it's the magical mystery kind

It’s ten am on a Saturday and Derek has never been so dumbstruck in his life.

He’d been happily eating his pancakes when out of nowhere Stiles decides to say, “Sometimes I feel like I want to make out with you. Is that a friend thing to do?”

Derek hadn’t even had a chance to respond before Stiles had continued on his diatribe  which was still going.

“I know that’s not a normal thing to ask, but I’m curious like if other people ever have those thoughts. I think at some point I’ve thought about what it would like to kiss all my friends. Like Scott would be incredibly weird obviously. Lydia would be great, but probably a little scary. Allison would just be funny. Erica would be hot. I don’t think I could kiss Jackson under any circumstances. But you would be good, I think. Like I think I would like making out with you.”

And with that Stiles is back to his food, humming along to the song the diner is playing.

Derek’s not sure if Stiles is expecting a response, but he certainly doesn’t have one yet.

He’d never thought about it.

Stiles is fuming. And confused. And annoyed. And hurt. But he won’t admit to the last one.

First of all, he’d shown up for his and Derek’s weekly movie night really looking forward to a relaxing night with one of his best friends.

He’d wanted to cut loose and relax and not think about anything.

That proved impossible because there’s a guy here.

(A guy Stiles is really starting to hate).

Movie night has been just his and Derek’s thing for essentially ever. Even Scott knows that it’s their thing and doesn’t try to butt in.

But here’s this random guy.

This random, obnoxious, way too good looking guy.

A guy that Derek is actually being nice to.

Stiles would go as far as to say that Derek is even trying to make sure that the guy is comfortable and happy.

As much as Stiles doesn’t want to admit it, it really does seem like this is a date.

He received no context other than that “This is Marco. It’s cool if he’s here for movie night, right?”

What was Stiles supposed to say to that? No?

He’s not that mean.

Especially if this is Derek’s way of introducing him to his boyfriend.

But try as he might, he can’t bring himself to be nice to the guy.

“Mom has been texting me for the last twenty minutes. She wants me to come home. It’s a four hour drive, when the roads are clear, and from what I hear everybody is trying to get somewhere right now. There’s no telling if I’d even-”

“Everybody else has left. All the other kids were picked up, the other staff left. They gave me all the keys. I promised to stay and wait for as long as- well. Even if some of the parents show up, I guess some of them won’t, so I’m just waiting. Until.”

[Clears throat.]

“A couple of people came after everybody left. Peter, one of Aidan’s fathers, gave me three hundred dollars for staying. What am I going to do with money? It’s- anyway. I kind of get it. He wanted to give me something.”

[Audio ends]

[Audio starts]

“They’re all between 2 and 4.” Sniff. “They’re so little. Too little to really- maybe if they were older, I’d have to tell them something. But um. I’m just- trying to stay calm and keep them happy and occupied. I think that’s the best thing, right now.”

[Heaving breaths.]

“I normally use this recorder to help me remember stuff. It’s just, uh, habit to talk to it. I don’t know. They’re napping, right now. I’ve got the baby monitor, they know that if they talk into it, I’ll come, so-”

[Sobbing.]

[Audio ends]

[Audio starts]

“Mom keeps texting, so I blocked her. I sent her a text telling her goodbye, first, but. I do. But these kids need me.”

[Sniff.]

“I tried calling their parents again, but I can’t get anybody. It’s just busy signals. I called the firefighter station, 911. I can’t get through to anybody.”

[Shaky breath.]

“I went out into the yard. Um, I think they can play. It’s nice out, and you can’t really see it yet. Little bit of a glimmer, if they ask I’ll just tell them it’s a plane, but it’s nice out and we’ve got hours before-”

[Murmuring child’s voice, indistinguishable.]

[Audio ends]

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

romance in film gif meme: [4/5] gazes/yearnings

"I have lots of wishes, but my favorite one is to be an artist in Paris and to do fine pictures and to be the best painter in the world."

"That's what you want too, isn't it, Jo? To be a famous writer?"

"Yes, but it sounds so crass when she says it."

@pscentral event 35: parallels

This question makes me wonder: What is a happy ending? Does a character need an ending in order to have a happy ending? Will is a character who I believe had a truly happy ending. He died of old age, surrounded by friends and family, the love of his life and his parabatai. He had a full and happy life that was better than he dreamed it would be. And yet, I’ve gotten many emails from people who feel that Will did not have a happy ending, simply because he died — as everyone dies, someday. In the cases of Tessa and Magnus, I get a steady stream of variations on this question — will they become mortal? Will they become mortal for their beloveds? Would it be “fair” for Jem to be immortal when Will didn’t get to be immortal? 

Certainly, T&M’s immortality makes the situation different. Readers seem to want them to have what some people didn’t like Will having: a definitive end to their story. I don’t know why, exactly, but I have theories. 

Letter-writer, I appreciate your concern, but I respectfully disagree with your read of what would happen to Magnus and Alec and Tessa and Jem. I don’t think Alec is destined to age miserably. That doesn’t give him much credit, considering that in CoHF he and Magnus resolve that they will make every day count, and it certainly doesn’t give Magnus much credit! And I don’t think Magnus would petrify, at least not anytime soon, because he’d have a whole new pile of happy memories and experiences under his belt. (Not to mention a child for the first time! Well, probably a grown up child by then. But that still counts as undiscovered territory!)

I also don’t think Tessa would go through “the same exact loss she went through with Will.” Tessa is a different person. She’s had over a century to change and gain perspective. Both losses would be extremely difficult, but not identical, and she would experience them differently. (And then there’s the fact that we don’t know the circumstances that will surround Jem’s death. Tessa could be killed before him, for all we know.) She will, like every human on the face of the planet, be with the one she loves until they die or she dies. That’s every person in the world. So to say that’s not a happy ending is to say that happy endings are not possible in the world we live in, because death exists.  It is very romantic to think about Tessa, Jem and Will, and Magnus and Alec, being reunited in the afterlife. But that requires that there is some sort of afterlife, which Nephilim and Downworlders alike have no knowledge or guarantee of. Killing oneself hoping to be actually reunited with someone who has died would be a huge gamble. Like mundane humans, some Shadowhunters do believe in heaven and/or an afterlife. But no one knows what happens after death. Tessa and Magnus get to carry their joys and sorrows farther than most characters. Will lives on in Tessa’s heart and her memories (and in Jem’s and Magnus’s as well). Loving Will made her who she is, and one reason she aims to live her life well is to honor the memory of him and their love. (I imagine that by the time Jem dies, she’ll have a similar feeling about him and their life together, but since it’s all speculation at this point I’m not going to get into detail.) If she were to kill herself, she would be taking those memories and stories of the people she loves from the world forever. Similarly, if Magnus were to kill himself, it would not honor Alec’s memory. It would take it from the world. If Alec’s memory is to live on, it will be in large part through how Magnus lives his life going into the future. (I say in large part because many people love Alec, not just Magnus!) Romantic love can be amazing and life-changing and vital, but it isn’t the only source of happiness. Losing it doesn’t mean that you have nothing else to live for. It better not, because relationships end all the time. Being able to carry on and find joy and meaning in other aspects of life is an important survival skill to have. Warlocks have to develop that skill even more than mortals do. In order for Magnus and Tessa to want to end their lives, they’d have to believe whatever lay ahead for them was not worth sticking around for. They’d have to believe that entering the complete unknown, possibly nothingness, would be better than continuing to learn and grow and change. 

The thing about being an immortal character is that perhaps you cannot have a happy ending in the traditional sense, because you cannot have an ending. So people want the characters dead, in order to draw that line: to say, this is the end and that was happy. They got the love they wanted and that means they crossed a finish line. They’re done.

Except they aren’t done. Even after loss, you keep living. That’s part of what I think is important about characters like Tessa and Magnus: that they love and lose and keep living. Because that happens in real life. It’s something a lot of people have to deal with, all the time. It’s part of real life and real feelings in a way a story about two immortal people never can be.