay like this forever, with his head on Hanschen's lap and Hanschen's fingers in his hair. The only imperfect thing in the world is that evening is closer than he wants it to be, the sky painted purple and orange above him.

He lets his eyes flutter shut and smiles.

--

The sound of Melchior's laughter haunts him in his dreams, more than the legs and labia majora. He doesn't know why he feels sick to his stomach every time he sees Melchior now, why Melchior's smile and laugh seem so wrong. They used to play a guessing game when they were children: sounds like...

Sounds like everything Moritz ever wanted to be, and everything he'll never become.

*

Martha tries to wish the world away. She pretends that the rough hands on her aren't her father's, because her father is like anyone else's father — proud of his daughter.

She thought that maybe it would get better, after a while. Maybe the sting would go away; maybe it wouldn't hurt so much. Maybe, if she just played pretend for long enough, there wouldn't be dark bruises on her thighs and hips. Maybe her father wouldn't smile in the dark when tears streamed down her face. Maybe, suddenly, she'd wake up and it'd all be a dream and she could run to her parent's bedroom; a lullaby would soothe her to sleep.

Thinking like that is the only thing that keeps Martha alive. Her whole world becomes one of Ilse's make-believe games, and she pretends until her heart aches.

--

Ernst's face is very close to Hanschen's, and his body is very warm under Hanschen's, and Ernst is very much Hanschen's, without stopping to think of how he ended up like this, breathing heavily and wearing nothing but his socks. Hanschen whispers filthy words into his ear and heat spreads out all over his body, twisting into his stomach and burning his cheeks.

This has somehow become part of his daily existence, something he never bothers to question, even when Hanschen's fingers are curled tight around his wrists, or the only answer to Ernst's I love you is a laugh. It takes a place alongside eating, drinking, and school, this the two of us.

If it ever occurs to him that Hanschen never talks about the two of them together, never mumbles endearments without a my attached, Ernst pushes the thought aside. He is sixteen and in love; it's glorious to feel something.

--

It pieces together slowly in his mind; legs climbing over the lecture podium, the gun his father polishes every once in a while, feeling like he's suffocating. Slowly, the realization that there's only one way out creeps up on him. For once, everything makes sense, and he can't shake his head of the thought.

He can see his reflection in his father's gun, pale eyes staring back at him. It's a heavy weight in his hand; the weight of the world pressing against him, bearing down on him until he can't take it anymore, he can't take anything anymore.

Moritz drops the gun suddenly, and the sound of it hitting his father's desk is too much like a gunshot for him to bear. He can't help the tears that drip onto his cheeks, just like he can't help that he wakes up in the middle of the night sticky and shaking.

He pulls Melchior's essay from his breast pocket, smoothes his fingers over it. Amazing how paper can be even heavier than metal.

*

Her breath comes quick and ragged. It seems like years pass before she finally hears the door close, a sound softer than any other sound her father ever makes.

It's become routine to her. Slowly, she sits up in her bed. Martha's hands shake as she pulls her nightgown back over her knees, ignoring the marks on her thighs that will be bruises in the morning, and buttons the collar up as high as it can go. This nightgown used to be her favorite, when fancy things made her smile and ruffles lit up her eyes.

This is the price she has to pay for growing up, is all.

Her room is dark, the lone candle snuffed out. She turns onto her side so she can face the window, and looks out at the stars. Sometimes, when she needs them to, they look like a glowing face with a gentle smile, mouth opening to say, It will be alright, Martha, it will.

Martha imagines, as she clutches at her blanket, a cool hand on her forehead, gentle and soft. She imagines a girl with her hair in braids who knows everything without asking. She imagines a hand to hold when her cheeks are salty-wet with tears. And when she shakes with how much growing up hurts, her friend whispers soothing words until Martha can fall into a fitful sleep.

--

Hanschen stares at him intently for a moment, his cool blue gaze making Ernst shiver, then looks away. Months have passed like this, Hanschen never quite looking at him like he used to. Ernst doesn't want to admit (no, never, he can't, he can't) that Hanschen looks bored, lips not even willing to twitch into a leering smile.

I'm sorry sounds so strange coming from Hanschen's mouth in his even tone, like he's commenting how the grape harvest looks this year, or reciting passages in Latin.

Ernst swallows hard, ducking his head down. He can't stop himself from asking but why? in a strange, strangled voice.

Eyes cold and steely, Hanschen just shakes his head and tells Ernst that they both knew this wasn't the sort of thing that would go on forever. They are grown up now and have to think about bigger things than half-closed eyelashes and half-opened lips.

And Ernst knows this, of course. It's always lurked in a corner of his mind, drifting across his thoughts when Hanschen ignores him or the kisses they share don't feel much like sharing. The truth is cruel and brutal; he'll suffer the same fate as Melchior, Moritz, and Wendla, hurting and lost. He's a fool to the world for believing that there was some shred of hopefulness somewhere out there (in their little corner of the vineyard).

--

The sound of his feet against the ground is the loudest sound in the world. Maybe it's how heavy the gun feels in his pocket — one bullet gone would make it so much lighter. He crashes into the woods, arms all over the place, and he can hear the river flowing on and on forever. Black spreads out everywhere around him, tinged with purple and blue of nighttime. The forest looks strange like this; so unlike the place where he played pirates with Ilse and Melchior when he was a child.

He jumps when he hears Moritz Stiefel! called out into the dark woods, like it's God's own voice condemning him.

Moritz has never seen Ilse like this, color staining her lips and wearing nothing but a man's shirt. Only her smile is the same, glowing in the blackness, and he thinks, for a moment, that if he can see this shining light in the dark, he's found another door.

It would be so easy (too easy) to let her take his hand, let her brush his hair, let her pretend that they're children again. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend; it's looking at her that's the problem, legs and lips and breasts and dozens of other parts he doesn't know what to call.

He doesn't know why he lies to her (he doesn't know why he does anything anymore). He watches her run away like he's outside of his own body, and doesn't realize until she's gone that the door is closed, now, and the only thing he's left with is wanting and feeling.

The metal tastes bitter, but, then again, so does regret.

*

The only good part about night is that it's followed by morning, sun creeping up over the horizon and into her window. It feels warm on her skin. She tries not to think of the night and instead thinks of someone else far away, waking up like she is, stretching her arms out in the sunlight.

Martha never faces the mirror when she dresses in the morning, pulling stockings up over her legs as fast as she can. The sleeves of her dress are always tugged down as far as they can go. She fancies her hair looks so lovely when it's falling over her shoulders and down her back, brushed so it's silky and she can run her fingers through it. She almost laughs when she thinks of what would happen if she just walked down the stairs to help her mama with breakfast like that, but then cold sinks into her stomach.

She hopes that, somewhere far away, the someone else that smiles like she does is running with her hair streaming free behind her.

--

He always walks home alone now. The path is the same as ever, dirt under his feet and his whole world in front of him; criss-crossing streets, neat houses, a river to the east, the vineyard to the south, the Church steeple looming over everything. The tiny shapes of Anna and Martha walk arm-in-arm, Thea just a bit in front of them. He has to look twice to remind himself that Wendla isn't skipping along beside her, or that Melchior's arm isn't slung over Moritz's shoulder.

It'll never occur to him that there's a world beyond these streets he knows so well, a tangible world that isn't only in his geography book. Everything else seems like a fairy-tale to him, just as fantastical as Ilse's pirate ship.

Hanschen walks up ahead of him, stride still stiff and confident even though Ernst's is more fumbling and shuffling than ever. He wants to call out to him — his whole body aches with the want — but he doesn't.

It's a learning process, this being alone.

--

There are flowers on his grave every spring.

shadows on the floor | harry potter

2009-08-11T03:26:40Z

Title: Shadows on the Floor
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Characters: Remus Lupin
Summary: After fifteen years, Remus Lupin returns to the Shrieking Shack, half of his pack dead and the other half lost. A character study.

The passageway is familiar, so much a part of him that he could let his feet go and he would end up in the Shrieking Shack, awaiting another moonrise. It should be a small comfort to him. Instead, it fills him with dread.

All of it is a part of him; the knot in the Willow, the small passageway, the scratched door, the ruined furniture. The Shack has always been cluttered with useless things — it was even before he started destroying it monthly. The room is filled with dust and broken chairs and torn drapery, remnants of transformations he can hardly remember.

Tonight it feels empty.

There should be a smile lurking in the corner, wide and sly. He should hear Peter bumbling through the doorway. James's hand should fall hard on his shoulder to reassure him. There should be four teenage boys in this room, standing at this door, four boys with mischief in their eyes and wands alit. It's not the place for a man, worn and tired, too young for the grey in his hair.

The transformation is particularly difficult, this first night alone in this tired old shack. Pain rips at him; every limb on fire, feeling like his body is being torn apart. Muscle builds on his legs and chest as piercing cries come from his mouth, which morphs into a snout and his last human thought is for all of this to end.

But it doesn't. It never does. Animalistic and feral, he crashes into the walls of the Shack, nose smelling everything outside the doors he meticulously locked, outside this room he's trapped in. The smells and the sounds drive him crazy. He claws at himself, adding new scars to his hands his arms his legs his stomach.

Somewhere in the night, he thinks he hears a dog bark.

The wolf can do what the man can never do: let go. His feelings are simplified, and everything is easier. He howls, because he's stricken with grief and he wants desperately for the comforting presence of his pack.

He destroys a table, an antique, ornately carved.

His teeth rip apart a bedspread.

He tears a painting to shreds with his claws.

He remembers nothing when he wakes in the morning, the man again. He knows that if he gets to Madame Pomfrey quickly enough, or to Snape, the scratches on his body wouldn't scar (so badly). But he can't even will himself to move, not even to open his eyes.

Maybe if he doesn't, the last twelve years will be a nightmare. He can imagine James's bespectacled face peering down at him, and Peter's foot prodding him to see if he is awake. There's a small, hopeful part of him, untouched by war and suffering, that thinks his friends will step out of the darkness. Sirius would tell him that it's just a clever sleeping potion.

No, he tells himself.

"No," he says aloud, his voice weak and scratchy.

James is dead.

Peter is dead.

Sirius killed both of them.

And that's why he's alone right now, that's why this place haunts him, that's why the steady beat of hooves and the scratchy skitter of nails and the loping sound of paws weave throughout the broken memory of his transformation. None of those sounds could have been heard, but they echo in his mind — and the wolf's mind.

He laughs into the room, sunlight spilling over the floor, at the Sirius in his imagination offering him chocolate. He doesn't think about Sirius offering his best friend to the Dark Lord, and he doesn't think about Sirius on the loose now, running free. He thinks of Sirius holding out a chocolate bar to him and smiling with his eyes lit up, and James ruffling his hair and fixing his glasses, and Peter putting out a hand to help him up.

Maybe this house really is haunted, the ghosts of two hardly-men walking up and down the staircases.

"No," he repeats, shaking his head.

This is the first time I've written real Harry Potter fanfiction in five years. Trippy.

heaven was mine | bare

2009-07-18T16:01:31Z

Title: Heaven Was Mine
Fandom: bare
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Peter/Jason, some Ivy
Summary: 50 sentences for set Alpha at 1sentence.

01. comfort
He sleeps in Jason's bed the night before graduation, taking up half the space he has like Jason's death is just a bad dream and he's really there, rubbing his hand across Peter's back and whispering jokes to him.

02. kiss
Ivy kisses sloppily, her hands all over him, and kissing her is nothing like kissing Peter; kissing her is not kissing Peter, and he hates hates hates himself for thinking that kissing Ivy is wrong and kissing Peter is right.

03. soft
"Your bed is softer," Peter defends as he curls up next to Jason, pulling the blankets over himself and getting as comfortable as he can in a bed made for one.

04. pain
Jason thinks in a rush that this isn't so bad, Peter's here, this will all be okay, and he dies without thinking what will happen to everyone else, a smile on his face and in Peter's arms.

05. potatoes
The Red Sox versus Yankees game is flickering on their tiny TV; a bad play sends the bag of chips in Jason's hand flying all over Peter, lying on his stomach next to him.

06. rain
A storm falls on the roof, and Peter, feeling reckless, pulls Jason out of bed and together they sneak outside in their pajamas and bare feet, hands entwined as they run into the night like maniacs, the sound of their laughter muffled by the rain.

07. chocolate
He wishes that they can have Valentine's Day; but it would just look weird, Pete, wouldn't it, if he just went out and bought candy when he wasn't dating anyone, and Peter has to agree, at least on the outside, disappointed that Jason's kiss means I'm sorry and not I love you.

08. happiness
It runs in a circular motion: Peter smiles and Jason smiles and their hands find each other's and their lips press together and Peter smiles and Jason smiles.

09. telephone
He stares at the phone and it seems to stare back at him, until he finally reaches towards it with Sister Chantelle's voice ringing in his head.

10. ears
Jason whispers into his ear, swear words that color the feeling of Jason's hands on him, sliding across his stomach and down and down until he sees stars beneath his eyelids.

11. name
Peter is the rock on which Jason builds himself, stuck together with some tape and held up awkwardly in some places.

12. sensual
Their room is dark but he doesn't need to see, just feel; hands, a sharp intake of breath, lips and tongue and teeth, fingers twisted in his hair.

13. death
They hold a funeral over the toilet bowl for Peter's fish in seventh grade, good ol' Captain Tug; "crying" in mourning, and Peter just wants Jason's "comforting" arm over his shoulder to be real.

14. sex
He's caught in a riptide and Peter's pulling him under, and he can't breathe but somehow finds the air for IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou; it tumbles out of his mouth and out into the open where he couldn't take it back even if he wanted to.

15. touch
It's a game they play (a cruel game that ends in running up the stairs to their room or slipping into a bathroom); Peter's fingers trailing over Jason's back as he takes his seat for History, Jason's hand on Peter's thigh as they watch a movie in Chemistry.

16. weakness
Jason envies Peter; how confident he is, how sure of himself — he wishes he could be like Peter, not only on the outside, but within himself as well, and he knows he can't because he'll never, ever be as brave as Peter.

17. tears
School, basketball, his parents, his sister, his classmates; sometimes, it's overwhelming, and he tries not to let anyone see him like this, but the wall is torn down once he gets to his room and leans into Peter and lets him put the pieces back together.

18. speed
The road unfurls before them and they grin at each other, daredevil grins of blue trucks and freedom and going where no one knows them or who they are supposed to be.

19. wind
Peter chases haphazardly after his scarf as it's blown in the wintry wind, and Jason outruns him, scooping it up, dangling it in front of Peter's face before taking off again with Peter running after him, more curses falling from his mouth than snow is falling from the sky.

20. freedom
Breathless, Peter spins in a circle, his back touching Jason's, looking out at his classmates' shocked faces — and it's exhilarating, for a moment, before this new liberty sinks into fear.

21. life
They always talk about after school, where they'll be (together, obviously, but where, when, how?) — Jason likes to question, but Peter just tells him they've got the rest of their lives to worry about money and jobs and everyone else.

23. hands
There's a French test tomorrow, and they're sprawled out on Peter's bed, studying, their fingers laced together like they never are outside the locked door.

24. taste
"Ew, gum," Peter says, sticking out his tongue; "Taco Bell," Jason corrects, grinning at him.

25. devotion
Someone could write books about their love, how perfect and beautiful it is, how Peter loves Jason so much that he doesn't push him off the bed when he hogs all the blankets.

26. forever
They could run away and never look back, living in their own perfect world and never have to deal with any bad guys; they could be the heroes in their own fairytale, two princes escaping from the clutches of the evil queen.

27. blood
"You bit me! I think I'm bleeding!" Jason yelps, sticking out his bottom lip for Peter to see what he'd done — Peter rolls his eyes and kisses it better.

28. sickness
He wants to be fixed, he wants to look at Peter and feel absolutely nothing, he wants a cure; but he has a feeling that that ship has already sailed, and it brings his damnation.

29. melody
Jason must know every word to every song in Wicked, Peter sings it in the shower so much.

30. star
The streets of Verona have faded to the halls of St. Cecilia, but it's still two star-crossed lovers with the world against them.

31. home
"Home run," Jason mumbles drowsily, his unseen smirk pressed against Peter's collarbone.

32. confusion
It doesn't make sense, because Jason can't be dead; Jason has to be alive and breathing next to him, holding his hand.

33. fear
A split second's time is all Jason's heart needs to start beating even more rapidly in his chest, the split second when Peter doesn't respond to his kiss, doesn't do anything, and every warning signal goes off in Jason's head but he still waits, for another split second, to feel Peter's lips move against his own.

34. lightning/thunder
Jason shivers in his bed, twelve years old and exhausted; sleep can't come to him with a storm outside — he swears it's the thunder that makes him jump, not Peter's voice softly asking if he's alright from across the room.

35. bonds
"No," Jason lies, and they fall back onto the bed, Peter crushing their mouths together; Jason can't even begin to think how much he missed him, and regret coils with need in his stomach.

36. market
They have a beat-up microwave they bought for fifty dollars, and neither of them are any good at cooking, so they have to survive on Cup-O-Noodles and popcorn when they need a midnight snack.

37. technology
His face splits into a grin when he gets Peter's text — gnight babe i love you — and he knows he should delete it from his Inbox before anyone looks at it, but he can't bring himself to.

38. gift
For his sixteenth birthday, Peter gets an Easy-Bake oven from Jason, who is grinning at him mischievously; he'll be sorry when Peter makes himself a birthday cake.

39. smile
There's a silence after peals of laughter and they meet eyes across the room, the corners of their mouths slowly tilting up until they're laughing again at an old joke that wasn't even funny before.

40. innocence
He doesn't understand how Peter can be so innocent, so naïve as to believe in the metaphor of life as a rave where no one cares how they act or what they do or who they love.

41. completion
Life feels perfect like this; Friday night in bed with no alarm clock tomorrow morning and no one expecting them to be anyone else than Peter and Jason.

42. clouds
In springtime, they all traipse out to the lawn to lie on the grass and look up at the clouds, pointing out shapes in the sky; it's easy for them to tangle their fingers on the ground between them.

43. sky
They have their little piece of sky through their window, and Jason tells himself that he's okay with just a little piece of sky, he doesn't need it stretching all the way across his vision; they can be okay here, with just a little.

44. heaven
God loves you no matter what God loves you no matter what God loves you no matter what — it doesn't matter how many times Jason hears this; there are always exceptions to rules.

45. hell
Peter's afraid, too, Jason knows, though he doesn't show it often; every backwards glance and paper shuffle in Religion class is a tiny break.

46. sun
It creeps in like reality, spilling over the floor and streaming onto the bed they share; whispered truths are a remnant of a dream when morning comes.

47. moon
They can have everything in the world, together, except the elusive truth that changes them when they step through a passageway; Peter hates that door, the door that changes his Jason into their Jason.

48. waves
Summer vacation finds Jason relaxing on a raft in the pool and Peter sprawled out on a towel on the beach, connected by cell phones and laughter.

49. hair
Peter jerks awake at the sound of his alarm clock, praying to God he's not late for class, and is blinded by the flash of Jason's camera capturing his 7 am bedhead and puffy eyes.

50. supernova
The audience can wait; because this is the moment where everything glows perfectly, just like it did four years ago — and Peter doesn't want to think about the second act, when everything fades.

Also! I will be traversing Europe in the next three weeks so I will not be around. Have a lovely rest of July, everyone!

this is NOT a high school musical fic

2009-06-29T04:55:40Z

Title: Oh My God I Wrote High School Musical Fanfiction
Fandom: High School Musical, WTF
Rating: PG-13 (is that a sin re: Disney?)
Characters: ship o' UST, cameo by Sharpay
Summary: Oh, dear. I really wrote High School Musical fanfiction.

I'm blaming calloohxcallay.
Prompts = 64 damn ones.

1. 2 a.m.; chad at the university of albuquerque ; ryan at julliard
His phone vibrates incessantly on his bedside table, and what he really wants right now is to sleep, not chat, but Ryan picks it up anyway.

"Ry?"

"It's two o' clock in the morning, Chad." And you sound slightly drunk, Chad, is what he doesn't say. It's too early for that.

"Shit! Time differences. Uh, I'll call you back." At least he's somewhat guilty.

"Did you need something?"

"Nope." Definitely guilty.

"Why the fuck did you call, then?" Ryan sounds groggy, and slightly bitchy.

"I just wanted to tell you I miss you."

"I'm coming home tomorrow, Chad." Definitely bitchy.

2. metaphor; not a simile; not like love, it is love
"'Ryan Evans is hot like the sun'," Chad reads aloud in a whisper. Ryan rolls his eyes from across the table. He's actually attempting to use his study hall for studying, and Chad is distracting him.

"That's not even a metaphor. But I appreciate the complement." He bends his head back over his science book and tries to focus.

"Fine." Chad bites his lip. "Ryan Evans is the sun," he amends with a smirk, crossing out his messy scrawl and rewriting his sentence.

"Nice," Ryan says.

"You do the sparkly thing. All shiny and stuff. You could be the sun."

3. sky; and we watch clouds together and we smile, smile
The end-of-summer sky is a perfect shade of midnight blue. Lanterns at hand, they'd made their way out to the golf course. Summertime is different; something about the air changes things. Ryan starts to worry about what will happen come fall, but Chad knocks their shoulders together.

"What?"

As the sprinklers go off, Chad takes his hand and runs, tugging Ryan after him, spinning and spinning in a haphazard dance. Ryan hasn't danced like this since he was six, arms stretched out and twirling in circles. Their laughter rings out into the golf course, into the whole world, up to the sky.

4. lost scene; nothing else he wants to do after a game
"No one'll notice," Chad says, scrutinizing himself in Ryan's white polo in the locker room mirror.

Ryan's reflection behind him deadpans.

"Well, no one'll care." He adjusts Ryan's cap on his head. "If Troy can date a geek, then I can date you."

"Who said we were dating?"

"We just...you're not the kind of guy who..." Chad pauses, slightly horrified. "Dude. You are totally that kind of guy."

Ryan smirks, and his reflection draws nearer in the mirror. He trails his fingertips up the curve of Chad's back. "You look nice in that shirt."

Chad thinks that means he'll make an exception.

5. degrees; if it were as hot as you, it'd be hot
January in New York City is absolutely freezing. Chad knows Ryan should have come to New Mexico for winter break, but didn't he just want to see the snowy city? The tree was up at Rockefeller Center, how could he miss that? And the Radio City Christmas Show!

His feet are cold on the floor of Ryan's dorm room, and he yelps and lurches back onto Ryan's bed. "It's f-f-freezing," he stutters. Ryan's eyes flutter open.

"It's warmer here," he offers, and Chad slips back under the covers.

It really doesn't matter that the room is cold when Ryan's mouth is warm.

6. seize the day; so tell me, please, is this love?
Their first kiss was in sophomore year, and it wasn't supposed to ever be anything. Chad was curious and Ryan wasn't easy, exactly.

But he was easy.

And it was harmless, mostly. If hot jocks were lining up to make out with him, he could deal. And Chad Danforth was an excellent kisser. When their rendezvous in locker rooms and deserted classrooms ended, there was no sting of regret or pinch of doubt. They simply went their own ways.

It's no different after the baseball game, how easily they fall in place next to each other, smirking. It's still nothing.

7. opposite; yet they're the best of friends
"Do you think I'm hot?" Chad asks at the start of summer, and Ryan would have said it was unexpected only it so wasn't.

"Sure," he allows.

"That wasn't enthusiastic. I think I'm hot."

"I'm aware of that."

Chad grins at him — that wide, happy, perfect, hot grin. Ryan melts a little, somewhere deep in his soul.

"Why do you ask?"

"You like dudes. I'm a dude. Thought I'd get an opinion."

"Don't you have a girlfriend for that?"

"I'm not dating Taylor," he says, looking at Ryan with raised eyebrows. "And she'd hit me."

"I wouldn't?"

"You haven't yet."

8. passions run; of course this isn't their first kiss
A smile curves on Ryan's (really ridiculously red, soft, perfect) lips, and it's sly and dangerous. He beckons wordlessly with arched eyebrows and Chad follows wordlessly with a goofy grin across his face. Locker rooms are terribly unromantic but Ryan doesn't need romantic right now, and he's not sure if Chad ever needs romantic.

"Kiss me," he says, and it's an order. Chad complies eagerly, hand catching Ryan's hip. Ryan's breath hitches and he takes a moment to compose himself mentally, to check things off in his brain, to get back in charge here, because there is no way that Chad Danforth is making him breathless and wanting.

9. connection; knees touching, we talk
The drama supply closet is Ryan's favorite place for thinking. He's not really a thinker; he has people who can do that for him, but if he ever needs a quiet moment, he can settle back against the costumes and breathe deep, calming breaths. Hardly anyone knows about it.

Which is why he's surprised to find Chad Danforth there; almost as surprised as Chad seems to be.

"Don't ask," Chad says hopelessly, tugging at a curl. It's cute, in a jock-ish way.

Ryan smiles down at him, and then sinks into a seated position across from him, legs barely touching.

10. lull and storm; twins stick together
Ryan pushes Chad backwards onto the sofa and falls on top of him. Somehow, it manages to be lithely graceful, with Ryan's pale fingers curled in his hair. "You're a little pushy," Chad taunts breathily.

A smirk pulls at Ryan's lips. "I haven't—" he nips at Chad's jaw line "—seen you in a week."

"Aw, didja miss me?"

"Of course I missed you."

Chad's fingers play at his hips as he drops kisses all over Chad's face and molds their mouths together.

They are interrupted by a high-pitched shriek from a pink-clad girl. "Tongue! Ew! Ew! I saw your tongue!"

11. animal; it's a nickname, a really old nickname
Flipping Ryan's phone open, Chad stifles a giggle. "Ry, why's there a duck as your background?"

Ryan's eyes flick towards him and then look back down quickly. He clenches his fingers on the steering wheel and comments about the weather.

"It's a cute duck, but just...why?"

The sky is a particularly lovely shade of blue, if he does say so himself.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I'll get it out of you eventually."

Ryan chances a glance at Chad. His brow furrows as he puzzles over Ryan's phone. "I like ducks."

"Lame answer."

12. children; in kindergarten sparkly hats and dancing didn't matter
Chad had gone to school with Ryan for as long as he could remember. From kindergarten until seventh grade, he went to every one of Ryan's birthday parties. The entire house was always decorated to extravagant perfection, and everything from video games to pony rides was offered.

Chad could pinpoint the moment when everything changed, when he knew it wouldn't be okay to hang out with Ryan anymore. A sunny Tuesday in October of seventh grade when Ryan got shoved in the locker room and everyone laughed.

Chad swallowed the lump in his throat and told Troy he liked Taylor.

13. we all float on; change comes when you least expect it
Chad nervously twists a curl with his finger. He's not really a relationship guy; he's a make-out session and then some guy. He doesn't get attached.

The problem is, he's already attached to Ryan. Ryan became his best friend the summer before senior year, and even though he has Troy back, Ryan is a part of him now. They fit together perfectly, and he means that in the most clichéd way possible.

He catches Ryan's hand on its way to his belt and squeezes. "Are we..." he starts. "Are we, like, a thing now?"

Ryan smirks. "Darling," he says. "We're everything."

14. chess; king takes king
They're both pawns, in all honesty. Ryan is a pawn of the Queen; Chad is a pawn of the King. They are defined always by someone else. Ryan the brother; Chad the best friend. When Sharpay finds the boy and Troy finds the girl, they're suddenly on their own. When it all crumbles around them, the taste of betrayal is bitter on their tongues.

It's natural that they come together like this (like hands fisted in hair and fingers through belt loops and mouths everywhere). Lonely and afraid that things will never been like they were, they create new things.

15. duty; they've always been like brothers
"So, you don't hate me?" Chad asks.

"Dude," Troy says, and then repeats himself for effect. "Dude. I could never hate you. You're my brother, man."

Chad breathes. "Okay. I just wasn't sure."

"That's pretty insulting, actually," Troy says as he makes a layup. "Why should I care if you like boys or girls?"

"I dunno, man." He steals the ball.

"I mean, and I totally get it if you want to stare at me in the locker room. I'm cool with that. I think everyone stares at me in the locker room, y'know? Not to be egotistical or anything."

16. rip; sometimes, life sucks
Friends leaving friends for girls is something that's only supposed to happen in the movies. In the movies, it's funny and dramatic.

In real life, it sucks.

Troy has been his best friend since pre-school. Never the brightest guy, but he's always had a good heart. Chad can't really function without Troy. They're TroyandChad, Rulers of the School, attached at the hip.

"He'll come around," Ryan says lightly after dance rehearsal.

"What? Who?"

"Troy. Duh."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. I hope." Since when has Ryan Evans read his mind?

"He will. Shar will, too. We just have to give them time."

Ryan would totes make awesome Broadway references, bee-tee-dubs.

masterlist

2009-06-28T04:52:53Z

Masterlist of all Fanfiction
organized by fandom

SPRING AWAKENING
A Song for the Sky; Anna/Georg, PG. Ficlets based upon 18coda prompts.

Tell Me, Please; Hanschen(/Ernst), PG-13. Hanschen in second-person, companion to this.

Remarkable Times; General, G. It was raining pussycats and dogs, and at eight sky-blue stockings didn't matter.

A Shadow Passed; General, PG. Mourning is remembrance.

Christ Will Come A-Callin'; Wendla, Hanschen/Ernst, G. Wendla and Ernst used to play fairies.

I Love Your Light; Ernst(/Hanschen), PG-13. Ernst in second-person, companion to this.

Consume My Mind; Hanschen/Ernst, PG-13. Eight vineyard scenes.

You're Gonna Be Wounded; Hanschen/Ernst, PG-13. Prompted ficlets.

SPRING AWAKENING HIGH SCHOOL AU
Two Scenes; Moritz, Ilse, Hanschen/Ernst, PG. Reworking of "Blue Wind/Don't Do Sadness" and "The Word of Your Body (Reprise)" for the High School AU.

You Don't Want to Play?; General, Hanschen/Ernst, PG. Ernst's birthday party.

My Junk is You; General, Hanschen/Ernst, PG. Ficlets of random scenes in the High School AU.

Poke; Hanschen/Ernst, G. Bother bother bother bother.

High School AU Fact Sheet + Drabbles; General, PG. Random facts re: the High School AU and several silly ficlets.

Get Real, Jose; General, PG. Melchior's birthday party.

High School AU; General, PG. High School AU ficlets on Ilse, Moritz, Bobby Maler, Hanschen/Ernst, and Melchior.

BARE: A POP OPERA
Heaven Was Mine; Peter/Jason, PG-13. It's exhilarating, for a moment. 50 sentences on Peter and Jason, based on 1sentence prompts.

Crossroads; Peter/Jason, PG. The first kiss scenario. Again. As always. Included: a poem.

The Life You Never Lived In; Peter/Jason, PG-13. The life Jason would have had, had he given himself the chance.

Twenty Signs Only Nadia Stopped to Read; Nadia, Peter/Jason, PG. Nadia was practically tripping over the signs.

With a Thousand Sweet Kisses; Peter/Jason, PG. Ten drabbles based upon prompts from Jonathan Larson's RENT.

Oh, My Darling; Peter/Jason, G. They've done a lot of stupid things, but this is probably the stupidest.

Three French Hens; Ivy/Matt, PG. Christmas past, Christmas present, and Christmas future with Ivy, written for the bare_fic Secret Santa.

It's Not Goodbye; General, Peter/Jason, PG. The aftermath.

Why We Whisper; General, Peter/Jason, G. The signs were everywhere.

AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER
omgwtf r u a firebenda?; Jet/Zuko, PG-13. Jet first propositions him on the ferry to Ba Sing Se.

Taken Sin; Azula, Dai Li agent, PG. For the prompt "Azula" at avatar_contest.

Silence; Longshot, PG. How a boy lost his story and his voice.

Mirror, Mirror; Toph, G. For the prompt "beauty" at avatar_contest.

Sunset; Ursa/Ozai, PG. It had been an arranged marriage, and she hadn't expected to fall in love.

Beginnings; Aang's anonymous mother, G. She watched her son grow up from a distance -- not considered canon, by any means.

In the Dark; Oma/Shu, PG. Two lovers, forbidden from one another. A war divides their people.

HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL
He Hasn't Danced Like This; Chad/Ryan, PG-13. A smile curves on Ryan's (really ridiculously red, soft, perfect) lips, and it's sly and dangerous.

HARRY POTTER
Shadows on the Floor; Remus Lupin, PG. After fifteen years, Remus Lupin returns to the Shrieking Shack, half of his pack dead and the other half lost. A character study.

Masterlist of all Original Fiction
The Late Bus; Romance, PG. People fall in love in the strangest of places. A statement on equality.

Masterlist of Miscellany, Et Cetera
Thought Process on Shinkou; Avatar: The Last Airbender. For an abandoned project.

ABCDE Writing Meme; Spring Awakening, bare: a pop opera. Some character work at the request of whomever would like to request.

Contest Prizes

for this.

for this.

crossroads | bare

2009-06-22T15:35:17Z

Title: Crossroads, For Lack of A Better Title
Fandom: bare: a pop opera
Rating: PG, fluff
Characters: Peter/Jason
Summary: Overused plot for a bare fic go!

Edited with thanks to left_of_weir.

September is the ninth month of the year, prelude to the creeping chill of October and a memory of the warmth of August. It's forward and backward — once upon a time they could hardly look at each other and now they're eager to meet eyes again.

September is an introduction, no matter how familiar the halls of St. Cecilia's are to him, arms full of a very freckly Peter. He can't help but react to Peter's arms around his middle, leaning into him heavily and holding on to him for longer than is probably necessary. It's by no means a manly hug, shoulder-bumping and back-slapping. But that's okay. They're best friends. He hasn't seen Peter all summer. Jason's not-run over to Peter and the way he not-squeezed him tightly was normal, just as normal as the not-smile on his face and the not-blush on his cheeks and how not-aware he is of everywhere Peter is pressed against him. He's allowed to hug him, portraits of saints all around them. He's supposed to hug him.

Peter gingerly detangles himself from Jason's embrace. For a moment, Jason panics. Peter's moving slowly, carefully; maybe Jason held on too long, maybe Peter knew. But Peter smiles at him. He can't know. If he did, he wouldn't be smiling.

"How was your summer?" Peter asks, still close to him. He picks up his suitcase from the floor and adjusts his Red Sox cap.

"Fine," Jason says. "Me and Nadia basically had the house to ourselves the whole time. Played a lot of basketball. It's really easy to win against yourself." He smiles. "How 'bout you?"

Peter starts down the hall and up the stairs. "It was nice," he says over his shoulder to Jason. "I didn't really do much. My mom and I went to the beach, and that was nice..."

The rest of Peter's summer gets lost as Jason tries to keep his mind off of Peter anywhere near the beach.

Their door is the same as always, shabby white paint and a brass 243 hung crookedly. Peter takes his key from the lanyard around his neck. He has to shake the knob to get the door to open, but when it does, it feels like home. He holds the door open with his elbow as he shuffles inside, suitcase rolling behind him, box in his arms, bag over his shoulder, and smiles gratefully when Jason holds it open with his toe. Their room is empty, but Jason knows that it'll be a cluttered mess by the end of the week.

"Home sweet home," Jason grins.

And there's Peter's smile again, gracious and warm. Jason can't help but smile back at him, even when he turns his back to put his things on his bed. They have their annual play-argument about Red Sox posters versus Yankees posters, and end up with both on the far wall, next to each other. Peter sets his Bible down right next to his RENT libretto on the bookshelf, and Jason slides his binder of baseball cards between them.

Shoulders and elbows bumping as they reacquaint themselves with their room and each other, conversation drifts across the air. Peter wonders what the play will be this year, and Jason wonders how the basketball team will shape up. He catches himself in the mirror smiling at Peter more than once. After a whole summer of not seeing Peter, being so close to him again makes Jason jumpy.

Two weeks later, and Jason's arm still twitches whenever Peter bumps into him, hugs him, sits too close to him, leans over him. He doesn't hear the door to their room open, or Peter's footsteps, but he hears his bag drop to the floor. It falls with a heavy thud, like reason is falling out of Jason's brain, now that Peter is here. All he can see are the freckles still splashed across Peter's cheeks from the summer sun and every other minute detail about Peter's face and his nose that Jason's (almost) come to terms with thinking his cute and the way Peter's lips are moving around words Jason isn't really hearing.

And then, before he can think otherwise, he's framing Peter's face with his hands and kissing him. Peter squeaks and his eyes grow wide. For a brief, terrible moment, he thinks that he hallucinated all the glances, touches, and blushes. But then Peter's arms come up to his shoulders and he's kissing him back.

It's as awkward and messy as every other first kiss in the history of the universe, and that's a comforting thought. It's not so different, so weird, that they're kissing and their noses are bumping together in the middle of the room. Peter's bag is upturned on the floor, and Jason's alarm clock is projecting the wrong time, and nothing around them has changed at all. But it feels like they're caught in a riptide, and they hold on to each other.

"Jason..." Peter's voice is curved with a question and Jason isn't sure if he can answer it right now.

His brain is clouded with thoughts that bang against the side of his skull. If Peter's fingers weren't light on his arms, he might have just drifted away. He's dizzy (he should start breathing now, start moving, start talking) like he's been spinning around in circles for hours.

Maybe he's lost his mind in the process.

"Jason?"

Maybe he's lost himself.

His name has never had a question mark attached to it before. Jason has always been Jason McConnell, boy wonder, who will have a basketball career and a trophy wife and adorable children and a nice house. The only thing that's left of that Jason is a still-smiling mask, not the confused gaze of the Jason McConnell who just kissed Peter, his best friend, and hopes that he can do it again sometime soon. His head feels a million miles away but his heart is still in the middle of his chest, beating rapidly.

"Peter," he realizes, resisting the urge to say it over and over again.

Peter trails his hands down Jason's arms and takes his hands in his own. "Jason? What the hell was that?"

"I don't...I don't know." He leans into Peter, breathing against his cheek.

"That felt like a kiss, Jase." Peter's voice is shaky.

"I think it was." He laughs into Peter's ear. Peter rests his hands gingerly on Jason's face and just looks at him.

"How did you know?" he asks shyly.

He could share a million different tiny instances, moments when he'd just felt connected to Peter. But he's not ready to give up that part of himself. Instead, Jason grins at him. "Is there a person in this school who doesn't want to make out with me?"

Peter scowls and hits Jason's chest, hard. It's not one of Ivy's playful slaps or Nadia's half-hearted punches. It's solid, and open-palmed and boyish. "Jerk."

A smile flickers across Jason's face, because even though he's gained a new something in Peter, he still has his best friend. There's nothing left of him anymore, now that he's shattered all the lies that made up who he was. There's nothing left of him anymore, so he hides in his own skin and trusts Peter to be his rock.

And because I told Dillon I would:

A failure of a poem about Jason, complete with Romeo and Juliet quotes taken out of context. I'm practically Jon Hartmere.

Somehow,
he didn't think the end
would be like this.
It's
too rash,
too unadvised,
too sudden.

And it's
too
fucking
pretty.

Wasn't it supposed to be sad?
It's not.
There's music playing,
and he's just drifting away.
Swirls of color
spin in the air.
He wonders
when he stopped finger-painting
with Nadia.

His head feels light.
He can hear voices
calling out.
Funny
how he always wanted
to call back,
before.
Now they're just making his head hurt.

Oh.
Where'd the floor go?
It was just there, he swears,
(he's always had a foul mouth)
under his feet.

Well, he doesn't need a floor
to hold him up.
Or loud voices,
or secrets,
or Juliet.
(Ivy,
he means —
Ivy.)

He has Peter.

the late bus | original

2009-06-14T21:38:17Z

Title: The Late Bus (A Summary, of Sorts)
Fandom: original
Rating: PG
Characters: original
Summary: Funny how friendships start in the strangest of places.

The Late Bus

I remember when the world was cool and wet and wonderful; sneakers drenched in puddle-water, arms outstretched to the sky. I was best friends with Zachary Lawrence, then, before he realized that I was the kid who wore ratty old sneakers and he was the kid who was going to be someone. Before we all realized that Santa Claus was a jolly, fat lie and rain still looked like falling diamonds.

Now it just looks like bad news coming down; cats and dogs. Six tests today, and a quiz, and I managed to spill spaghetti sauce all over myself at lunch. The bus's bright yellow-orange tries in vain to be the sun, and some of us sitting on the wet curve look up hopefully, yellow shimmering between raindrops.

At least it's warmer.

Mr. Joe-the-Bus-Driver says hey to me as I get onto the bus, and I smile at him despite the weather. A grin is permanently stretched out onto his face, even in the rain, and it's a grin you can't help but return. Even on the late bus route, when he'd probably much rather be home, he's still smiling. I find my way to my usual seat; usual after basketball and homework and finishing art projects.

Today sucks, the seat says.

Yeah, I add in Sharpie.

Nice to know someone feels the same way I do, even though I don't know their name.

xxx

It takes me a while to recognize Zachary Lawrence as he stumbles through the rain on Tuesday, trying to find his bus. There are three late buses, so it isn't that hard, and there's also a list of what late bus you're on.

But he's too smart for that.

"Excuse me?" he says to Joe, out of breath and sopping wet. "Do you go to Esther Road?"

Joe gives him a smile and a nod, and Zachary Lawrence breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

xxx

We used to be best friends, Zachary Lawrence and I, until sixth grade. He moved here from far away in Texas, and I was the first person he met. He told me he wanted to be a doctor/actor/lawyer/humanitarian. In second grade, it was a jumble of words. We sat together at the yellow table and we shared snacks and crayons and safety-scissors, and we ran to the buses in the rain. Back then, it didn't matter if I wore glasses and brought lunch in a paper bag instead of a lunch box.

Sometime in the summer before sixth grade, he started having friends that I didn't know, and he started go to the pool without me. He told me one day that we couldn't be friends anymore. We had classes together but between the middle of sixth grade and junior year, we said thirty words to each other.

Which is why I'm surprised when he sits down next to me in November.

xxx

He says, "Hey." There's a winning smile on his face. Five thousand dollars worth of orthodontia can do that for you. It doesn't stop him from looking like a wet cat.

I say, "..."

xxx

Joe asks me why that new kid's been sitting with me, and I tell him that I don't really know. I normally sit alone on the bus, because there are empty seats everywhere. I can tell that Zach is as much of a conundrum to Joe as he is to me. Joe makes it a point to get to know the kids that ride the late bus, so he can pick out the vandals and the kids who open the back door just to make the alarm go off. If you're a regular, you don't even need to tell him what road to drop you off at. He has a good memory for directions.

xxx

It becomes a custom for Zach to sit next to me. He stays after school for debate team and sometimes for band practice, and he tells me all of this because __________.

I'm sure there's a reason for it.

Our conversations are about nothing in particular, until one day when he mentions the yellow table and second grade and sharing crayons and safety-scissors.

I say, "Why do you even remember that?" There's a hint of a laugh in my words.

He says, "You were the first person to be nice to me."

xxx

It all comes back in a rush, why I wanted to be friends with him in the first place. He's the kind of person that makes you feel like you're always right, even if you're wrong. He helps me with math after school one day, showing me how to work out a particularly annoying quadratic. Even though it comes so easily to him, he assures me that it's a difficult thing to do.

I roll my eyes at him, but even though he's totally a liar and I know it, it makes me feel better. I catch myself smiling at him and crinkle my nose at the thought. Social classes don't mix quite like that. I know it. He knows it.

xxx

FML, the bus seat says.

I know, I write back, in Sharpie.

xxx

There are initials scrawled all over the bus seat, P + J 4EVER inscribed in a heart, s loves l written in red. I'm not sure if Joe can't keep up with the scribbling or if he thinks it's cute, just on this one seat. I try not to think about it. Zach points out especially funny ones to me and we laugh at them together, shoulders shaking with laughter and brushing together casually.

He says, "God, at least spell your true love's name right."

I say, "Oh, come on. M-A-T-T-H-H-E-U-Y is totally how you spell Matthew."

He says, "Maybe it's a code." And he grins.

xxx

By February, sitting together on the bus has transitioned to sitting together on the curb after school. By March, it's hanging out after school together in the music room, Zach playing the melody on the piano and me playing the harmony. By April, it's raining again and we're sitting together on the bus.

I kiss him on the corner of his mouth, so quickly that I'm not even sure it happened. He stares at me for a moment, and in that moment I can't even bring myself to be afraid of what he thinks. And then he knocks our foreheads together and our noses bump awkwardly and we're kissing, my hands against his cheeks and his hand falling to my hip. It's not my first kiss but it still sends me reeling, the feel of his mouth against mine, and my stomach fills with seventh-grade spin-the-bottle butterflies.

He says, "What was that?"

I say, "That was a kiss. I think."

And he says, "That was a good kiss."

And I say, "It was. Definitely."

And he says, "Do you want to do it again?"

And we do.

xxx

We run in the rain together to catch the bus, and he catches my hand in his as we reach the door. Joe just turns his ever-present grin on us and rolls his eyes, pulling out of the parking before we can stumble into our seat.

xxx

Zach hates thunderstorms, and he hates that we're caught in one in June. School's out by now, so there's no bus to take us anywhere and we spend afternoons walking. We're a while from his house when we start getting pelting by rain drops, and then the first rumble of thunder rocks the world around us and lightning pierces the sky. Zach jumps closer to me, shivering, and takes my hand.

He says, "I really fucking hate thunderstorms."

I say, "You're such a baby."

And he says, "Shut the fuck up."

And I smile at him and kiss him on the cheek before we race down the street, hands entwined.

xxx

September comes, and we're back on the late bus in our usual seat. It's familiar and perfect, where a friendship started over again. Joe greets us both with a smile and asks us about our summer. We leave out a lot of it for his sake, and then listen to the story of his youngest daughter's marriage and how his oldest grandson spent the entire summer at the pool.

Joe's a little bit balder but his smile hasn't changed.

xxx

E + F = ♥, the bus seat says.

A + Z = ♥, I add in Sharpie.

xxx

It's raining one day in October when we have a substitute bus driver. At Joe's memorial service, I meet his wife, tiny and round and bleary-eyed, clutching a monogrammed handkerchief. She says hello to me and there's a question in her voice; why is this teenager here? Do we know each other?

"No," I say, the words fighting their way out of my throat. "Mr. Joe was my bus driver, for the last couple of years. And we hit a couple of curbs and a telephone pole, once. But he always got me home safe."

Her embrace is warm.

xxx

Life spirals downwards from there until Zach is the only person keeping me up. My grandfather is sick, my mother was called back to duty in the war, my sister has been dropping weight steadily for the past few months but no one has noticed but. I slowly become more tired, more withdrawn.

Zach leads me away from the buses one day, to a truck he saved up for and is proud of. I can't help it.

I burst into tears.

The late bus doesn't feel the same with a mean old lady driving it, but it's always been a safe haven for me, since I was in sixth grade and my best friend stopped talking to me. Joe had asked me what was wrong that day, when I stepped onto the bus with red eyes and a runny nose.

Zach pulls me closer to him.

He says, "Hey."

I say, "I'm sorry. I'm tired."

He says, "That's okay. Come on. I'll drive you home."

I get into his truck. We end up driving to his house instead, and we watch trashy TV until we fall asleep together on the couch to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof. He ruins his perfect attendance record the next day and lets me talk for hours about what's wrong.

xxx

I thought it would help, but it doesn't. By the time April rolls around, I can hardly remember what his head laying on my shoulder feels like. My sister and I have the house to ourselves most of the time, but Zach hardly comes over. He's going to Harvard in the fall.

It's sixth grade all over again. We talk less and less and I smile less and less. I stop telling him what's wrong when he asks.

It's a bad cycle.

xxx

He knocks on my door one rainy afternoon. I can see his red pick-up truck out the window. I don't even give myself a glimmer of hope that he'll come in and sweep me off my feet.

He says, "You've been distant."

And I say, "You're breaking up with me."

And he says, "I'm pretty sure I am."

I don't yell after his back, retreating to the safety of his clunky car. The rain falls down on him. It's dreary and wet and the bringer of bad news. On rainy days, the world is awful and even though I can't cry, the sky can. On rainy days, your hair is a mess and all you want to do is curl up in bed with some hot chocolate. On rainy days, you're forced to sit inside and watch the world through the frame of your window.

And it kind of sucks.

Katharine -- I left in the possibility of April as the narrator. I like her too much to completely leave her out. :)

Bonus points if you can name all of the initials pairs.

How, may I ask, did you picture the narrator?

the life you never lived in | bare

2009-06-02T23:22:37Z

Title: The Life You Never Lived In
Fandom: bare: a pop opera
Rating: very light PG-13
Characters: Peter/Jason, all
Summary: Future-tense; the life Jason never let himself have.

The title comes from "The Clouds Will Drift Away" by Duncan Sheik.

The play would have finished, and everyone would take their bows. If you were paying attention to that sort of thing, you would see Jason maneuver himself next to Peter and take his hand. And if you were sitting somewhere in the first five rows, you would see Peter smile slightly at him and lift their hands. If you knew what was happening, it would have looked triumphant.

Backstage, Alan's eyes would have been accusing, and he wouldn't be the only one. There would be other glares from other people, glares that would have burned and made Jason falter, but there would be other eyes, too. Nadia's, bright blue and warm. Ivy's, hopeful for a future. Lucas's, amused as always. Sister Chantelle's, honest and accepting. Most importantly, Peter's eyes would be turned on him, crinkled with a smile.

It wouldn't have been so bad, really. For every glare sent his way, there would be a smile he could look to instead. The people who mattered wouldn't even have blinked. Things wouldn't change much at all, not that there would have been time to with only three days of school left. Graduation day would have arrived along with his parents.

His dad wouldn't have acknowledged him; only speaking and looking at Nadia. She would have made a joke about finally getting some attention that neither of them would have found funny. He wouldn't have really been surprised at his parents, but it still would have stung. Jason would have taken a moment, hands grasping a Notre Dame hat in his room, to let everything get to him.

Peter would have been there, in their boxed-up, messy room, his arm gently wrapped around Jason's waist.

"It's gonna be okay," he would have said, hand closing over Jason's. His lips would have found their way to Jason's cheek. Jason would have leaned into him and breathed.

"My dad," the beginning would have been, "He's not, like, refusing to pay for college anymore. Just. I think him not saying anything to me, or even looking at me...I think that's worse." His voice would sound broken, and Peter would have felt helpless.

Peter would squeeze him closer. "He'll come around."

(And he would have, it just would have taken time. A lot of time.)

Graduation would have been an end to tension and anxiety, and he would have delivered his speech entirely to Peter, who would have been trying to make him laugh the whole time. They would have been grinning together as they threw up their caps. Claire would have awkwardly congratulated the both of them, looking between them nervously.

The plane ride home would have seemed a million years long to Jason. His parents would still have looked determinedly away from him, their brows knitted together. Nadia would have fallen asleep with her head against his shoulder, and he would have found it to be a small comfort.

Four hours into Peter's car ride back to Delaware, his phone would have sung a song from High School Musical at him. "Hey, Jase," he would have greeted, thankful for something other than silence in the car. Nearly two hours later, he would have asked Claire if Jason could come over during the summer, hand held across the mouth piece of the phone. She would have hesitated and he would have assured her that they wouldn't do anything, and she would have nearly fainted because all she was thinking of was if she could move all of the boxes in the guest room to the basement.

Jason would have arrived at Peter's doorstep on July 4th, just in time to watch the fireworks. Claire would have been about to bring them lemonade when she saw them sitting together on the back porch, faces turned towards the sky. Peter's head resting on Jason's shoulder would be the catalyst; making Jason's hand slip over his and Jason's lips brush against his forehead. Many summers would have been spent like that, on the grass, just the two of them together.

Jason would have been ready to ignore Ivy forever but Peter wouldn't have let him. He would have called her, Peter sitting next to him and contemplating how Ivy could do this. Ivy would have answered the phone near tears, and they would have sat there for hours talking with her, convincing her to have the baby, to wait and breathe instead of overthinking.

"It's a baby!" she would have yelled from miles away. "You can't overthink a baby!" She would have wanted Jason there with her, would have wanted him to marry her, but she wouldn't have been able to say that. She would have been really goddamn angry at him, but she'd heard that stress isn't good for babies, so she would have tried to relax. Her mother would have smiled sadly but would have been a shoulder to cry on and lean on for support. The McConnells would have given her money because money would be and always has been a band-aid for them.

Somehow, they would have all made a bizarre, disjointed family. Ivy would have been mom and dad and uncle and aunt and scared little girl all at the same time. Nadia would have always been at the ready. Jason and Peter would have been in school, college dorm rooms not unlike high school dorm rooms. The walls would have been a different color, but it still would have felt like home. The whole situation would feel far away from Jason, like he wasn't really a part of it, because those ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes weren't his, not even a little bit. Ivy would have glowed, unconditional love lighting her eyes.

They would have been there for each other.

It wouldn't have been easy for Ivy, but it would have been easier, with Jason there. Jason would have thought it was pretty fucking messed up, and he would have told Peter that, one day, as he laid on the couch with a baby sleeping on his chest and his feet in Peter's lap. And Peter would have laughed carelessly, cupping on hand against Jason's cheek. "That's true."

They would have argued because they're them; they fight and get angry and pout and make up. They're cyclical. Peter would have spent nights on the couch and Jason would have had cereal without milk because Peter used all of it and happened to spill the rest. They would yell — often about Ivy, sometimes about less important things. It would have been cathartic, to shout and scream and glare. It would have been easier to understand problems yelled at the top of their lungs than problems hissed in a dark dorm room. Their kisses then would have been teeth and tongue and pure spite, fingers twisted in hair and shirts disappeared under their bed.

Other kisses would have been sweeter, gentler. They would have been walking at night in the park, in summertime finished with school and trying not to think about how hard "real life" would be. It would have been casual, how Peter squeezed Jason's hand and turned to face him.

Peter would have asked, "Will you marry me?"

And Jason would have looked at him for a long moment, seeing Peter there, in the park, right in front of him, and outside the campus bookstore, and at the hospital, sitting next to him, waiting for Ivy's baby to be born, and in Claire's tiny kitchen, arms wrapped around him, and in front of his parents at graduation, and with his hands holding his face before the show began senior year, and at the rave, and sweaty and breathless and holding onto him, and fourteen years old and awkwardly standing in front of him, eyes wide, and across the room that would become theirs, hanging up a Red Sox poster.

Instead of saying "yes", he would have said, "I love you."

Their wedding bands would have meant friendship necklaces, two halves of a heart with "Best Friends" written in curly script across them. Jason would have sent an invitation to his parents more out of defiance than anything else, but he still would have been disappointed when they didn't show up, because he would have been expecting a miracle. They wouldn't have honeymooned on an island or anywhere, really; money would have been tight, as always, and their apartment in the city would have been fine. Jason would have lit candles in their bedroom and Peter would have laughed the next morning when he found the half-melted remains of a birthday candle in a pool of wax.

"Classy," he would have said against Jason's bare shoulder.

Jason would have smacked him.

Jason's daughter would have known him. Christmas would have been for presents at Ivy and Matt's house and a little girl spinning around in circles, playing princess. He would have been sick with guilt those Christmases, watching Ivy's life like it was a movie, guilty that his daughter looked so much like him; same blue eyes, same dark blonde hair, same nose. His daughter would have always known him as her father, but Matt would have been daddy and Jason would have been fine with that. She would have skipped up to him and asked him to dance, and Jason would have obliged politely, twirling her around and letting a smile slip onto his face, the same warm smile that his daughter was wearing.

It would have been different than they'd whispered about in St. Cecilia's years before. In their daydreams, their life would be easy, just as soon as they got out of school. In actuality, it would have been easier, but never easy. Prejudice would have reared its ugly head despite the fact that they were together, that they were in love, that they weren't hurting anyone else. In the ninth grade English classroom Jason would have taught in, "faggot" would have bounced off the walls like a light-hearted tune. The kids wouldn't have known any better, but Jason would have quickly silenced them. And they would have listened.

"Hey. Intolerance gets you nowhere," Jason would have admonished, voice subtly angry. "Didn't we just read Romeo and Juliet? Say it again and you're going to the principal's office."

Beth O'Neill would have lagged behind after class, wringing her hands and biting her lip. Jason would have been her favorite teacher, the teacher that just seemed to get everyone and everyone loved. It wouldn't have been unusual that Beth stayed after class, but her usual bright smile would have been gone. She would have tapped him on the shoulder and spilled her soul to him because she knew — she just knew — that he would never judge her. "I think I like girls," she would have whispered. "I mean, I know. I know I like girls. I just...don't know what to do."

Jason would have stared at her with his mouth open for a moment, and then he would have said, "Relax, Beth", and she would have given him a watery smile.

"I'm just scared."

"I was too," he would have reassured. "But it gets better, I promise."

Beth would have looked at him closely. "You're...?"

"Gay?" he would have supplied, wry smile coloring his tone. "It helps if you say it."

They would have talked until Beth had to go and catch the late bus, about friends and love and crushes and fear. Jason would have become the person for Beth to talk to, the person that she would come to at lunch. He would have loved being that person for someone.

He wouldn't have told her what he was like at fifteen. She wouldn't have needed to know.

Jason would have gone home to Peter that evening and told him he loved him. Peter would have looked at him with a smile across his face, curving familiarly, and he would have pressed his lips against Jason's cheek. It would have been fairy-tale love spun from late nights and baseball games and unexpected kisses, love like millions of stars against the sky.

a meme

2009-05-17T23:13:46Z

I have seent his meme in 24,601 places, most recently in Avatar, so I decided to do it. ~~Again.~~

Name a character from a fandom I'm familiar with and I'll write:

(a) three facts about them from my personal canon/fanon,
(b) a reason he/she sucks,
(c) a reason he/she is awesomecakes,
(d) five things that never happened to that character, or
(e) five people that character never fell in love with and why.

You get to pick the character. And the letter. And I will write you my response. :)

(P.S. purpureal I need to use this icon more.)

20 things | bare

2009-05-09T18:31:36Z

Title: Twenty Signs Only Nadia Stopped to Read
Fandom: bare: a pop opera
Rating: PG
Characters: Nadia, Peter/Jason
Summary: She's always known but it's never made a difference; Jason is still Jason and that's okay with her.

In the same form as 20_bendings.

1. At first, she thinks he hates his roommate.

2. Nadia doesn't think she's ever seen Jason more nervous than when Peter beckons him over in the library ("Hey, Jason — could you help me with this?"). He hardly looks like her brother with his shoulders tense and his eyes wide.

3. When she finds a quiet moment between classes, she asks him what's wrong and he looks at her funny. What was he expecting, for her not to notice? Maybe he can trick everyone else, but he can't trick his sister. He still tries to tell her that everything is fine; he's just stressed.

4. She doesn't miss his glance towards Peter. Or the moment when their eyes meet and they both turn away blushing. She begins to pick up puzzle pieces, little half-truths that make a fuzzy picture. Jason acts differently around Peter, like he's trying to be more impressive. If Peter were a girl, she'd make fun of Jason for being completely smitten.

It would just be awkward if she made fun of him, all things considered.

5. Nadia misses her best friend when Jason has Peter and she has no one. She misses his warm smile and easy laugh, and she knows that something is wrong with him. Often, she tries to ask him what's going on. But he always shuts her down, brushing it off.

She's good at hiding her feelings, too.

6. All of the girls hang off of him, trying to impress him. Jason never calls any of them, she knows from laments at lunch or before the bell rings for class. He's just never interested.

7. She senses a disturbance in the force the third week of September in freshman year. Nadia had become used to this new Jason, this tense Jason who fidgets and taps his foot incessantly.

Wednesday morning comes and there's a different, newer Jason with Peter walking next to him, close to him, grin across his face. They sit down at the table, bump into each other, and giggle.

Nadia would ask him why he's so happy, but she's pretty sure she already knows.

8. "Gay" is a foreign word to her. It's something that other people are, far away from her and the halls of St. Cecilia's. Years of Catholic school and her parents should have made her fear the word.

9. But when she thinks of it in terms of Jason, she can't find anything wrong. Jason does everything right. This isn't any different.

10. Jason calls Peter on summer vacation every single day. They're like teenage girls; talking for hours about (from what Nadia can hear) absolutely nothing. She catches snippets of their conversation when Jason paces through the hallway, phone pressed to his ear. ("Hey, so the other day we went to the beach and...what's so funny about that...perv...anyway, you should come sometime...") When he hangs up the phone reluctantly, his lips twitch with a smile.

11. Peter is one of her best friends. She entrusts him with secrets because no one is as good at keeping secrets as Peter is, and Peter tells her all of his fears and hopes and confessions. And those he doesn't tell he tries to tell, whether he knows it or not, words threatening to burst out of his mouth. She feels that way sometimes too.

12. The door to the classroom closes softly behind her and if she ever doubted her hypothesis, there's no reason to now. Sister Mary-Francis's classroom during lunch is where she spends time sometimes to write music. It's also where her brother spends time making out with Peter.

13. It hurts that her brother can get a boyfriend and she can't.

14. She knows before Jason does that's he's in love. The only experience she has with love is from books, but star-crossed lovers are star-crossed lovers whether they're in Verona or a Catholic boarding school. Maybe it's just because she knows Jason so well that she can see the difference between his forced smile for the word and the way his eyes drift to Peter and a smile flits across his face.

15. She's not surprised that Ivy is hanging off of Jason, but she's surprised that Jason is letting her. She wants to tell Peter that she knows, that it's okay, that he isn't alone, but she can't. She's not supposed to know, and it's not really okay, and he is really alone. The only someone Peter has is her asshole of a brother.

16. Two blushing pilgrims stand, palm to palm. Nadia's eyes go from Peter and Jason to the cast staring at them and then back again, like some absurd tennis match. Apart from Zack, they watch the scene with fascination. It's different with Peter as Juliet, and not because he's a boy, but because the air is suddenly on fire and the words sound real.

17. Jason and Peter look like they've been dropped into a foreign country. The expression on Matt's face quickly changes from triumphant to horrified. Peter and Jason spin in circles back to back, taking in the cast, their friends, their classmates.

Everyone else is too caught up in shock to notice that Jason's hands twitch back to Peter before he can think better of it, an action that he has to bite his lip and correct.

18. The night of the play, Jason looks lost. He's searching for Peter, she knows. She wants to run after him and hug him and wish him good luck, but Ivy feels like she's going to throw up and that's Nadia's niece or nephew growing inside of her. So she's not going anywhere.

19. Center stage, there aren't any secrets; just two boys crumpled together on the floor. A thousand things are said in that embrace. She wonders, in that moment, like Jason has been wondering for his entire life, what everyone else thinks. She doesn't see anger or hate in their eyes, just buzzing, horrible fear.Peter is mouthing "no" over and over again and squeezing Jason to his chest.

She doesn't see Jason die, she feels it. They all do. A light goes out somewhere in the universe.

20. In the end, Nadia thinks it's a stupid way to go.

three times | bare: a pop opera

2009-05-05T03:19:17Z

Title: Three Times Jason Kissed It Better
Fandom: bare: a pop opera
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter/Jason
Summary: For the contest floating around at bare_fic.

6:30 am, a Tuesday in eighth grade
Jason normally wakes up to the sound of his alarm clock at 7:15 (though his clock claims it's 13:30 pm). But on this particular morning, he is awakened by the sound of Peter retching in the bathroom. Drowsily, he pulls his pillow over his head and wills Peter to go back to bed so he can sleep peacefully.

It takes approximately forty-seven more seconds for Jason to register that Peter retching in the bathroom means Peter is retching in the bathroom, and the sound is not a happy one. He drags himself out of bed, rubbing his eyes, and hops on the cold floor to see if Peter's okay.

Peter looks miserable and pathetic leaning over the toilet bowl, willing the contents of his stomach to show up again. Jason's not really sure what to do (when Nadia is puking, he holds her hair back for her, but Peter doesn't have enough hair for that). He doesn't want to get too close to Peter; he's sick, after all, but he doesn't want to look like an idiot just standing there in the doorway.

"Pete?" he says gently, crossing the tile floor. For a moment, he hovers closely to Peter, and then sets his hand down on Peter's back and rubs circles soothingly. He stays there until Peter's finished reacquainting himself with last night's dinner and then grabs Peter's toothbrush for him and hands it to him. Peter smiles weakly but graciously.

"You okay?"

Peter spits and then answers. "Actually, I feel pretty shitty. But thanks. For my toothbrush. And for the back rub. My mom does that." He blushes almost imperceptibly. (And it would have been imperceptible if Jason hadn't spent the better part of the last two and a half years studying Peter's face.) "Did that. When I was younger."

"That's what I do for Nadia," Jason explains. "Do you think you have a fever?"

"No idea. I feel a little woozy, though. Maybe?" Peter sways a little on the bathroom counter where he's perched, toothbrush still in his hand. Automatically and immediately, Jason catches his elbows and steadies him.

"A little woozy?" Peter's forehead is hot against the back of Jason's fingers. "You should go back to bed. I'll tell everyone you're sick. You want, uh...What do we even have? Tylenol?" Only the liquid kind, because Jason can't swallow pills. He passes a capful to Peter and takes his toothbrush from him.

"Thanks," Peter says again.

"No problem. C'mon, go back to bed."

Unconsciously, Jason smoothes his hair off of his forehead. Unconsciously, Peter leans into his touch.

The mirror behind them reflects Jason's fond smile as Peter slides down slowly from the countertop and stumbles back through the doorway and into their room.

4:47 pm, a Thursday in sophomore year
"Ew, stop. That is so gross."

"I'm making you feel better."

"No, you are making me feel like a horrible person for sneezing all over you. Go away."

Jason shakes his head and smirks, catching Peter's flailing arms in his hands and pinning them to his sides. "I don't care if you're sick," he says, mouth pressed against Peter's neck.

"Ew. Get off." Peter pushes him weakly. Spending time with Jason and getting out of breath has become a more frequent occurrence recently, but not because Peter's nose is running like a whore from church and his head aches. "I don't want to get you sick."

"I live with you. I'll catch whatever you have anyway," Jason shoots back at him. A self-satisfied grin spreads across his face and he goes back to kissing Peter.

"Stop! You're disgusting. I'm practically raining snot and you're shoving your tongue down my throat."

He catches Peter's bottom lip between his teeth and brings Peter's hands up to his shoulders. "You've been sick for three days. I'm done with you being sick. You have to be better now."

"No thanks." Peter pushes Jason's chest and smiles half-heartedly at him. "I'm taking a nap. You should do homework."

Jason catches his fingers in Peter's belt loops. "Taking a nap?"

His eyes roll almost audibly. "Go away."

"God, you are no fun when you're sick," Jason pouts, crossing his arms like a petulant child. He's half-expecting Peter to give. "You look like you're better."

A sneeze erupts in Peter's nose and he reaches for a tissue.

"You really, really do."

Peter looks at him miserably and pulls off his sweater. His nose is red and his eyes are puffy. It's a testament to how fond of him Jason is that he still thinks Peter looks cute like that. After kicking off his shoes and pulling off his socks, Peter flops back into his bed and pulls the covers up over himself. "Wake me up before dinner."

Jason makes sure he's asleep before untying his own shoes and tiptoeing to Peter's bed. He lifts the covers up and crawls over Peter, draping an arm across his side. Peter's back pressed against his chest, he nuzzles his nose into Peter's neck. "Love you," he whispers, kissing his shoulder softly, glad that Peter's asleep.

It's long past dinner when Peter wakes up. Jason is no longer lying beside him, though Peter never knew he was there. At first, he thinks that Jason left him to go down to dinner, but then he hears a bang in the "kitchen" of their room; the microwave they each paid for half of.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty. I made you soup. It might suck. Sorry. I followed the directions."

Peter pulls himself up to a seated position in his bed, leaning his back against the wall. His nose feels heavy, but a smile is lighting up his face anyway. "Thank you."

"No problem." He carefully sits down next to Peter, bowl of chicken noodle soup hot in his hands. He starts to lift the spoon to Peter's mouth, but Peter clasps his hand over Jason's.

"Really?"

"What?"

"I can feed myself."

"But you're sick and weak. You can't hold this up. And I want to."

Peter looks at him oddly; a smile in his eyes. "Okay, Jase. Whatever you want." He pauses, strange expression still across his features, and then kisses Jason on the forehead.

"Ew," Jason says, smiling against Peter's lips. "You're gonna get me sick."

1:17 am, a Saturday in senior year
Two beers. And then a few more, for good measure, but his memory gets hazy after the first two, so those are the only ones he's counting. He groans and sways. Ivy's room is a lot smaller than it was a second ago. A giggle escapes his lips and he smiles into his cup.

Seventeen, and this is the first time he's ever been completely smashed. Normally, he makes good decisions. But the alcohol seemed so warm and inviting. He likes it a lot, only everything is spinning, now, and he doesn't feel so great.

Peter stumbles into a warm thing and spills some of his drink. He'll just have to get some more. "Hey," he says, addressing Jason's chest, where he can see a stain forming. "I know you."

Jason's laugh sounds very loud to his ears. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Two," Peter answers promptly. "Uh, I've drunk two things. Of this. It's good. Have you had any?" He stumbles a little and sloshes some more alcohol out of his cup. He can feel his fingers being pried off of it and Jason taking it from him. "Hey!" he admonishes. "Stop! That's mine. Get your own!"

Instead of grabbing another cup, Jason grabs Peter's wrist. "I think you should go to bed."

"But the party just started!"

"The party's over." He tugs on Peter's arm.

"But I was having so much fun! It can't be over."

"You can have fun back in the room," he assures him.

A smirk crosses Peter's face and he leans close to Jason. "I can have a lot of fun back in the room," he says, letting Jason pull him by the hand out of Ivy's room.

If fun is leaning over a toilet bowl and heaving up all the alcohol he just consumed, then Peter is certainly having a lot of fun. "Ugh," he groans, rubbing his hands against his forehead. "Oh my God. Remind me to never have alcohol ever again."

"Will do," Jason promises, stroking Peter's hair. "Want some Listerine?"

"And my toothbrush, thanks. Fuck, my head hurts." He squeezes a copious amount of toothpaste onto his toothbrush and runs it under the tap. "Beer should be illegal."

"It is." Peter doesn't like the hint of laughter he hears in Jason's voice. He scowls at him in the mirror, but lets Jason wrap his arms around him from behind. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah. Why don't you puke all over the place when you drink?"

"I can hold alcohol. You can't."

Peter's head feels heavy. "I'm still nauseous."

"So I'm still right here. Let's go to bed, babe. You can sleep it off. And then have seven Advil in the morning."

A groan rumbles low in Peter's throat. "That is not appealing."

"Would it be more appealing if I said 'let's get naked and go to bed, babe'?"

Peter can't help the smile sliding onto his face, even though his stomach is still churning. "Only marginally."

a song for the sky | spring awakening

2009-04-26T04:01:08Z

Title: A Song for the Sky (Part One)
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: G
Characters: Anna(/)Georg
Summary: She sings and he plays and together they're an unsung song.

o1. a cappella
Georg plucks out a melody on the piano, feeling it in the air and rushing through his fingertips. He plays so much better when Fraulein Grossebustenhalter isn't leaning over his shoulder; when he's alone at the piano in the church. Anna sometimes listens to him play as she walks to choir rehearsals. Thea and Wendla laugh, but she thinks he plays beautifully.

Anna's voice floats through the air and to him, making his fingers itch to feel ivory keys underneath them. She sings a simple melody, happy and sweet and not at all like the slow, chanting church hymns. He feels strange listening to her, like he's interrupting a moment that should only be between Anna and the air around her, but he can't help but smile as he continues along his path.

o2. cadence
They meet eyes after Moritz's funeral.

He blushes and looks away quickly, but Anna's eyes remain on him, willing him to look back up at her. When he finally does, she can see his vision is hazy with tears. She imagines she looks very much the same; red eyes and red nose and brow bunched mournfully together.

This is not the time to lose each other, but it's what she feels is happening. Her mother tugs at her hand, muttering about that "strange Stiefel boy", and she sees Herr Zirschnitz clap his hand onto Georg's shoulder. They act like nothing happened, like there aren't tears shining in their children's eyes.

o3. canon
The scene is frighteningly similar. They're gathered together in the graveyard again. The service is even smaller this time, for sweet little Wendla Bergman. Anna wonders why; everyone loved Wendla and no one loved Moritz. (At least no one realized they cared at all about Moritz until they dropped flowers into his grave.)

Perhaps it's because Melchior isn't here. He was who they looked to. Georg doesn't know where he is now. So he looks to Anna, back straight and shoulders squared, looking determinedly forward in the rain.

Anna's tears are mixed with the downpour; she mourns with the sky for Wendla Bergman. Georg swallows the lump in his throat and walks to her, one foot in front of the other until he's looking at the hem of her dress around her legs.

She touches her hand to his arm. She's much braver than he is.

o4. dolce
Years ago (it seems like lifetimes), they used to run around together, laughing and dancing and singing. He remembers Anna like that; sweet and smiling, with pigtails bouncing and skinny limbs. She's still sweet and smiling and pigtailed now, but she's different, too. Now that he's looking, he notices the stretch of her dress over her body, how she's changed like he has.

They all have.

Her face is still sweet and lovely but it has a certain hardness to it now; a certain assuredness. When he sees her, she stays close to Martha and Thea, always a little ahead of them, to protect them. She's lost three of her friends already and isn't going to see any more of them go. She's not dwelling in the past like they all are.

He hasn't caught her singing by herself in a long time.

o5. fermata
Choir practice is different without Wendla's voice ringing out in a gentle soprano and Moritz's quiet tones lovely if you listened closely enough. They settle into their groups as they leave; Anna walking with Thea, her arm linked with Martha's, Ernst trailing a step behind Hanschen, and Otto walking besides Georg.

Today, though, Anna is helping Frau Kaulbach tidy up after their practice, and Georg trails behind to fiddle with the piano, telling Otto that he needn't wait for him.

"Georg Zirschnitz," Anna greets, standing by the piano. He pretends like he hadn't noticed she was still here.

"Oh — Anna. How are you?"

Years have passed and made them only able to communicate through pleasantries. "I'm well, thank you. And you?"

"Just as well, I'd imagine."

They're still for a long moment, staring at each other. He holds her gaze. Anna has clear blue eyes, he notices. And freckles. Slowly, so he doesn't really notice it at first, she sits down at the piano next to him and hovers her hands over the keys. Her fingers are clumsy and untrained, but he can hear a broken melody.

"I'm sorry. I'm not very good. My mother plays, sometimes. She learned when she was a girl, but she never taught me. I'd always wanted..." she trails off. "I'm sorry," she says again, resting her hands on her lap. He can see a blush across her cheeks.

He pauses. "No. It's...it's quite alright. I don't mind."

o6.ostinato
A particular line in the piece he's learning is giving him trouble, so he stays after choir practice to work at it. Father Kaulbach is in the church, so he doesn't feel alone. Fingers splayed across the keys, all caught up in one another, he grumbles to himself.

"Are you having trouble?" He's startled by the voice behind him. "Oh. I didn't mean to frighten you," the voice says complacently.

"I wasn't frightened," he replies brusquely, turning to face Anna. "But yes, I am having a bit of trouble. Right here." He points to the sheets in front of him. He doesn't tell her that he's having trouble because he couldn't focus on the music while Fraulein Grossebustenhalter was guiding his fingers across the piano.

Anna looks to the music and hums it to herself. "It must be difficult," she says. "You play all sorts of fancy things. This part must truly be difficult."

He doesn't know what to say to her. She sounds so sure of what she's saying. So sure that what she's saying will make him feel better. And it does, he finds surprisingly.

Georg tries to play again, willing his fingers to listen to his brain and Anna's humming. They don't listen, not really, but he doesn't care.

o7. grave
They don't speak often of Moritz or Wendla. Their shadows fall over them always. If they speak of them, something will happen, something terrible and painful that will snatch their hearts up and turn them black.

So they don't speak of them often.

It's raining when Anna and Georg walk out of the church together, and Georg can't help but let a small smile find its way to his mouth. "I've always loved the rain," he says, opening his palms to the sky.

Anna looks at him, catches his smile. "We used to all run around in the rain," she recollects. "Playing pirates. Melchior would always..." Her voice becomes quiet.

"He'd always be ahead of everyone," Georg finishes for her, voice weak and solemn. "With Ilse." Moritz would lag behind them, but Melchior would always make sure he got to where they were going. Ernst ran like a deer, tripping and falling over lanky legs but faster than everyone. Otto would huff and puff but never stop running. Hanschen's footfalls were steady and somehow serious. Thea, Anna, Ilse, Martha, and Wendla would run hand-in-hand.

"I think that's why we can't all be together anymore. We don't have anyone to follow."

Georg fights the urge to tell her that he's following her chestnut-colored pigtails and determined walk. Hasn't she seen herself? She takes care of everyone around her, always lending her hand and her voice to anyone who needs them. She praises everyone and looks after each of them like a mother hen would look after her chicks. Georg finds himself thinking that without her, he'd be lost.

Instead he makes sure she's at her gate and tells her goodbye.

o8. incidental music
He plays what he feels. He's never been very good with words. Notes and rhythms and music say so much more. When he misses Moritz's voice in choir, the tunes he draws from the piano are mournful and desolate.

"You're sad today," Anna observes as she organizes papers. "I won't ask why," she assures him.

The notes are scattered all over the piano, highs and lows like Moritz. Sometimes he finds the time for a soft melody, but he didn't know Wendla like he knew Moritz. Sometimes he plays dancing, quick notes with one hand and slower, steadier notes with the other. And he imagines Melchior's arm thrown around Moritz's shoulders as they walk home from school together.

Anna imagines Thea's jittery motions and passionate words against Wendla's calm tone. Georg plays the music from a memory, the music she imagines would twist itself through her life and color the days she spent by the riverside.

o9. nocturne
It's dark before she realizes how long she's been organizing music and rearranging books and spending idle time until Georg is finished practicing. She looks out the window and sees the darkened sky and fears what her mother is thinking of her.

"Georg?" she calls softly up the stairs to the choir's loft, not wanting to interrupt the music that's tumbling down the stairs. "It's rather late. I'm going to walk home now."

She hears the piano bench fall over and Georg righting it and stifles a giggle. "One moment, and I'll be with you."

She waits, leaning against a pew, until he's standing in front of her. The lamps are burning out and his face looks different in the shadows. Older. More serious. "Are you ready?" she asks.

"Oh," he says, directing his eyes away from her in the dimness. "Yes. I'm ready. I'm sorry it's so late."

"I don't mind." She smiles a bit wryly. "My mother might, of course."

Georg colors and starts to apologize again, but Anna turns towards the door and beckons over her shoulder to him, smiling sweetly as always. He joins her on their walk to her house and then his. The streets are as different as Georg in the darkness. It changes something in her.

"Goodnight, Georg," she bids him as she unlocks her fence gate.

"Goodnight, Anna," he replies automatically. He starts to walk away.

"Georg?" she says before she can help herself.

He turns to face her slowly. "Yes, Anna?"

"Oh," she says, as if surprised he answered her. "Have a nice evening, Georg."

Georg smiles into the darkness.

This fic is part of the fanfiction masterlist, found here.

two short things | spring awakening high school au

2009-04-01T19:52:36Z

Title: Juxtaposition
Fandom: Spring Awakening High School AU
Rating: PG
Characters: Moritz, Ilse, Ernst, Hanschen
Summary: Scenes adapted from the play to a high school AU setting

BLUE WIND/DON'T DO SADNESS
"Moritz?"

He nearly falls off of the swing.

"What — Ilse?"

Moritz can see her Cheshire cat grin in the sunset, light making her glow. "Who else?" she asks as she steps towards the swings, hand gripping a metal chain. He hasn't seen her in ages; and he doesn't know if she's changed for the better or for the worse. She's smiling, still the girl filled with sunshine, but she looks different.

"Your hair," he points out stupidly. Obviously.

She giggles. "Oh, yes! My hair! D'you like it, Moritz?" She primps it in her palm. It used to fall down her back to her hips, brown and unruly, but now it's orange and cropped short. Somehow, it suits her. She's wearing a short dress that was a large shirt in a past life, hanging off one of her shoulders. Moritz looks down at his feet and pushes the swing idly. He can sense Ilse sitting down in the swing next to him and tries not to look at her.

"Where've you been?"

"Around," Ilse chuckles vaguely. "You know," she elaborates with a hand wave. "Hither and thither. Visiting friends."

Other friends. Friends that didn't fingerpaint with her when they were little, friends who didn't have to pretend they didn't see the bruises on her arms. Other friends that don't care about Ilse like they do, who never wonder about her and worry about her when she's gone.

"Oh."

"They're nutty, Moritz. Really. Just crazy. It's ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder why I hang out with them. Like, listen: we were at a party the other day, at some club, and I was just drinking and drinking and drinking, and then I got up on the table and started to dance! It was amazing. Or so they tell me.

"And there's this guy — you wouldn't know him — and he lives on the road with his band. It's awesome. I went a week with them and we went all over the place in this broken-down old bus. It was great until they got drunk one night and Ferris — the guy — shoved me out of my bed and held a razor up to my face." Her voice gets quieter. "I was scared. Just for a sec."

Moritz hardly knows her anymore. "I, uh, am failing out of school." He's still looking out towards the setting sun, swinging back and forth.

Ilse barks out a laugh. "Oh, silly goose." She jumps off of her swing and spins around to face him, still laughing to herself. Her hand is outstretched towards him.

"C'mon." A little crooked half-smile adorns her face. Beneath the make-up and the wine-red lipstick, it's still the same amused smile.

"What?"

"C'mon. Let's go somewhere. Do something. Bowling? Let's go bowling. Or we could...we could just play here, if you wanted to. I'm sick of doing grown-up things. Look! It's our pirate ship!" She points at the jungle gym. "We could play pirates again. How 'bout that?"

"I can't, Ilse. I have to go home."

She tugs at his hand. "Just a couple minutes. Then you can go home."

He looks at their interlaced fingers. "I can't."

"You can't, or you don't want to?" Ilse says sharply.

"I can't."

"What else have you got to do?"

"Homework. I really have to go, Ilse."

She looks at him imploringly. He's never been good at reading people, but he can see hurt flash in her eyes. He wants to stay. He wants to stay and play pirates and talk to Ilse. He wants everything to be like it was when they were eight and played pirates every day at recess. Back then, he didn't have to worry about his feelings and everything. "Moritz..."

"Good night, Ilse," he says as he starts to stand up. It means "good bye" and "I'll miss you" and "thank you" all at the same time.

"Moritz..."

"'Night, Ilse."

"I'll see you," she says weakly, and he can't even bring himself to nod as he stares into her eyes. She blinks and he can see the tears welling up, but he can't do anything. He doesn't know how.

And then he blinks and she's gone. For the last time, she disappears like a ray of sunshine. She's there and she's not.

Just like him.

THE VINEYARD SCENE
It's Ernst's special thinking place, back pressed against the old wood of the playground. Ilse used to rule her kingdom from here when they were small.

Smaller.

He jumps, just a little, when Hanschen sits down next to him. "Oh, Hanschen. I didn't realize..."

"It's quite a nice night, isn't it, Ernst?"

Ernst sighs. "It is. All the stars...and the crickets...it sounds like music. Or music class."

Hanschen laughs softly. "How poetic."

"Shut up." But the meaning is lost in his shy, meek voice. "It does sound like music. Maybe—" and his voice catches in his throat "—maybe Moritz is floating on the wind and making the grass swish back and forth...don't laugh at me."

"Why not? You're amusing." Hanschen gives him a sidelong look and Ernst catches his eye.

"I'm scared, not amusing."

"Scared of what, pray tell?"

Ernst flushes and casts his eyes downward. "That Moritz won't be the only one," he says in a small voice.

Hanschen looks at him sharply. "That won't happen again, Ernst. It won't. You wouldn't...someone would be there to talk to you. You know that, right, Ernst?"

"Yes."

"And we're not like Moritz. There are different kinds of people, Ernst, obviously. Moritz wasn't like us. Frankly, Moritz wasn't like anyone. You've got your Moritzes, who can't hold themselves together and are ultimately crushed by everything at once. And you have people like Melchior who just fit in everywhere but can't fit in anywhere because they question far too much and get into trouble. There are hardworking people, like Otto, who are never the best at anything but try and try. And then there are lazy people like Georg."

It takes Ernst a moment to realize Hanschen is finished. "What about me?"

"You? You're not really like any of them. Perhaps a bit like Otto; you do work quite hard. But you're so...sentimental about everything. Otto didn't cry when the class hamster died in third grade."

"But Mr. Cuddles was—"

Hanschen presses his finger to Ernst's lips. "I was only making a point."

Ernst pouts slightly. "Well, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"What sort of person are you?"

"The very best kind," Hanschen says, without a hint of a joke. "Everything is easy for me. I can just sit back and enjoy everything else. I haven't the need to worry about school, or anything. I get to watch the rest of you struggle and feel quite blessed that I'm not so unfortunate."

"Like Ilse's darn cat!"

"Excuse me?"

"Like Ilse's cat — it just sits around all day but always knows how to endear itself to you to get food or cream off milk or a scratch behind the ears."

"Do I endear myself to you?"

Ernst shifts uneasily. He's positive that Hanschen is closer to him than he was before but can't quite remember exactly when he moved. For several minutes, they stare together across the dark playground and up into the night sky. When Ernst glances at Hanschen, his blue eyes are already turned on him.

And then his lips are pressed against Ernst's, hand holding his chin. Ernst clutches at his own jeans. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"Oh. Oh, my god."

"Mmm?"

"Why did you—don't—don't do that to me."

"Ever?" He smirks.

"No. Yes? No. Don't."

"And why not?"

"Don't mess with me, Hanschen. You know about...about gym, and Melchior, and..." He bites his lip. Hanschen does know, whispers from Truth or Dare at sleepovers and conversations that meandered down awkward roads.

But Ernst has always trusted Hanschen.

"Don't be sad," Hanschen says as he leans closer to him again. He touches Ernst's knee. "I'm not 'messing' with you."

Gingerly, Ernst reaches out to him, hand against Hanschen's cheek. "Promise?"

Because he still trusts Hanschen.

Hanschen nods.

"Pinky promise?" Ernst asks, holding out his little finger. Hanschen rolls his eyes at him but extends his pinky finger, its nail coated in clear nail polish.

And they come together again; Ernst worried in the back of his mind if his nose is awkward smushed against Hanschen's face but slightly distracted by the fact that Hanschen's lips are pressed against his and it's not an accident. His hands find their way to Hanschen's arms and then slide up to his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he feels Hanschen's tongue slide against his mouth.

He gasps for air. He's somehow nearly sitting on Hanschen's lap now. "Hi," he ventures shyly. "How did you know? Why did you do that?"

"You didn't want me to?"

"No, I...I've wanted you to." He breathes heavily. "Since, like, fourth grade. I mean...I really like you, Hanschen. More than a friend."

Hanschen raises a fine eyebrow at him. "I'm not surprised."

This fic is part of the fanfiction masterlist, found here.

wtf-ery for lizzy (scar by scar | avatar)

2009-03-09T16:01:11Z

I seriously am blaming Hanschen for the fact that I have become a total slash ho. I blame Lizzy for the fact that this was written. Really. I don't know.

Title: scar by scar
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Characters: Jet/Zuko
Summary: Jet first propositions him on the ferry to Ba Sing Se.

Jet first propositions him on the ferry to Ba Sing Se. He says something about his serpent, and before Zuko's good eye can widen, Jet has him pushed against the wall. He trails lips and teeth up his neck and up his jaw, ghosting his mouth over Zuko's.

And then Jet backs away, pats Zuko on the chest, smirks, and walks back to find Smellerbee and Longshot.

Zuko takes a minute to himself before finding his uncle again.

xxx

Zuko's standing on the ferry's deck, sky black, and Jet comes up behind him. His head is so muddled that he doesn't even hear the soft footsteps, doesn't even notice the Freedom Fighter with the grass in his mouth is behind him until he hears "Li" whispered into his ear.

"Guys like us have to stick together," Jet hisses, calloused fingers working nimbly at Zuko's sash. "They'll try to kill us. Piece by piece. Bit by bit. Memory by memory. Scar—" he bites Zuko's ear "—by scar. But if we stick together, we'll be okay." He runs his hand underneath Zuko's tunic; his stomach, his hip. "We can help each other forget."

xxx

He's never kissed anyone before, but he's too stubborn to be nervous. He's not some flimsy, breakable person. Not anymore. He doesn't want to be taken advantage of, because that's what's been happening his entire life.

Jet's not hard to find in the Ba Sing Se train station, leaning languidly against a wall. Zuko pulls him around a corner, curls his arm around his neck, and kisses him. All smiles and teeth, Jet kisses him back, running his tongue across Zuko's lip. Whispering, "What took you so long?"

He's better at this than Zuko is; better like everyone else has been better, always, better like why he gets angry so often, why he can't be good enough.

But there's no room to be angry, now. Hardly enough room to put up a fight, but he does, Jet arching into him, arms snaking around his back. He fists his hands in Jet's hair, pulling him closer. It's not about being better than Jet, not about showing control over Jet, because he has none. It's about being better than himself, controlling his own life, pulling filthy peasants down deserted halls in a train station because he wants to. Not because it will bring him honor; his honor is where his dignity is from the first moment he moaned into Jet's mouth. Not because it will help him find the Avatar. Not because it's his destiny.

Just because he's seventeen and lonely and he wants to.

~~IT IS CANON AND YOU KNOW IT.~~

Soon it will be back to your regularly scheduled schoolboys.

taken sin | avatar

2009-03-04T21:19:39Z

Title: Taken Sin
Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender
Rating: PG
Characters: Azula, unnamed Dai Li agent
Summary: For the prompt "Azula" at avatar_contest.

There's a light coming from her fingertips and all you can see is her smirk — pale skin and blood red lips. You search for her eyes in the darkness but can't find them. Your hands are bound over your head with metal chains. Your hat is gone now, and your head feels bare without it.

She's speaking, but all you can think of are those lips, moving around words and uttering your damnation. Those lips, ruby-colored and full. How many death sentences have fallen from those lips? Did they ever twitch in disgust as a man burned?

You can't fathom it.

You can't fathom those lips around her mother's breast. This thing — this woman with her smirk — couldn't have been a child. She must be more than a bender, even. A monster that haunted your nightmares after stories whispered in the dark. You can't fathom those lips stretched into a genuine smile. Women with lightning in their hands only smile when others are in pain. You can't fathom those lips pressed against a child's head, kissing him softly. You can't fathom those lips without the tilt of a heartless smirk, about to kill a man.

It's sad that the last thing you ever see in this world are those lips.

a thousand sweet kisses | bare

2009-02-27T01:24:35Z

Title: A Thousand Sweet Kisses
Fandom: bare
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter/Jason
Summary: Amanda's RENT prompts, ten of fifty.

He’s in denial; she’s in denial. Didn’t give an inch, when I gave a mile.
He isn't. He can't be. It wouldn't make sense: he's an athlete, he's popular, he has a smile that wins over every girl he meets. He can't be that, because that isn't right. His dad talks about those people at work, how they're wrong and weird and Jason knows he can't be like them.

And he's not (not really). He does sports. And he hates show tunes. And he's tall and he can play basketball and he doesn't lisp and he doesn't like fashion or glitter or Nadia painting his nails or pink.

He isn't.

(He just doesn't like girls.)

Measure your life in love.
It wasn't just this moment, the air still warm like summer and freckles splattered over Peter's nose. It was second grade in Miss Glenn's class and Jason was realizing that maybe he didn't want Valentines from the girls. It was overhearing hushed arguments between Peter's parents; his mother claiming it was just a phase, his father shaking his head. It was glances and embraces and pats on the back and smiles.

Then, unexpectedly, it was September. And it was Jason kissing him and hoping he wasn't wrong and Peter clinging to Jason's shirt and the paradox of familiarity and change.

I should tell you.
Only hours after their kiss, their kiss that turned best friends into something different, they go to bed. Jason pulls his covers up to his ears, sheltering himself from the rest of the world (as if they'd want to be part of this mess), and Peter curls up in his own bed.

A quiet hour passes in the dark. "Peter? Are you still awake?"

"Yeah."

"I just wanted you to know," Jason begins, and it's years before he says anything as truthful. "That I really like you, Peter."

Peter wishes he could see Jason's face. "I really like you, too."

Who do you think you are?
"Fags," Zack says scathingly, pointing to a couple holding hands in the mall.

Peter tenses, his fingers pressing into his thighs. He can feel Jason tense behind him and resists the urge to look back at him. But when Ivy joins in the laughter and Matt follows her hesitantly, Peter chances a glance at Jason. Zack's skipping now, and singing, arm thrown around Lucas's shoulders. Jason brushes his arm lightly against Peter's, moving towards Zack.

"What the fuck, man? Shut up, you asshole," Jason says, pushing Zack's shoulder. He stumbles into a nearby trash can.

Something new to laugh at.

Where’d you learn to tango?
They can't dance together with the school in the auditorium, all done up in suits and dresses and spiked drinks, so they have their own dance in their room after waving goodbye to Nadia and Ivy. Peter's computer is playing soft music, and they circle around their room (one, two, three, one, two, three), one of Jason's hands at Peter's waist, their fingers entwined.

"Ouch," Peter giggles. "You stepped on my foot."

"Oops." Jason kisses him somewhere around the eye to make up for it. They're hardly dancing now, not even swaying, just caught up drunkenly in each other's arms.

Walls ain’t so bad.
Sometimes Peter likes Jason with four walls around him. It suits him. He can just be his Jason then, the Jason that kisses him whenever he gets the chance and watches baseball games with him instead of the team and eats popsicles in the most suggestive way possible. He likes that Jason, standing simply in their room, putting his shirt on backwards, without anything else to make him different.

Sometimes, he likes being able to steal away and not have to share this Jason—the real, honest Jason who makes mistakes and writes him notes and hums to himself.

Sometimes.

Last night, I had a dream.
They wouldn't have much, he imagined on quiet nights. They'd have a dorm in a college where they wouldn't know anyone. They probably wouldn't have their parents, and they wouldn't have much money. They wouldn't have Ivy and Rory and Tanya and Kyra and Dianne.

They'd have Friday movie nights and all the Spaghetti-Os a person could eat. They'd have a cramped, too-small bed and they'd be able to hold hands and walk across the campus without anyone thinking twice. They'd have endless nights to themselves and Saturday mornings for waking up with cricks in their necks and contented smiles.

I’m shouting in my sleep.
"I swear I went to Mass...I did..."

"You're going to hell, Jason," Peter taunts in a whisper, Jason half-asleep next to him. "Missed Mass one day? God, what will St. Peter do with you?"

Jason thrashes beneath the covers, mumbling to himself. "No, stop..."

"'Kay." No fun.

"God damn it, stop...please...I need him...you can't take..."

Peter lifts his head. "Jase?"

Jason's eyelids flutter in his restless sleep. He's jostled awake by Peter shaking his shoulders. His eyes open slowly and he's still tense from his nightmare.

"Jase? You okay?"

He doesn't say a word; just leans into Peter's arms and breathes.

Without you.
When he was thirteen and thought that spiking his hair straight up would make him look cool, Jason would lie awake restlessly and try not to think about Peter. He couldn't sleep. Not with Peter breathing softly across the room, turned to face him in his own bed. Not with Peter clouding his mind with his smile.

He's eighteen now and he still can't sleep, not without Peter pressed warmly against him, legs tangled in a too-small bed. It's too quiet and too lonely and too cold. He hugs his pillow to his chest and tries to imagine Peter's heartbeat.

Wasted opportunity.
They'll say that his life was too short, his death too sudden. He had so much more to live. They won't mention the nights when he woke in a cold sweat and Peter would cross the room and sit on the foot of his bed until he fell asleep again. Hundreds of half-truths will pierce the room and make Peter cringe.

Of course they won't mention soul mates and love and the part of him (his heart?) that died along with Jason. They won't say the words, sound of sirens still ringing in their ears, but they'll linger in the air.

you don't want to play? | spring awakening high school au

2009-02-02T19:54:47Z

Title: You Don't Want to Play?
Fandom: Spring Awakening High School AU
Rating: PG
Characters: Ernst/Hanschen & the entire crew
Summary: Ernst has a surprise SUPER SWEET SIXTEEN.

FOR AMANDA'S BIRTHDAY. <3

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ERNST!"

Ernst must jump three feet into the air before stumbling back towards Hanschen, who presses one hand against his back to right him. Six cameras flash at once, documenting the expression on his face he'll never live down. Once he opens his eyes again (he isn't sure exactly when he closed them), he looks at Hanschen's living room and smiles. Thea has obviously planned this entire thing; she's running at him with a feather boa and a hat, grinning broadly. He hugs her close and lifts her up, spinning her around only a little. As everyone else gathers around, laughing and throwing confetti at him, he's swamped with hugs and pats on the back.

"Oh!" he giggles. "Thanks!"

xxx

"What's that?"

"A piñata, Ernst," Georg says, with a hint of duh.

"But why are there Disney princesses on it?"

"You like them, right? I know you like them. You used to watch 'Beauty and the Beast' whenever you came over. I know all the words because of you."

"I can't beat Belle up!"

"Fine, you don't have to. I'll do it."

"No!" Ernst wails. "You are not beating them up!"

Georg grins and darts away, piñata under his arm.

xxx

Melchior wiggles onto Wendla's lap and makes a ridiculous face. "I love you, Wendla. Will you be my ducky wucky?" Wendla looks at him for a moment, eyes wide, and makes out an "I love you, too", and then erupts into laughter. Melchior grins, kisses her forehead, and takes her seat triumphantly.

Dancing over to Thea, Wendla leans an inch away from her face, grabbing Thea's hands and shaking her around. "Thea!" she shrills. "I love you! Will you be my ducky wucky?"

"I love you too, Wendla. But I can't—I can't—" Thea almost looks like she'll make it, but then her face scrunches up, her nose crinkling, and she cracks a smile.

Thea slowly scoots towards Otto, licking her lips in a would-be seductive way. Of course, it comes across as ridiculous because it's Thea; with a bow in her hair and a pink feather boa wrapped around her neck. "Mr. Lammermeier," she intones in a low voice. "My heart burns for you, and I love you. Would you," she says, winking over-dramatically and kissing his cheek. "Be my—"

But Otto's already lost it, shoulders shaking as he laughs at Thea's antics.

"You're no fun, Otto," she says. "I didn't even get to finish!"

xxx

Ernst flops onto the couch, taking a breath for a moment. Dancing with Thea and Anna is utterly exhausting.

"Are you having fun?" Hanschen asks, settling himself next to Ernst and handing him a drink. Ernst eyes the cup carefully.

"Is it...?"

"We wouldn’t want a repeat of Melchior's party, would we?"

Ernst blushes. Hanschen smirks, then corrects himself. "We wouldn't want a repeat of most of Melchior's party, would we?"

Taking a sip, Ernst agrees. "Of course not. Some of it, though..."

"I'm sure we have Scrabble here."

xxx

"Smile!" Anna says, looking at Martha in the screen of her camera. Martha smiles softly. As Anna tries to take the picture, Georg dashes in front of the lens, a piñata in his hands. Ernst is tripping over the cups and plates on the ground to get to him.

"Thanks for ruining my picture, Georg!" she shouts over the DDR, Guitar Hero, and karaoke going on at once.

"You're welcome!"

xxx

It's when Thea catches Otto licking icing off his finger that she finds it's time to bring out the cake. She and Wendla go into the Rilow's kitchen and light the candles, shooing Otto away and patching up the cake with extra icing.

"Everyone sit down," Thea calls from the kitchen, dimming the lights so that the candles can glow. Sixteen of them, and one for good luck.

She starts up "Happy Birthday" and everyone joins in (Ernst, too, before he remembers himself). He's awash in candlelight, his friends all around him; singing to him and because of him, with Hanschen's hand resting lightly on his shoulder and Martha's tiny, quiet grin lighting up the room.

He wishes, in his head, though he knows it's silly and childish of him, that they could always be like this.

xxx

Anna is browsing through Hanschen's music on his computer, looking for something to dance to and frowning a little. "What is this stuff?" she asks no one in particular. "Hanschen, you're so weird."

xxx

"Hanschen," Ernst breathes desperately. "You've got to get the piñata from Georg. He's going to kill Snow White."
Ernst looks so ridiculous and sweet at that moment, his eyes wide and frightened for the sake of Belle, Ariel, Snow White, Cinderella, and Jasmine, that Hanschen chuckles. Ernst's brows furrow. "This isn't funny, Hanschen. Who makes piñatas out of princesses, anyway?"

Hanschen's eyes scan the room for Georg, who is sitting with the piñata held protectively against his chest. Hanschen meets his eyes, and Georg looks a little frightened.

xxx

Hanschen holds his camera up to Thea. "Say cheese," he deadpans.

"Only if you get a FaceBook."

Hanschen rolls his eyes discreetly. "My photography project is on Ernst. Since you're his friend—"

"BFF."

"—I need pictures of you. Please smile."

Hanschen's camera is full of pictures from the party; Thea sprawled all over Otto, trying to get him to laugh, Anna and Martha playing DDR and Georg and Melchior jumping up and down, playing Guitar Hero. There were quite a few of Ernst: Ernst grinning hugely with a ridiculous conical hat on his head and a boa around his neck, Ernst eating cake, Ernst singing karaoke with Wendla, Ernst blowing kisses at the camera, Ernst chasing Georg around, Ernst opening presents. There was a video, too, that Hanschen will have to remember to delete, of both of them singing karaoke (Thea must've taken it).

xxx

None of them are particularly good dancers. Otto is repeating a constant Macarena and Georg is just sort of bobbing up and down. Ernst flails around, spinning Thea, and Melchior is swinging Wendla on his arm. Martha and Ilse have taken Moritz's hands, and they skip around in a circle. Hanschen watches bemusedly until Thea pushes him over to Ernst, and they start up a waltz to a techno beat. Somehow, dancing turns into kissing, Hanschen's hands sliding to the small of Ernst's back and Ernst swaying, just a little, to the music.

Georg dances into them, one hand behind his neck and the other attached to his foot.

"Ugh," he groans. "I don't wanna see that. Get a room."

Ernst says "But it's my birthday" at the same time Hanschen says "This is our room, you're just fortunate enough to be in it".

Georg looks horrified. So does Ernst.

xxx

With the Guitar Hero, DDR, and karaoke turned off, the Rilow house is quiet. Hanschen insisted that Ernst not clean up (after all, it is his birthday), so Ernst lays down on the couch, listening to Hanschen talk as he cleans up.

Ernst is smiling when Hanschen pushes him over and climbs onto the couch next to him, draping his arm across Ernst. "How was your birthday?" he asks.

"Wonderful," Ernst murmurs, kissing Hanschen softly. "Thank you." He smiles against Hanschen's lips.

"You're quite welcome. Do you feel any different? Sixteen is an important number."

"Not really. Nothing's different. I'm still mad at Georg for killing the princesses. I can't believe he stole the piñata back. And he and Melchi just had to go and beat the poor things up."

Hanschen laughs lowly, resting his head against Ernst's shoulder. "Would you like to stay here or go upstairs?" he asks into the crook of Ernst's neck.

"Here's good," Ernst yawns. "Good night, Hanschen."

"Happy birthday, Ernst."

oh, my darling | bare

2009-01-30T19:50:59Z

Title: Oh, My Darling, There's a Heaven
Fandom: bare: a pop opera
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter/Jason
Summary: They've done a lot of stupid things, but this is probably the stupidest.

They've done some stupid things. Smearing peanut butter all over Lucas's face in eighth grade when they didn't know about his peanut allergy. Writing Valentines from "Ivy" to Matt. Sneaking into the Church and stealing candles after a little too much beer. Writing Ivy's phone number on the bathroom stalls. Nearly being caught in a classroom that was, at first glance, deserted. Trying to see how many Oreos they could eat at once.

This, though. This is different.

It's sort of windy, for one, which Peter hadn't realized until just now. And it rained a few days ago, so it's still a little slippery. Jason, always cool and confident, doesn't slip at all, and looks perfectly fine with walking on the roof in the middle of the night.

"C'mon, Peter," he laughs over his shoulder.

Yeah, okay, Jason. I'll just skip across the roof and jump into your arms. Instead, it's: "Just hang on a minute."

Peter tries to imitate Jason's movements, but the fact of the matter is that there's a slant to the roof and he can't concentrate on anything other than his feet right now or he'll die a terrible death splattered on the ground of a Catholic boarding school. So he's crouched close to the roof, scooting after Jason.

He sincerely hopes no one happens to be awake and looking at the roof right now, because though they'd gotten out of stealing candles, nearly being found out in a classroom, and smearing peanut butter all over Lucas's face so that he had to go to the emergency room, Peter doesn't think that even Jason could give a logical explanation as to why they were crawling on the roof at midnight.

"Jason, I'm going to fall."

Jason laughs again.

What a jerk.

Extending his hand back towards Peter, Jason pulls him along, Peter grumbling all the way. "Remind me, please, why we're doing this."

"It's fun."

"No. No, Jason. This is not fun. This is stupid."

Jason laughs his infuriating laugh again. They could die up here, and then it wouldn't be quite so funny, would it?

"What are you mumbling to yourself?"

"Nothing," Peter grits out, grabbing onto Jason's arm with his other hand to keep himself from falling. He's wearing old flannel pajama pants and a shirt that's too big (it's probably Jason's) and he doesn't have shoes on. Jason had woke him up from a relatively peaceful slumber to go on this adventure. It wasn't until Peter saw Jason climbing up the arbor and lifting himself across to the roof that he knew what was going on.

In one motion, Jason pulls Peter to his chest and sits down, Peter half on-top of him. Peter's still clutching onto Jason and closing his eyes so he can't see how precariously close they are from falling off of the roof.

"I hate you," Peter seethes.

"Love you too," Jason says amiably, kissing the back of Peter's neck. Peter squirms.

"What happened to 'no public displays of affection'?" he mutters, but Jason only laughs against Peter's shoulder and slides his hands up Peter's shirt.

"No one can see us," he explains, leaning back against the roof, pulling Peter next to him. Peter's head rests on his shoulder and his own arm is curled around Peter's waist.

"You can open your eyes," he says into Peter's hair.

"I know." But he doesn't.

"Look. It's pretty," he promises.

And it is. The black sky is splattered with stars, tiny freckles on the dark face of the night. Even though they're on the roof and it's pitch black, Peter feels safe. Beneath a million stars, they can lay there together without worrying about the sleeping school somewhere below or the dim Church they just can't make out from here. It seems like a night that should be spent on "I love you"s, but it's not. It doesn’t need to be.

Sighing drowsily, Peter buries his face in Jason's shoulder. "I don't really hate you," he murmurs.

"Really?" Jason asks. "You were really convincing."

Peter hits lightly and half-heartedly on the arm, curling one knee over Jason's legs and pulling his arms across him. He could spend forever like this, with Jason, in old pajamas that may not be his and bare feet and tired, tired eyes.

†

"Morning, babe," Jason whispers, shaking him lightly. "Time to wake up."

Peter shoots up, taking Jason with him and throwing both of them off-balance. Jason catches him around the waist before he tumbles off the roof. It's still dark.

"What...?" Peter groans confusedly. "Where are...?"

Jason pulls him up. "The roof, remember? We fell asleep." Peter shakes his head vigorously, trying to make some sense of the situation. He takes Jason's hand. His back is sore and his neck feels wrong and his toes are freezing. "It's about three o' clock now," Jason continues. "So we've got to go back to bed."

Peter fumbles sleepily, staying low to the roof and crawling to where there's a ledge and the arbor. From the arbor, they can climb into their bedroom window, a feature that has always come in handy during late-night escapades.

Jason's bed is small, but they manage, as always; Peter laying his head on Jason's chest and Jason pulling him close. Peter's nearly sleeping already and Jason can hardly pull a blanket over both of them before Peter is breathing deeply, yawning a "g'night, I love you" before drifting off. Jason kisses the top of his head and just lays there for a moment, smiling softly, and then falling asleep as well.

tell me, please (all is forgiven) | spring awakening

2009-01-28T18:54:48Z

Title: Tell Me, Please (All Is Forgiven)
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hanschen/Ernst
Summary: Hanschen in second person.

Companion to this.

He wants, more than anything, to be loved.

You can give him something close.

xxx

It's easy to control him. It's always been like this, though; he's always followed and you've always led. You love that feeling. You love that you can make him blush and squirm and whimper in the back of his throat. You love his light fingers on your shoulders and his tiny, awkward smile.

You hate what it does to you.

xxx

Sometimes, you feel a twinge of something when he does everything you ask. Something you're afraid to name that dances in the back of your mind on lazy days sprawled out in the vineyard. That you can ask please, why don't you take your jacket off and he won't say anything at all. (Even when "jacket" becomes "shirt" and "shirt" becomes "trousers".) He just does it, looking up at you for assurance and comfort, relaxing when you nod.

There's something you feel when you realize the depth of his trust.

Keep telling yourself it's pity.

xxx

Your hand is quick, your voice comes out in an embarrassing squeak.

You're lucky your father can't hear your thoughts.

xxx

It gets annoying, how easily he says it. How easily he flings around love, like it's something that even exists. You certainly don't believe in it. It's a sentimental thing for dreamers, like him.

You're a visionary, not a dreamer. You know what things are real and what things aren't.

You have an affection for him that makes you cup his cheek in your hand and whisper sweet, lovely, poetry to him when you've nothing better to do. Affection is real. It exists. It's what loosely ties them all together. He isn't special. You feel the same way about Georg, or Anna, or Melchior.

Right?

xxx

Pretend like what you do doesn't mean anything. Like smoothing his brow when he's sick and you're bringing him the work he missed doesn't mean anything. It can't mean you really care about him, because you don't. You don't care about anyone. Like enjoying the feeling of his shoulder against yours and listening to his soft voice talk about sentimental things doesn't make you smile (just slightly).

When he says he loves you and you kiss him instead of answering, you hope he doesn't take it to mean to wrong thing.

Or the right one.

xxx

One day, you will build your monument to God, and all He's done for everyone. His existence is neither here nor there, but His profound effect on Society is something you appreciate. Something, perhaps, you even admire.

You will build your monument, and you will become a millionaire, and you will be content with the world and get all you can from it. You know things will have to change. You've accepted that long ago. You'll go off elsewhere and he'll stay here and marry a lovely woman and become a country pastor, because that is how the System works.

It's just a flighty temptation and slight homesickness (you're not even gone yet) that makes you want to stay.

xxx

It's often that you lay here with him like this, often that you curl your arm around him and brush your foreheads together. It feels warm, just staying like this at night in the vineyard, stars splayed across the sky. His hand is pressed against your chest (how very sentimental of him, you think), and his breath is slow.

You don't know why you start to talk of Priapia and Ilse, of following Melchior away. Why the things you've heard in hushed whispers from your cousins about Paris and Berlin slip out of your mouth, why you lace your fingers together. There aren't any promises, only ideas.

His breath catches and instead of stopping, you plow on, your words painting pictures against the dark sky. Maybe it's late. Maybe you're too caught up in the moment.

Maybe you want him to hear.

This fic is part of the fanfiction masterlist, found here.

Amanda actually has the original version of this, pre-Katie's-computer-exploding. This one is different. I think.

my junk is you | spring awakening high school au

2009-01-23T20:05:12Z

Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: PG
Characters: ALL
Summary: Hanschen needs a pet name, the band has a concert, "The Lion King" brings tears, Georg sucks at "truth or dare".

"I think you need a nickname."

Hanschen turns his head slowly, pulling his arms away from Ernst and righting himself. They're sitting in the old elementary school play set, curled up in one of the secret "rooms" where they used to run as little kids. Up and to the left leads to the slide, up and to the right leads to a pole to shimmy down. When they were younger, they would run through the playground, Ernst always afraid to jump down to the tire swing hidden below. They're much too big now; Ernst's legs half over Hanschen's because that's the only way they'll fit.

"...You can't be serious."

Ernst smiles eagerly. "Truly," he says, playing with Hanschen's fingers. "Everyone needs a nickname. And you don't have one."

"I'm not a nickname sort of person, Ernst." Hanschen smiles up at Ernst, curling his arm back around him and pressing kisses against his neck. The discussion is over.

But even as he's pulling Ernst closer to him and Ernst is holding onto his shoulders, Ernst is obstinate. "A pet name, or something. Something cute."

Hanschen deadpans. Ernst has to be joking.

xxx

They have a concert Thursday night, the band set up on the Gabor's patio. Thea is wearing a hand-crafted band t-shirt, sparkly and glittery. So not the image they were looking for, but at least they have one fan.

Anna is pushing and shoving, as is usual, beckoning Moritz over and fixing his hair. She scribbles on her list, checking things off and crossing things out, and gives each of the band members a hug before they walk out on the "stage" and then takes her seat next to Thea in the first and only row. Martha and Wendla are also there, and Ilse is sitting on Ernst, tapping her sparkly fingernails on his knee. Mrs. Gabor has brought out lemonade and brownies for them, and the audience of seven munches as the band plays through their songs.

There are several piercing moments when Ernst wishes he didn't have ears, but they actually aren't that bad. Moritz can certainly sing, and Melchior strums on his guitar and sways. Georg's better at piano when Miss G isn't there to lean over his shoulder. Only Otto gets too frustrated to concentrate and bangs out an irregular rhythm on the drums. And if Ernst does say so himself, Hanschen looks very nice, rocking only a little as he plucks out notes on his bass.

When they're finished, Otto banging loudly on the drums and Melchior jumping up and down with his guitar, the audience jumps to their feet for a standing ovation, Ernst catching Ilse just before she falls.

xxx

Hanschen and Ernst walk back together from their bus stop, Ernst's backpack colored with graffiti from Thea and Ilse and heavy with books. Hanschen's bag over his shoulder.

"...like 'Kitten'...or, I don't know...'Sparkles'...or—"

"You would really call me 'Sparkles'?"

"No, no." Ernst giggles. "Sparkles. I was just brainstorming. 'Sugar'? 'Honey bun'? 'Pumpkin'? 'Cupcake'?"

"No thank you, Ernst."

"Well, you don't get to pick, anyway. 'Sunny'? Your hair is blonde. 'Blondie'?"

xxx

"Truth or dare, Georg?"

"Dare, man!" Georg exclaims. "Is that even a question?"

"Just wondering," Melchior muses, eyes bright. "Because, you know, Miss G lives next door..."

Georg pales, looking stricken. Melchior knew his weakness. Everyone knew his weakness, but Melchior was taking advantage of it. "You wouldn't..." Georg panics. "I mean, truth. Truth truth truthie truth truth."

Melchior tilts his head from one side to the other. "I'm kidding, Georg. I'm not that mean."

Georg sighs, relieved for the moment. Truth is easy. He doesn't have any secrets. However, with the new window Melchior opened up, he fears for Otto's turn to ask next round.

xxx

"...no, that's kind of dumb. 'Butch'? No, you're not very 'Butch'-ish. Especially your shoes. 'Honey'? 'Angel'?" Ernst grins absently, running his hand down Hanschen's arm. "I don't think so."

Hanschen makes a low noise in the back of his throat. "I don't need a nickname."

"But I want to give you one. It's cute. 'Cutie'? This is harder than I thought."

xxx

Thea greets them at the door. It's movie night. Normally, they would go out and see a movie, but there isn't anything good out now (in Otto's opinion), so they decide to watch one of Thea's movies. Splayed out all over her living room, passing bowls of popcorn between them, they watch singing savannah animals dance across the screen.

Ilse hums the songs to herself, brushing her shoulders against Hanschen's, trying to get him to dance as she is, sitting on the floor, back against the couch. Thea and Martha are grinning from where they're perched, mouthing words they thought they'd forgotten back in kindergarten.

As the movie continues, Ilse stops dancing. Thea and Martha stop grinning. Ernst puts his hands over his face, hoping that the flickering light from the TV isn't enough to show that after all these years, he still can't handle it.

Hanschen silently wraps an arm around Ernst's waist. He stiffens silently as Ilse lays her head on his shoulder. Melchior and Moritz exchange a small look — neither of them seem affected, but they need it anyway. Otto pats Thea's leg affectionately, eyes watery, though it may just be a trick of the light. Childhood tries to run away from them, to fall back into sweet dreams and memories, but they hold on tight.

poke | spring awakening high school au

2009-01-20T00:39:36Z

Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: PG
Characters: Hanschen/Ernst
Summary: Melchior has a sleepover and Ernst is very uncomfortable. His ~beau~ isn't making things better.

Ernst hates sleepovers. He hates Georg and his need to chest-bump everyone when he wins a round of Guitar Hero. And he hates Otto, who chose Top Gun as their movie for the night. He also hates Hanschen, sharing the couch with Ernst and resting his feet on Ernst's lap. Hanschen only makes his sleepover experiences worse, and he does so purposefully.

He shoves Hanschen's feet off of his lap, crosses his arms, and glares at him. Looking back at Tom Cruise, Ernst curls his legs to his chest.

Then there's an annoying pressure on his leg. Hanschen's toe, poking him.

Ernst glares again. Hanschen smirks wickedly.

The foot retreats, then prods him again. Ernst catches it this time and holds it for a moment before setting it down pointedly.

Hanschen smiles. Ernst scowls at Hanschen through his bangs, hoping to convey the message of "this is not the time nor place".

Hanschen persists. Getting poked by Hanschen mixed with Top Gun does not make for a very calm and collected Ernst.

Poke. Glare. Prod. Scowl. Nudge. Pout. Poke. Glare. Prod. Scowl. Nudge. Pout.

Nothing.

Ernst has an unhappy, irritated face ready, but Hanschen's foot, extending from his red silk-clad leg, lies idly on the couch, not quite touching him.

That's good, then. Hanschen was just being annoying. And stupid. Stupid and annoying. It takes Ernst all of one minute to chance a look at Hanschen.

Hanschen is staring at Georg, eyebrow raised, small smirk across his face.

Ernst sighs. He may or may not being trying to attract Hanschen's attention in doing so. Hanschen looks over at him, smiling serenely, and then looks back at Georg, face content.

Ernst coughs. Hanschen looks at him again, inquisitively. Ernst throws his dignity into the same garbage can his dreams and masculinity went into and shifts closer to Hanschen.

Hanschen pulls his legs in, still looking at Georg. Georg's behind, if Ernst is following Hanschen's line of vision correctly.

Ernst glares at Hanschen's turned-away face. His stupid, perfect, angular-cheekbones turned-away face.

And then he moves closer. Hanschen retracts his legs. Ernst very nearly scoots nearer to him, and Hanschen moves until his back is pressed against the arm of the couch and Ernst is one shift away from resting his back against Hanschen's pulled-up knees. When Ernst moves again, Hanschen moves his legs apart so Ernst falls back between them, back against Hanschen's chest. The momentary struggle on Ernst's part (what would happen if Mrs. Gabor came down right this moment?!) is half-hearted and ends in him pulling Hanschen's arms around him and lacing their fingers together.

Hanschen's chin is pressed against the top of Ernst's head, but Ernst can feel his smirk.