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psalm_onethirtyoneHA.
...I have two very long overdue birthday gifts, here. I think I must win some measureeven if I am suffering from *flail!*everybodyhatesmeandIlose;_____; to-night.
So.
Happy incredibly late birthday,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
erinpuff! Your extended Archie/Wellard drabble from May. :D
Young Wellard is a poor, sad, thin boy. The men don't take him as much because he isn't.
But really, almost secretly, he knows the ship better than anyone, knows more of her, knows his way around her... can tell, somehow, all about her. When a storm's about to hit he, secretly, knows, but not because he's any good at judging weather--because the ship knows, the ship feels the storm, and she tells him.
He doesn't know anybody. He hasn't any mates. He stutters sometimes.
He often goes belowdecks when he isn't needed and feels his way around her, going through the holds, touching the wood of the inside of the hull. The rats don't frighten him, although the sailors do, when he's wandering through, secretly, as part of the ship.
He spends most of the time drugged on laudanum.
He can see the insides of the ship tremble like a reflection in the water, right before his eyes, and he reaches out for the walls, for the ship in the water, the moon in the water, and his hands come up against something solid and warm. Kennedy takes his hands and shakes his head; but Wellard doesn't see it.
He only sees the ship. She is all he wants to see.
Kennedy kisses his hands, quotes Shakespeare to him, laughs (and Kennedy has a bright, sun-in-the-sky laugh) and teases, to draw him out of himself, but Wellard doesn't notice. The ship is his moon in the water, and love and concern like the sun don't touch him enough. He isn't heartless; it's just too late for his heart to belong to anything else.
And then the Captain turns the ship against him as well, and he lets himself fall in with Kennedy and Hornblower because there's nowhere else to fall.
And then he starts to notice, secretly, that the sun is warm.
~~~
AND. AND. MISS FISH. Your birthday gift part two, from August. The whatevereth (seventh?) chapter of The Picture Portrait Gallery. Is all yours, and so is the rest of the fic, if I ever finish it. <3 This bit is Bahorel's, and revoltingly short, and completely unedited, which means that I will delete it all in the morning when I am in my right mind. XD BUT. I LOVE YOU HI. So I am posting it now.
Love Locked Out
He had often hated being the one whom everyone dismissed, but he had learnt long ago he couldn't beat it out of people. He used to try. When they laughed at him and wanted to know what great historical building he had desecrated this week, he used to strike them or speak sharply to them, used to start brawls where-ever he was. He'd given that up by now. It didn't help. He wasn't as stupid as people thought, and he knew that you couldn't get rid of a trouble-maker's reputation by making trouble.
Bahorel was towering and rough, but he could understand delicate things. He had used to be sure there was some way to let people know that, but he saw quickly enough that it didn't work so easily. Nothing was so easy. When you looked like something, you usually were. Grantaire looked like a slovenly drunk, after all. Combeferre looked like a gentle-eyed philosopher.
He grinned and looked sideways at Combeferre, who was just going out the door with Joly and Bossuet, hovering, caught between the warm inside light of the café and the darkish cold outside, half a shadow and half a solid figure, mingling with the other solid shadows, laughing with them. Combeferre was dressed in a grey-coloured suit and his spectacles glinted in the lamplight. He looked kind, happy, amused, satisfied, and all those things he probably was.
Bahorel turned his head and looked back at Grantaire, who was on his feet and reeling. Poor idiot. He was dark-haired and pale-skinned, with eyes that were sometimes sleepy and sometimes wild and sometimes lustful; he couldn't stand without trembling, and his hands were always waving in the air. When he laughed, it was loudly and harshly. He looked wretched, drunk, exhausted, disgusting, and you wouldn't find a man in Musain who'd doubt he was.
Men are what they look like.
Getting into complicated ideas like what is, is not, and nothing that is so, is so (and this is not my nose, neither, Bahorel thought without noticing he had, without smiling, without showing in any way that he knew he was saying something he had learnt from a play) was too much trouble for most people, and anyway rather pointless, since usually you were right when you guessed at a man's character.
So he looked like the sort of fellow who'd rather belt you one square than talk about Chaucer, and that was how people took him. He was actually only a little amused, these days, that Feuilly was the one who had decided he might be different. Bahorel would've guessed Combeferre or Jehan, the little poet. He would've guessed that the darkly beautiful soul of that fair young master of poesie would have recognised the true goodness in him and welcomed him with open arms, drawing him aside for secret discussions of English sonnets and Italian marblework. But Jehan was afraid of him, obviously, for he shrank back when Bahorel came into the room, and quivered until he was gone again. It made Bahorel laugh. Poor silly stupid little boy. Nobody had ever really needed to be afraid of him. Not like that, anyway.
He rubbed his untidy beard and leaned back in the chair. And instead it had been Feuilly who had known. Feuilly wasn't afraid of him, no jot. Feuilly could somehow tell.
Feuilly was wrapping up the food Bahorel had bought from Mere Houcheloup, sizing it up with his eyes even while he was putting it away. Bahorel supposed he was dividing it ahead of time in his mind to decide how much of his portion he ought to give to his sister. Feuilly was rather prone to pointless self-sacrifice where she was concerned, which had always struck Bahorel as a bit sad, really, a bit pathetic; watching an underfed fellow denying himself for a scrawny little girl who wore an old pillowcase and had lice in her hair. She thought Feuilly was her father.
Bahorel didn't interfere with Feuilly's business, so he hadn't pointed out that he thought it'd be a better idea to tell her she hadn't got a father. She knew Bahorel, when she actually looked at him and realised he was there--because being hungry and tired and often ill and always poor had made it difficult for her to acknowledge anything, so often she just sat there and stared straight ahead while Feuilly tried to coax a smile out of her--knew him as her father's friend. Feuilly had wanted her to call Bahorel Oncle David, but she never really woke up enough to learn, and it wasn't as though Bahorel (really) cared. He didn't like children, anyway.
But there was Feuilly, right before him, dividing the food already and already taking the better part away from himself to give to her. Bahorel reached out and touched his arm.
"I can still knock him down for you if you'd like."
"No, don't bother." Feuilly laughed, and Bahorel felt a surging heat of victory. A laugh. You didn't often get a laugh out of Feuilly. "I just want to get home to her and forget about it."
"All right."
"What did you say to Grantaire?"
"Only extended my condolences. Stupid thing, really, to get left behind."
"I suppose it is." Feuilly lifted his head. His face had gone solemn (more solemn than usual, at any rate) and he was looking away thoughtfully. "I suppose. That's exactly what we've done to her. We've left her behind."
"Shut up and stop being so miserable and self-effacing all the time. It's not that bad. She doesn't care."
Bahorel cursed to himself.
"Sorry?" Feuilly said coldly. "Do you think that matters? Whether or not she cares? I care."
He lifted his hands quickly in a gesture of surrender. "I know you do."
"Do you think she'd care if somebody walked in and knifed her?"
"I doubt she would. She'd be dead," Bahorel said, losing his temper suddenly. You couldn't reason with Feuilly about his sister.
All the same, he wished at once that he hadn't said it. That was his trouble. He could understand delicate things, but he didn't have a delicate temper. He was like a bull in a damn china shop, except that he was a bull who cared about and knew the history of the things he was breaking. He could tell you the difference between two kinds of pottery, but he'd still go on and smash them accidentally anyway. Right now, he'd just smashed something, all right, but he was too much a bull to fall to picking the pieces off the floor and putting them back together.
Feuilly, for his part, looked as cold and hard and angry as the grey Seine in January.
"Go to hell," he said. He was speaking through his teeth, in a perfectly flat voice; Bahorel was familiar enough with it. He had made Feuilly angry before, always on account of the same thing.
He had made Feuilly angry since the beginning, and by now he didn't even care some of the time. Most of the time. Feuilly loved him, for no good reason, and it was his own lookout, then, wasn't it, if he wanted to risk his tender feelings with the violent, stupid brute one.
Damn them, he hated them all, Bahorel thought irrelevantly--and then he paused. He was being a stupid one, all right. He'd lost his temper properly, and made Feuilly angry, and it was all getting out of hand. He needed to get a hold of himself--enough of this bull and china shop talk--and be reasonable again. He took a breath, and then held out his hand.
"Come on. I'm sorry. Let's get back to her, it'll help. She'll be all right."
Feuilly pressed both hands over his eyes.
"God. What would I do without you?"
"You'd carry on somehow. Stop this, now. Let's go home and have supper."
"I'll never take care of her decently, but at least I'll take care of her better than he'll take care of all these people he's leading on," Feuilly burst out suddenly. "I hate him. God! Let's go home."
"Come on."
"We're all going to die, and so is she." Feuilly's voice was bitter, and he was twisting that stupid handkerchief again, twisting it tight. Bahorel tugged it away again.
"Eventually. Come on."
"I think I've gone mad to-night. What's wrong with me? I'm angry, David. I want some lofty champion for rights who isn't a damned hypocrite. I want--"
Bahorel hit him with the handkerchief. "You're right, you're mad. Come on. Weren't you getting all cut up about her being home by herself? I'm ready. Let's go."
Again irrelevantly, he thought: He did hate them all. The ones who weren't disgusting were too good--like angelic Combeferre, shy little Prouvaire. Prouvaire really was a poor stupid little boy. Joly was squirmingly always going on about illnesses, and looked thin enough to be dead, the wretch. Enjolras was, unfortunately, just what Feuilly called him. A damned hypocrite. Bahorel only stayed on because Feuilly did (although he sometimes thought Feuilly only stayed on because he did) and because they'd get to fight eventually. Courfeyrac was so proud of himself you wanted to hit him. Bossuet--how anybody ever put up with him falling all over the place Bahorel'd never known. And Grantaire--! Grantaire hardly even counted, but he was the one who really suited disgusting. An idiot. There was nothing good about the lot of them.
Not even himself, he thought; but he had said the lot of them.
He didn't have any illusions about Feuilly, either. Feuilly was bitter and hard from living. Feuilly really had a much worse temper than Bahorel himself did. Feuilly was mad and stupid about his little girl; he'd gone through worse and hated more.
It really didn't matter, though. Bahorel never changed anything. He just went along with it. Every now and then he got to knock something over or somebody down and everybody cheered and exclaimed about how Bahorel was really in fine form to-night or to-day and what was he going to break up next and let them introduce him to Louis-Philippe and see what would happen and eventually they'd all shut up about it and then bring it up next time something new was going to get knocked down. It was always the same. It didn't really matter.
He was always more concerned with his plays and his books and Feuilly. He liked to memorise things like a schoolboy (Feuilly knew, but he wasn't supposed to: it was really a secret), and he looked after Feuilly because Feuilly's temper was always making Feuilly miserable (nobody knew that: that was really a secret), and that was all there was to it. He got by just fine.
Of course, sometimes he got angry and did something stupid. Sometimes he fought with Feuilly, because he didn't step delicately. But that was all there was to it.
Life wasn't really complicated. It was what it looked like. Most things were. Men are.
Feuilly followed him out of the café, with the parcel of food in his arms. Feuilly always held onto food like it was going to run away; that was part of starving half your life. Bahorel didn't do that. He'd never needed to. He looked over his shoulder, and said,--
"Come on. O, Gertrude, come away! Hurry up."
Feuilly smiled, tightly, but Bahorel knew quite well he was feeling less angry.
On the way out, they were knocked into by Combeferre, who was coming back into Musain. Bahorel laughed. Feuilly swore and nearly dropped the parcel. Then he looked up, and Bahorel tugged his sleeve, and he came along. Walking together they looked like two friends strolling home together, which was, of course, what they were, and what they were doing.
Men are what they look like.
Bahorel knew that better than anybody.
~~~
And now I am working onshawk's Carlotta/Christine from, what, June? I think. And will try to get done some of the Horatio/Fortinbras, if I'm still conscious by then.
Post Scriptum:karla_yonit. I love this music. ;_______; So much. It's wonderful to write to. Thank you! <333333
Ee.
...I have two very long overdue birthday gifts, here. I think I must win some measure
So.
Happy incredibly late birthday,
erinpuff! Your extended Archie/Wellard drabble from May. :DYoung Wellard is a poor, sad, thin boy. The men don't take him as much because he isn't.
But really, almost secretly, he knows the ship better than anyone, knows more of her, knows his way around her... can tell, somehow, all about her. When a storm's about to hit he, secretly, knows, but not because he's any good at judging weather--because the ship knows, the ship feels the storm, and she tells him.
He doesn't know anybody. He hasn't any mates. He stutters sometimes.
He often goes belowdecks when he isn't needed and feels his way around her, going through the holds, touching the wood of the inside of the hull. The rats don't frighten him, although the sailors do, when he's wandering through, secretly, as part of the ship.
He spends most of the time drugged on laudanum.
He can see the insides of the ship tremble like a reflection in the water, right before his eyes, and he reaches out for the walls, for the ship in the water, the moon in the water, and his hands come up against something solid and warm. Kennedy takes his hands and shakes his head; but Wellard doesn't see it.
He only sees the ship. She is all he wants to see.
Kennedy kisses his hands, quotes Shakespeare to him, laughs (and Kennedy has a bright, sun-in-the-sky laugh) and teases, to draw him out of himself, but Wellard doesn't notice. The ship is his moon in the water, and love and concern like the sun don't touch him enough. He isn't heartless; it's just too late for his heart to belong to anything else.
And then the Captain turns the ship against him as well, and he lets himself fall in with Kennedy and Hornblower because there's nowhere else to fall.
And then he starts to notice, secretly, that the sun is warm.
~~~
AND. AND. MISS FISH. Your birthday gift part two, from August. The whatevereth (seventh?) chapter of The Picture Portrait Gallery. Is all yours, and so is the rest of the fic, if I ever finish it. <3 This bit is Bahorel's, and revoltingly short, and completely unedited, which means that I will delete it all in the morning when I am in my right mind. XD BUT. I LOVE YOU HI. So I am posting it now.
Love Locked Out
He had often hated being the one whom everyone dismissed, but he had learnt long ago he couldn't beat it out of people. He used to try. When they laughed at him and wanted to know what great historical building he had desecrated this week, he used to strike them or speak sharply to them, used to start brawls where-ever he was. He'd given that up by now. It didn't help. He wasn't as stupid as people thought, and he knew that you couldn't get rid of a trouble-maker's reputation by making trouble.
Bahorel was towering and rough, but he could understand delicate things. He had used to be sure there was some way to let people know that, but he saw quickly enough that it didn't work so easily. Nothing was so easy. When you looked like something, you usually were. Grantaire looked like a slovenly drunk, after all. Combeferre looked like a gentle-eyed philosopher.
He grinned and looked sideways at Combeferre, who was just going out the door with Joly and Bossuet, hovering, caught between the warm inside light of the café and the darkish cold outside, half a shadow and half a solid figure, mingling with the other solid shadows, laughing with them. Combeferre was dressed in a grey-coloured suit and his spectacles glinted in the lamplight. He looked kind, happy, amused, satisfied, and all those things he probably was.
Bahorel turned his head and looked back at Grantaire, who was on his feet and reeling. Poor idiot. He was dark-haired and pale-skinned, with eyes that were sometimes sleepy and sometimes wild and sometimes lustful; he couldn't stand without trembling, and his hands were always waving in the air. When he laughed, it was loudly and harshly. He looked wretched, drunk, exhausted, disgusting, and you wouldn't find a man in Musain who'd doubt he was.
Men are what they look like.
Getting into complicated ideas like what is, is not, and nothing that is so, is so (and this is not my nose, neither, Bahorel thought without noticing he had, without smiling, without showing in any way that he knew he was saying something he had learnt from a play) was too much trouble for most people, and anyway rather pointless, since usually you were right when you guessed at a man's character.
So he looked like the sort of fellow who'd rather belt you one square than talk about Chaucer, and that was how people took him. He was actually only a little amused, these days, that Feuilly was the one who had decided he might be different. Bahorel would've guessed Combeferre or Jehan, the little poet. He would've guessed that the darkly beautiful soul of that fair young master of poesie would have recognised the true goodness in him and welcomed him with open arms, drawing him aside for secret discussions of English sonnets and Italian marblework. But Jehan was afraid of him, obviously, for he shrank back when Bahorel came into the room, and quivered until he was gone again. It made Bahorel laugh. Poor silly stupid little boy. Nobody had ever really needed to be afraid of him. Not like that, anyway.
He rubbed his untidy beard and leaned back in the chair. And instead it had been Feuilly who had known. Feuilly wasn't afraid of him, no jot. Feuilly could somehow tell.
Feuilly was wrapping up the food Bahorel had bought from Mere Houcheloup, sizing it up with his eyes even while he was putting it away. Bahorel supposed he was dividing it ahead of time in his mind to decide how much of his portion he ought to give to his sister. Feuilly was rather prone to pointless self-sacrifice where she was concerned, which had always struck Bahorel as a bit sad, really, a bit pathetic; watching an underfed fellow denying himself for a scrawny little girl who wore an old pillowcase and had lice in her hair. She thought Feuilly was her father.
Bahorel didn't interfere with Feuilly's business, so he hadn't pointed out that he thought it'd be a better idea to tell her she hadn't got a father. She knew Bahorel, when she actually looked at him and realised he was there--because being hungry and tired and often ill and always poor had made it difficult for her to acknowledge anything, so often she just sat there and stared straight ahead while Feuilly tried to coax a smile out of her--knew him as her father's friend. Feuilly had wanted her to call Bahorel Oncle David, but she never really woke up enough to learn, and it wasn't as though Bahorel (really) cared. He didn't like children, anyway.
But there was Feuilly, right before him, dividing the food already and already taking the better part away from himself to give to her. Bahorel reached out and touched his arm.
"I can still knock him down for you if you'd like."
"No, don't bother." Feuilly laughed, and Bahorel felt a surging heat of victory. A laugh. You didn't often get a laugh out of Feuilly. "I just want to get home to her and forget about it."
"All right."
"What did you say to Grantaire?"
"Only extended my condolences. Stupid thing, really, to get left behind."
"I suppose it is." Feuilly lifted his head. His face had gone solemn (more solemn than usual, at any rate) and he was looking away thoughtfully. "I suppose. That's exactly what we've done to her. We've left her behind."
"Shut up and stop being so miserable and self-effacing all the time. It's not that bad. She doesn't care."
Bahorel cursed to himself.
"Sorry?" Feuilly said coldly. "Do you think that matters? Whether or not she cares? I care."
He lifted his hands quickly in a gesture of surrender. "I know you do."
"Do you think she'd care if somebody walked in and knifed her?"
"I doubt she would. She'd be dead," Bahorel said, losing his temper suddenly. You couldn't reason with Feuilly about his sister.
All the same, he wished at once that he hadn't said it. That was his trouble. He could understand delicate things, but he didn't have a delicate temper. He was like a bull in a damn china shop, except that he was a bull who cared about and knew the history of the things he was breaking. He could tell you the difference between two kinds of pottery, but he'd still go on and smash them accidentally anyway. Right now, he'd just smashed something, all right, but he was too much a bull to fall to picking the pieces off the floor and putting them back together.
Feuilly, for his part, looked as cold and hard and angry as the grey Seine in January.
"Go to hell," he said. He was speaking through his teeth, in a perfectly flat voice; Bahorel was familiar enough with it. He had made Feuilly angry before, always on account of the same thing.
He had made Feuilly angry since the beginning, and by now he didn't even care some of the time. Most of the time. Feuilly loved him, for no good reason, and it was his own lookout, then, wasn't it, if he wanted to risk his tender feelings with the violent, stupid brute one.
Damn them, he hated them all, Bahorel thought irrelevantly--and then he paused. He was being a stupid one, all right. He'd lost his temper properly, and made Feuilly angry, and it was all getting out of hand. He needed to get a hold of himself--enough of this bull and china shop talk--and be reasonable again. He took a breath, and then held out his hand.
"Come on. I'm sorry. Let's get back to her, it'll help. She'll be all right."
Feuilly pressed both hands over his eyes.
"God. What would I do without you?"
"You'd carry on somehow. Stop this, now. Let's go home and have supper."
"I'll never take care of her decently, but at least I'll take care of her better than he'll take care of all these people he's leading on," Feuilly burst out suddenly. "I hate him. God! Let's go home."
"Come on."
"We're all going to die, and so is she." Feuilly's voice was bitter, and he was twisting that stupid handkerchief again, twisting it tight. Bahorel tugged it away again.
"Eventually. Come on."
"I think I've gone mad to-night. What's wrong with me? I'm angry, David. I want some lofty champion for rights who isn't a damned hypocrite. I want--"
Bahorel hit him with the handkerchief. "You're right, you're mad. Come on. Weren't you getting all cut up about her being home by herself? I'm ready. Let's go."
Again irrelevantly, he thought: He did hate them all. The ones who weren't disgusting were too good--like angelic Combeferre, shy little Prouvaire. Prouvaire really was a poor stupid little boy. Joly was squirmingly always going on about illnesses, and looked thin enough to be dead, the wretch. Enjolras was, unfortunately, just what Feuilly called him. A damned hypocrite. Bahorel only stayed on because Feuilly did (although he sometimes thought Feuilly only stayed on because he did) and because they'd get to fight eventually. Courfeyrac was so proud of himself you wanted to hit him. Bossuet--how anybody ever put up with him falling all over the place Bahorel'd never known. And Grantaire--! Grantaire hardly even counted, but he was the one who really suited disgusting. An idiot. There was nothing good about the lot of them.
Not even himself, he thought; but he had said the lot of them.
He didn't have any illusions about Feuilly, either. Feuilly was bitter and hard from living. Feuilly really had a much worse temper than Bahorel himself did. Feuilly was mad and stupid about his little girl; he'd gone through worse and hated more.
It really didn't matter, though. Bahorel never changed anything. He just went along with it. Every now and then he got to knock something over or somebody down and everybody cheered and exclaimed about how Bahorel was really in fine form to-night or to-day and what was he going to break up next and let them introduce him to Louis-Philippe and see what would happen and eventually they'd all shut up about it and then bring it up next time something new was going to get knocked down. It was always the same. It didn't really matter.
He was always more concerned with his plays and his books and Feuilly. He liked to memorise things like a schoolboy (Feuilly knew, but he wasn't supposed to: it was really a secret), and he looked after Feuilly because Feuilly's temper was always making Feuilly miserable (nobody knew that: that was really a secret), and that was all there was to it. He got by just fine.
Of course, sometimes he got angry and did something stupid. Sometimes he fought with Feuilly, because he didn't step delicately. But that was all there was to it.
Life wasn't really complicated. It was what it looked like. Most things were. Men are.
Feuilly followed him out of the café, with the parcel of food in his arms. Feuilly always held onto food like it was going to run away; that was part of starving half your life. Bahorel didn't do that. He'd never needed to. He looked over his shoulder, and said,--
"Come on. O, Gertrude, come away! Hurry up."
Feuilly smiled, tightly, but Bahorel knew quite well he was feeling less angry.
On the way out, they were knocked into by Combeferre, who was coming back into Musain. Bahorel laughed. Feuilly swore and nearly dropped the parcel. Then he looked up, and Bahorel tugged his sleeve, and he came along. Walking together they looked like two friends strolling home together, which was, of course, what they were, and what they were doing.
Men are what they look like.
Bahorel knew that better than anybody.
~~~
And now I am working on
shawk's Carlotta/Christine from, what, June? I think. And will try to get done some of the Horatio/Fortinbras, if I'm still conscious by then.Post Scriptum:
karla_yonit. I love this music. ;_______; So much. It's wonderful to write to. Thank you! <333333Ee.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-05 05:32 am (UTC)(By the way, the DVD burned, and it is SO. COOL. OMG. I'm having way too much fun with this.)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 01:30 am (UTC)(OMG OMG THANK YOU SO MUCH.)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 03:08 am (UTC)(You're welcome so much! Thanks for giving me the opportunity to play with all this cool stuff! *g*)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 04:28 am (UTC)(^_________^ oh, it was a terrible sacrifice. :P)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 04:43 am (UTC)(And hey... AIM tonight? Or is it too late?)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 05:00 am (UTC)(Too late to-night. >_>)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 05:07 am (UTC)(Aw, okeydokey.)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-05 05:42 am (UTC)Eeeeeeee, Archie/Wellard! Ohhhh, I love it. Eeee at Shakespearequoting!Archie, oh love. And that poor, poor boy.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 01:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-05 05:43 am (UTC)Everybody does not, thou silly! *hugs you*(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 01:31 am (UTC)...How do you know?(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 02:41 am (UTC)I don't. QED.(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-05 03:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 01:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 04:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 04:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 04:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 04:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 05:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-15 10:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-06 12:43 pm (UTC)......Oh, God... I love you... oh. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much... ;______; I can't believe... oh, you didn't have to (but you did) -- too nice. Always too nice. Thank you so much. I love it -- HE LOVES ME, LADIES AND GENTS -- wait, that's not really from the fic -- oh, BAHOREL -- FEUILLY -- I could die from happiness... please finish it someday when you feel like it, because... I really, really really love Picture Portrait Gallery -- you know it already. Thank you for this. Thank you so much. Thank you. I love you.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-15 10:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-17 02:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-17 08:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-08 10:06 pm (UTC)*melts* I think I want helplessly to abscond your Bahorel and your Feuilly and put them in a dark, cozy closet to bloody well work out those unspoken differences and yet the tension, the tension is so brilliant and hi, incoherent as usual, I love you, I love them, I love it, I love you, Miss Soujin.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-15 10:13 pm (UTC)Ohhh, my goodness. They need a psychiatrist. Joint counselling, seriously. XD Oh, but--oh, thank you, thank you so much...!