euphoric.

                    Incandescent low lights illuminated the fillmore theater’s main dressing room with an alluring brilliance that filled casey’s body with a glowing warmth. The esteemed popstar felt transcendent as he stared at the seemingly animated paisley pattern of the tapestries strewn across the ceiling. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the basement of cbgb’s, a punk rock staple that made him feel immediately like home the second he was allowed down there. For what felt like an entire hour (though it was only a minute or so, tops) he thought about how the place had closed long before he was ever able to visit the states, and about how the gritty, unkempt punk-rock aesthetic of this dressing room juxtaposed the ornate theatricality of the rest of the fillmore establishment. It almost represented him, Casey thought, as the paisley patterns continued to move before his very eyes, swirling around itself like minnows in the tide. He, too, is portrayed to the public as ornate and classic, something that can never die or receive damage, something invincible and delicate and beautiful all at once. But this smoke-filled room full of torn posters, nicotine-yellowed tapestries and a piss-stained array of rugs is the closest to cbgb’s that Casey will ever get to feeling at home once again. It occurs to him, then, that he’s not alone, as he usually is. No, tonight was different, as casey had bravely invited kai to join him for a little afterparty. Lots of things about kai fascinated casey, lots, but what fascinated him most was the man’s innocence. It seemed that the spoils of escapism (drugs) weren’t entirely widely experienced in Korea, and some part of casey wanted to unlock kai like a treasure chest, and he planned on using escapism to do that. Though he’d manage to swindle kai into smoking weed a time or two since starting his work as a backup dancer, he considered it a true success when he’d convinced the conservative boy to try magic mushrooms, something that casey himself deemed the source of all his ‘powers’. It had been about two hours since they’d both eaten their dosed PB&J’s, meaning that the drug had kicked in not too long before now. Hazy and smiley, casey lifts himself from the musty dressing room loveseat and looks over onto it’s twin couch, to the handsome, boggled boy lying atop it. “Kai, my darling,” casey says theatrically and without reserve, getting on his knees and crawling to sit beside the couch, looking up at his friend with big, besotted eyes that seemed to twinkle in the warm lights. “Tell me how you are feeling. Have you been drinking the water i gave you?” casey asks, mindlessly putting his hand on the boy’s thigh. It’s not unlike casey to be extra touchy when he’s inebriated, but mushrooms make him particularly affectionate. It shows plainly in his face as he bring himself to look the other man in the eyes, feeling his heart proverbially melt into a giant puddle and his pupils physically turn heart-shaped, and he has to bite back his extensive smile as he gives kai’s knee a gentle squeeze. The dark haired man’s sillhouette glows and his eyes twinkle, and casey knows that it’s the drugs, but he can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to look at this person every day for the rest of his life. But, he thinks, he’s getting far too ahead of himself. Like most of the people in casey’s work life that he’s garnered feelings for, he fully expects kai to go running for the hills any minute now.

      ever since the wedding, jonah’s mind has been taken by something dark. he’s plagued by nightmares, destructive thoughts, and even more devastating actions that follow the destructive thoughts. he thinks the throne to the iron islands is cursed, that every man who sits upon it is doomed to madness but jonah’s naive almost narcissistic view of his own mind, he thought he was different. in the beginning, he was. he was a kind, merciful king who wanted his kingdom to grow and prosper together. now, nearly 25 years later, his kingdom is in shambles and he is a shadow of who he wanted to be.

    the only thing keeping him sane is blythe. every time he looks at her, he’s at peace, he forgets all the despicable things he’s done, every time he holds her he’s brought back to a happier and easier time in his life. jonah’s older now, nearly 46 years old, but when he touches blythe he feels like he’s 19 again. he feels like he’s in the garden again with his secret commoner girlfriend. he relives his wedding day when he looks in her eyes. he loves her so much. he doesn’t know how she does it but she calms the raging war in his head.

     “i got you new fabrics. they’re are suppose to be coming in from forte in a week,” he tells his wife with his baritone voice, a soft smile on his lips as she watches his love work, “i don’t really know what i got but i got a lot of colors and different types. i know the fabrics there are some of your favorites.” jonah told her with a sweet smile as he stares at her with nothing but affection in his puppy dog eyes. he laughed softly when he heard her giggle, his large hand holding on her’s before looking in the mirror. 

he’s almost startled by how different he looks––obviously, he doesn’t spend much time looking in mirror now a days. he looks grey, his hair is duller than usual, and his eyes, the most startling of them all, weren’t dark brown anymore. his hues were an unsettling light chestnut, they looked like his father––he looked like his father. the man looked away from his reflection to look down at his wife, taking her hand into both of his, kneading her palm with his thumbs. “everything you make me makes me look handsome.” he teases as he takes the fabric off off his shoulder, wrapping the silky fabric around her neck to pull her to his chest with a bright smile, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “i think this color actually…” he gently guides blythe in front of him to look at their reflection,  “looks beautiful on you, but every color looks beautiful on you.” he smiled at their reflection. “i think you should make a nightgown with it or maybe a dress? i love when you wear silk.”

m

         it became clear to blythe a long time ago that the jonah she knew and loved was a very different person compared to the valiant king that everyone knew and loved. she could see something shift in his eyes when his attention left her, getting darker, more vengeful and vicious. unrecognizable. but it was the gleam in his eyes whenever his attention returned to her that kept her at his side, happily oblivious to the horrors he committed when she turned a blind eye. some days it was harder to ignore, and those were the days that she spent doting over her beautiful grandchildren, making sure that they were surviving without the attention of their distant mother. nico had become visibly bothered by her father’s inexplicable actions, lately, and it never ceases to make the already-anxious women’s nerves burst into flames.

          regardless, all of blythe’s anxieties seem to float away after she’s gottena few glasses of wine in her, and her beautiful husband looks at her with that familiar, loving glint in his eyes. blythe gets visibly excited at the prospect of new fabrics coming in from other kingdoms, a blinding smile appearing on her face, as she leans forward to pepper kisses across the man’s cheeks. “you always know just the way to cheer me up, my angel,” blythe insists as her dainty hands gently grab the collar of jonah’s shirt, delicately pulling him to her height and pressing a soft kiss to his pillowy lips. “thank you.” 

           blythe glowed under the attention of the love of her life, nearly glimmering as he kisses her forehead. a girlish giggle leaves her lip as the man guides her to the mirror to look at her own reflection in the blue silk, making her cheeks burn with his loving compliments. visions of the two of them in matching garments flooded her mind. her, in a long, silk gown, with delicate lace accents, and jonah in a sleek off-white suit, and a matching blue silk shirt. it gives her outfit ideas for the upcoming summer solstice party in forte. “i think you might be on to something, my love,” she agrees enthusiastically, nodding gently a few times before turning around in the man’s grasp and wrapping her long arms around his neck, leaning up to softly kiss him, pulling away with a last peck on the nose. 

         francesco was never expecting to be king of fortè. he also was never expecting the dead to come to life and destroy everything. they lost a king, he basically lost his sister, their crops were crushed, and people were dying every day. it was a rash and abrupt choice to make francesco king, there wasn’t really any other option, paola was a shell and the only person other person with the mental capacity to lead was, well, francesco. marrying bella donna was a quick compromise––a quick compromise he proposed. he’s been around arrange marriages his entire life, he’s used to them and would’ve been the subject to one sooner or later so why not do it to save his kingdom? bella wasn’t bad, she was nice enough, really pretty, and a part of him does love her––she’s his wife, of course he loves her.

       he doesn’t love anyone like he loves greta though. he’s been in love with her since he could remember. she’s been around his entire life, it was grossly clichè that they fell in love. he’s always watched over her, a habit he’s picked up over the years. so, when his wife began ranting over flowers, he found himself watching greta through their window. a few things he’s noted about bella donna in their two months of being married is that she has a temper, she can hide it well, but when she loses it––holy shit, she loses it. he knows he should stop watching greta do a job she’s not qualified to do and work on calming his wife down, but he can’t tear himself away from this window or the girl he loves. when he feels her eyes scan over his face, he finally rips his attention away from greta and onto bella donna, batting his lashes at her. francesco knows it’s a backhanded compliment before the backhand even comes causing him to sigh dramatically, standing up straighter to look down at her. “that’s dramatic, bellè. we can get you new roses and a new gardener that won’t ‘manhandle’ your precious plums.” he spares one last glance at his love before looking back at bella, raising his brows dismissively at her.

       maybe his wife is crazy. losing her mind over flowers––this has to be deeper than flowers. from the few dinners he’s had with her parents, her father and his many wives, he can just tell that something is off but he’s known that from the start––they’re literal witches. “over flowers? you’ll throw someone in a dungeon because of flowers?” francesco snaps when he hears her ridiculous remark, shaking his blond curls. he strides over to bella donna, putting a heavy hand on her shoulder like his mother would do to get a hold of a situation. “i think this party is stressing you out too much,” with each word his hand gets heavier till he lifts it and gently pets down her smooth black hair, “you should take a break before you say something really stupid, yeah?”

          belladonna may be insane, but, just like her parental figures, she does it with grace. at first, she was an absolute angel to francesco, calling him by affectionate nicknames, giving him the utmost positive affection at every turn, basically behaving like all the overly-doting trophy wives she’d watched her friends and sisters turn into every time they were married off to their respective men. belladonna was the most powerful, though, with the most powerful father, and the most dangerous confidence, that allowed her to do anything to anyone without a second thought. thats why it was so easy for her to manipulate francesco. she had a conscious goal to make him think that it was his fault that belladonna’s demeanor had turned into something evil, and sour. every step for francesco must’ve been a minefield, giving belladonna complete control, just the way she liked it. 

          the pridefulness in her is causing something deep within her chest to ignite with anger the longer that she watches her innocuous, virtuous husband long after another woman. belladonna can give francesco royalty, fame, sex, power-- but greta, the simple, futile handmaiden, can give francesco love, and that is the one thing belladonna cannot deliver. impossibly tall walls of narcissism formed around belladonna’s heart to protect herself from the horrible things that happened to her as a child, but the always confident, petit woman would never admit to such a thing. it’s arguable that she doesn’t even realize what has happened to her, but she’s far too gone to reprogram, at this point. her one and only goal is to win the game, even if she doesn’t know what that is. 

          when francesco’s demeanor changes and he questions belladonna’s sentencing, implying that putting someone in the dungeon over flowers is perhaps jumping the gun, and it causes something within the small woman to burn with anger. “yes, francesco, i would. i won’t have just any moron ruining my centuries old rose vines,” the girl angrily snaps in response, before even giving her words a second thought. she runs on autopilot in these situations, sticking to the same manipulative script that she always does. however, when francesco begins to soothe belladonna with a heavy hand, giving her attention, and basically seceding to her implied demands by giving her behaviors a valid excuse, the narcissist in her is able to take a breath, knowing that it has once again won. “perhaps i require the company of my love to feel better?” belladonna suggests in an over-rehearsed, manipulative tone, before continuing to ploy the man with things she knows he can’t deny. “have dinner with me, my darling. i’ll have the cooks prepare your favorite dinner.” the raven haired woman leans in, dragging her lips across the boy’s ear, and pressing a kiss to the soft skin of his neck, “and then we can retire to our bedroom for dessert. yah?” 

           •      kingdom of forte, kingdom of strength      •

               “well, it seems the azaleas aren’t available this time of year, even for fucking royalty,” belladonna seethes through clenched teeth after aggressively slamming the phone into the receiver. her tiny fists clench around the silk train of her gown as she grunts quietly in frustration, before taking a deep, labored breath, and exhaling with a hum, forcing her anger to extinguish before she blows a gasket over flowers. “i’ll just have to settle for orchids. and plum flowers. so, wear white or red to the party, tonight—” the girl’s narrowed eyes raise to her new husband, who stood staring out the thick glass window at the gardens, instead of listening to her. despite the insignificance, belle finds some irritation flaring up in the center of her chest, of which she must breathe through so that she doesn’t just burst at the seams with frustration. “francesco?” she asks in a warning tone, sighing heavily when she’s once again met with silence. arching a brow beneath her perfectly groomed bangs, belladonna quietly crosses the room, halting only when she can see past her husband’s shoulder and out the window. the old glass pane slightly blurs the vision, but she can still clearly see a too-familiar servant girl tending to the garden. jealously ignites inside belle’s gut, causing her to look for any reason to hate the woman her husband is paying attention to instead of her. her eyes flicker across his perfect, prince-like features. despite being king, he still holds a childlike innocence—a quality that belle can’t help but resent. she sometimes falls asleep at night wondering how she can demolish that quality within him, convincing herself that it’s for the sake of their kingdom. “she’s beautiful,” belladonna suddenly says in an assertive tone, relatively closer to francesco’s ear than she was moments ago, “too bad she’s fucking vapid. she’s butchered the roses. and any chances of my mother’s plum blossoms returning next year are slim thanks to her man-handling the branches like that.” belladonna huffs, eying her husband’s immaculate features to see how he’d react before turning on her heels and walking back towards her desk, where glamorous, elaborate party plans were haphazardly strewn about. “after she works the summer solstice party—” belladonna begins, her tone slight and innocent, despite the venomous words that follow, “i ought to have her thrown in the dungeons and be done with it.”

               something about the incalculable chaos pouring out of their intrepid kingdom like water pours from a faucet was giving blythe more and more reason to stay locked up inside her quaint, cluttered office. the room is about twenty feet wide, and thirty feet long. on one end sits a large, mahogany desk, the immaculate carpentry project that blythe’s father gave her as a compulsory wedding gift, despite skipping the wedding out of spite. there’s a decent amount of empty space in the middle of the room, interrupted by mannequins of varying shapes and sizes, all covered in different works in progress, both belonging to herself and lavender. most nights, she’s alone, listening to her crackly vinyl records and sketching elaborate designs as she avoids thinking of the sheer turmoil they’ve been engulfed in, but tonight; she’s joined by jonah. the love of her life.

               it’s not hard to tell, judging by the seven or so mannequins in blythe’s office that hold garments being tailored to jonah’s size, but the man has always been her biggest source of inspiration. she finds herself hand-stitching embroidery and painstakingly pleating garments well into the night just so that she can show him her handiwork first thing in the morning. seeing the way his face lights up, every single time, without fail, is the food that feeds her soul.

          aesthetic posters  ──  for florian zhao