Hey there, I’ve resurfaced after a little bit of inactivity to find that I’ve been nominated for the Sunshine Blogger Award by Chalicen, who writes an amazing SimLit called Winter’s Alchemy. It’s a really great read with some awesome illustrations thrown in and I definitely recommend it to anyone who hasn’t read it yet. Thank you for the nomination! The rules for the award: In a blog post, thank the person who nominated you and link back to their blog. Answer the 11 questions sent by the person who nominated you. Nominate 11 new blogs to receive the award and write them 11 new questions. List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award logo in your post and/or your blog. 1. What inspired you to start writing SimLit? I answered this question a while ago back on the forums, but it was when Pammiechick’s amazon challenge was spotlighted on the sims’ website. I had liked playing the sims and writing independently of one another for a while at the point I came across it, so it just seemed natural to bring together two of my interests. 2. What do you think is the one lamentable thing missing in sims? (Ex. for me it’s seasons.) Yeah, seasons is definitely a big one. I’d probably have to say that’s the biggest thing missing. I’m also dying for new supernaturals, but that’s not as big of a necessity. 3. If you were a sim in Sims 4, what would your traits be? Probably creative, geek and cat lover. 4. What is your favourite and least favourite cliché? It’s really hard for me to think of a particular favorite or least favorite. I guess I tend to enjoy it a lot when characters switch sides (evil to good or good to evil) so I think I’ll go with that. My least favorite is probably the damsel in distress cliché. If you meant cliché the other way, then my favorite is either “cat got your tongue” or “weak as a kitten”. What can I say? I like cats. My least favorite would be “we’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing with you” 5. Pitch your SimLit as a haiku! (Or a limerick, if that makes it easier. Or iambic pentameter… Or any poem form you like.) I’ll do this for The Illusion of Light. Fair warning, I don’t write much poetry. I’m going to go with a limerick. “There once was a young boy named Vincent Who was taken quite a long distance When he woke he was tired And cornered by vampires It was then he met the young mistress” I tried my best. 6. What is your all-time favourite game (apart from Sims )? It has to be Avalon Code for the DS! It’s a really awesome game and I really couldn’t do it justice explaining it. Here’s the box-art; 7. What is your favourite mythical being?
I really like witches and warlocks! I also think that bakenekos are cool. 8. What do you think is the most despicable trait in an antagonist? Hmm, I could probably get specific, but in general I’d say a lack of empathy. Although, I find that I like most villains/antagonists so take that with a grain of salt. 9. Do you prefer making sims or building houses? Or are you the type that doesn’t care as long as they do the thing? Making sims, for sure. I’m really not a good builder and in general I just prefer making characters rather than settings. 10. Is there a SimLit you absolutely must recommend? Why? I really can’t narrow it down to just one! I’d want to recommend all of the ones I’ve read, but I guess I’ll go with the most recent one I started reading. CareTake by CathyTea has such interesting characters! 11. What do you think makes a story a SimLit? I think that would be that it’s related to the sims in one way or another, whether by concepts, characters, visuals, or the setting- or all of the above! I don’t think I follow any blogs that haven’t been nominated already, so I guess I’ll just end this here.
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I am Squid. No matter what happens. No matter how much time passes. No matter how much changes, how much changes me- how much I change. No matter who I become, I am Squid. I have to remind myself of that on days like today- days when I have to go there, to that place without a name. I can hardly even remember it, although I was there only a few moments ago. All I can remember is his grin, hiding behind that surgical mask, and the sterile smell of medication. If I focus on it long enough, I feel like I could remember more. I feel like I could remember his voice, sneering, telling me “you’ll feel a slight pinch”. I feel like I could remember feeling more than that. But I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember that place. I don’t want to know its name. I let the memories go blurry, and I forget them again. I start home, feeling a bit seasick. I haven’t gotten my land legs back yet, and as such, am finding it hard to keep my balance. I think if Cabinet were here she’d offer to carry me. I’d decline, of course. Not because she couldn’t do it with ease, but because I don’t want to fall into the habit of relying on her. I can’t stand the thought of being a burden, and have gone to great lengths to avoid becoming such. I’ll continue to do so, even if those lengths lead to the same destination. I suppose I’m stubborn in that way. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I catch a glimpse of movement. Something is glistening behind me. I turn around quickly. Well, as quickly as I can, given my current condition. It isn’t graceful. There’s nothing there. Somehow it feels like there’s even less than nothing there. It doesn’t feel right. This unnatural emptiness isn’t the ordinary state of “nothing there”. No, this feeling can only come from something that isn’t where it should be- not to be confused with when something isn’t where it was. “Show yourself,” I lazily command into the emptiness. There is no answer, and the unnatural feeling grows. “Go back home,” I say to it. I turn around, slower this time. I continue on my way and the emptiness clings to me. “Leave me alone,” I tell it, more forcefully than the last twelve times. It’s crossed my mind that I’d surely seem crazy to the unperceptive- not noticing the emptiness I’m addressing. I don’t mind, however. What’s the point of minding? What I do mind is the stubborn nature of this unnatural feeling. It’s followed me all the way back to the front door. Cabinet greets me as she always does when I come home. I think it worries her. I think she worries about how I return so late, how I can barely walk, how I sleep for a day afterwards- “how I” in general. I don’t like worrying- myself or others- so I try to smile as convincingly as possible. “Welcome back, Squid!” Cabinet exclaims cheerily before looking down to my left with a puzzled expression. “Is this a friend of yours?” I make a similar expression and follow her gaze. I was followed. The small blonde boy to my left turns his eyes to look at me. “Surprise,” he deadpans. I hurriedly turn back to Cabinet. “No,” I answer her earlier question. “I don’t know him. I’ll see if I can find his parents.” Cabinet begins to protest, but I close the door before she can get a word out. I clumsily make my way to a blind spot between some of our smaller windows and Surprise follows. He reminds me a bit of a loyal dog. He also reminds me of other things- things I wish to forget. “I don’t know you,” I assert to him as if it will become true.
He goes silent for quite a while, just staring at me blankly with those eyes. Silver like the ones I want to forget. “Surprise,” he says and gestures towards himself. I know. I know already. I know too well. I don’t want to know. I shake my head. “Memory loss?” he asks and I narrow my eyes at him. I wish. “No,” he answers his own question. “Lying is a bad habit, you know? Festival told me so.” Don’t say that name so casually, I scream at him inside of my head. Don’t you know how much I hate it? How much I want to forget? He has to know. How could he be unaware? He has a super-computer in his head, after all. “He also told me,” Surprise says and reaches a hand into his pants pocket, “You forgot your appointment card.” He holds out a tiny business card with a date and time scrawled on the back of it. He came all the way out here for that? I don’t even need it. The time is always the same, every Sunday- why would I need it? Still, he’s still holding it out like I’m supposed to take it. I don’t want it. I don’t need any more reminders. I want to forget, but I reach out and take it anyway. He’ll leave quicker if I do. “You shouldn’t bottle up your feelings like that,” Surprise tells me as he brings his hand back to his side. “You’ll end up exploding. Festival told me so.” I frown as he turns around and disappears, taking the unnatural emptiness with him. He forgot to take the memories. He left them here with me, and I don’t want them. I don’t want them running around in my head, so I take them all and swallow them into my stomach. I feel so full, and so exhausted. I think it’s time for my weekly hibernation. Sullivan returns to the manor and, after ordering Marshall to get some rest, ascends the stairs to his family’s portion of the upper basement levels. He walks past his and Acacia’s hallway, and down another he rarely goes down anymore. He only ever went down it in the first place to speak with Lady Desrosiers, and their relationship has become somewhat strained. It’s been that way for years now, ever since he developed his fascination with human culture. He and his mother barely talk at this point, so Sullivan is a good bit nervous about knocking on her study door. But nervous isn’t a fitting feeling for a vampire, so he swallows it and knocks. “Come in,” Lady Desrosiers’ commanding voice sounds from the other side of the door. Sullivan enters the study and finds her sitting in her favorite of her two chairs, intently reading a book so old that the pages are as brittle as fallen leaves. She treats it very gently, with care not to break them. Sullivan wishes she cared enough to treat him gently. He wishes she’d treat him any way at all, in fact. The indifference she shows him is almost more hurtful than Acacia’s spitefulness. He swallows that feeling along with his nerves. “Mother,” he says, “I went out into the humans’ domain today. To a ‘club’.” Sullivan leaves out that he took Marshall with him- that’s irrelevant. “I can see that,” Lady Desrosiers responds without looking up. Sullivan sheepishly looks down at his street clothes before continuing. “There was a peculiar man working there,” he goes on. “The humans were rather spooked by him- they said he had an aura that evoked fear. He called himself ‘death’. It reminded me of the stories you used to tell me.” Lady Desrosiers raises an eyebrow. “So there’s a Grim Reaper hanging about, is there?” she questions to no one in particular. “That’s a bit of a pain.” “Wait, Grim Reapers are real?” Sullivan asks, bewildered. “You told me they were only stories.” “Yes, I did,” Lady Desrosiers nods, closing her book. “Why would I burden a child with the concept of mortality? No matter. You are not a child anymore.” She stands and places her book back into its proper place on her bookshelf before turning back to Sullivan. “Grim Reapers,” she goes on, “are bizarre creatures. They are not so much born as they simply begin to exist. Tasked with collecting the souls of the living, lest they wander about after death, their numbers increase as the humans’ do. As they are beings whose sole purpose is tied with death, they rarely bother with other immortals such as us. The exception being, when one of us is going to die.” Sullivan feels a chill run down his spine. “It’s probably nothing to worry about,” Lady Desrosiers states. “However, the presence of a Grim Reaper is often a cause for concern- especially one staying still for too long. They are constantly on the move, hunting down fallen humans, the only exception being when an immortal is about to die. In that case, they sit and wait like vultures for decades- centuries, even- for the immortal to fall. But, like I said, it is not something to worry about. It’s likely that there have simply been more deaths in that area as of late, and even if that isn’t the case, we won’t know for a number of years. Still, the other houses would want to be informed about this.” She moves over to her cupboard and begins to rummage through its contents. “Thank you for telling me, Sullivan,” she says absentmindedly, her attention fixed on her search. “You are now dismissed.” He nods and exits the study. After a good few minutes of rummaging, Lady Desrosiers pulls a small smartphone out of the cupboard. She turns it on to find that she, as always, has a number of missed calls. For some reason unbeknownst to her, it hasn’t rang in ages. The fact that this may be due to her flipping that little switch on the side out of curiosity is the furthest thing from her mind. Her friend got the phone for her as a gift- so they could more easily stay in touch. But, as it no longer rings, the phone has gone mostly unused- the exception being situations like this. At the very least, Lady Desrosiers can still make calls using it. There’s a handy button that her friend had set up that automatically dials her number. Lady Desrosiers rarely presses buttons other than that one, and today is no different. She waits as the phone rings out the dial tone. It confuses her to no end why it only rings when she’s the one dialing, but over time she’s come to accept it as another fact of life. “Hello, Lilith,” the ringing finally stops and her friend’s voice pours out of the speaker. She speaks in a sort of purring manner. Such a lovely voice is unfitting for someone in her line of work, Lady Desrosiers has always thought. Maybe that’s why she likes the sound of it so much. “Sable,” Lady Desrosiers addresses her with a friendly tone. “How has ‘life’ been treating you?” She uses that word as a stand-in for whatever one might call this afterlife of immortality. Simply saying that would be a mouthful. “Ah, it’s been rather the same as always. Layla has been dutifully studying, and I must say that her slight-of-hand is almost at a professional level,” Sable states with a hint of pride. “Blake is energetic to the extreme- I’ve had a basketball court installed in one of the lower levels to help him burn some of it. As for Nigel, he’s rather lethargic, but not uncharacteristically so. And you, Lilith, how have you been?”
“I can’t say there have been many changes here as of late. Sadly, my friend, this isn’t a social call. You see,” Lady Desrosiers decides it’s best not to get too distracted and get to the point. She often finds herself getting so caught up in catching up that she forgets her reasons for calling Sable. Small talk can come later. This is important. “Oh, hold that thought for a moment,” Sable interrupts. “I’m sorry, could I call you back later? There are some… intruders on the premises that need to be dealt with.” “Intruders?” Lady Desrosiers questions. “In the middle of nowhere?” “Yes. I’m quite sorry, but I have to go now. They’re trying to break down the door,” Sable says quickly and hangs up, leaving Lady Desrosiers to worry about her friend’s wellbeing, in addition to the high probability that she’ll miss her call. LORIE “…I really love you~ Ooo~ Ooo~ Ooo~ You know I want you boy~! If you want me too~ Ooo~ Ooo~ Ooo~ Come on and make some noise~!” That girl singing isn’t me. Well, she is, but in kind of the same way that a Halloween costume is the person wearing it. I’m not anything like her. She’s one of the most recognizable pop stars of the decade, and I’m, well, I’m me. Boring, geeky me. She wears designer fashion, and I wear old baggy sweaters four sizes too big. She parties it up with socialites and starlets on weekends, and I’d rather be home watching reruns of Doctor Who. She was voted one of the “most dateable female celebrities” in Grim’s Gossip Magazine three years in a row, and I’ve never even had a significant other. But even with all this, she and I are both Lorie. Once today’s recording session comes to an end, I ride the elevator down to street level. My agent meets me at the front door and ushers me past the paparazzi and into the back of my limousine. He slides in beside me, and signals to my driver that we’re ready to go. My agent is a lean man with pale skin, curly hair, and a smattering of freckles across his face. His name is Darwin. He has a voice bordering on monotone, and a serious demeanor. He’s the only person that knows about the difference between my public and private personas. He’s incredibly astute, which is why I’m glad he’s helping me keep that a secret instead of the alternative. It’s also just nice to have someone else in on it. It’s exhausting acting like someone else all the time. I’ve had a long day of doing just that, and so I’m ready to head home and get out of this scratchy shirt and uncomfortable heels and into a t-shirt and my slippers. In fact, I think I’ll take off those heels right now. I reach down and start to undo the straps, and Darwin turns to me. “Lorie,” he says, “you have a meeting with Felix Lane scheduled for today, so don’t get too comfortable.” I stop dead in my tracks and my head shoots up to look at him. “That’s today?” I question. “I thought that wasn’t until Thursday?” He shakes his head. “It was supposed to be, but his agent called to reschedule earlier. This was the only time they could make. You don’t have anything too important to do today, right?” I frown. Darwin’s always like this- springing appointments on me with little to no time for me to prepare. Anyway, I need downtime- it keeps me sane. I’ve told him such before but he never really seems to get it. He’s the kind of person who never takes a break, so it’s only natural he wouldn’t. There’s no point in trying to explain it again. I sigh. “Never mind that,” I tell him. “Will you at least tell me what this meeting is for?” It’s been on my schedule- for Thursday, that is- for about a month now, and I still have no idea what we’re going to discuss. “It’s a secret,” he replies. “What do you mean ‘it’s a secret’? Shouldn’t I know what I’m walking into today?” I ask, starting to feel a good amount more frustrated with him than usual. “No. Because you’d get angry and refuse to go,” Darwin answers. I think I’m already pretty angry, and if I had a choice in the matter I’d definitely bail. Sadly, one doesn’t stand up the silver screen’s favorite new heartthrob- that’s Felix, by the way- and get off easily. “Besides, Mr. Lane’s agent specified that I shouldn’t tell you,” Darwin continues. “If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Lane isn’t to be told either.” I guess that does make me feel a bit better. I strongly dislike being out of the loop, but I guess it isn’t so bad if I’m not the only one in the dark. I don’t tell that to Darwin, however. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he knows me well. But, knowing him, he already knows he does. We continue the ride in a comfortable silence and eventually end up at the bottom of a large apartment building. Darwin and I walk inside and he presses the button for the penthouse elevator’s buzzer. “Miss Mallory is here for our meeting,” he says. “Come on up,” a woman’s voice rockets back from the speaker- probably Felix’s agent. The elevator doors open and we ride all the way up to the penthouse. A woman dressed in business attire greets us in a small antechamber. “Hello Darwin, Miss Mallory. Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she says with dark-lipped smile and the same voice from the speaker. “Oh, there’s no need to thank us!” I gush. “It’s lucky that our schedules lined up like this. You can just call me Lorie, by the way.” I extend my hand in greeting and she takes it in hers and shakes it firmly. “I couldn’t agree more; formalities aren’t necessary,” she nods, releasing my hand. “I’m Nadia Gladwin. Just Nadia is fine, however. Darwin has told me a lot about you, Lorie.” I turn my attention to Darwin with a raised eyebrow, but quickly resume my bright and bubbly demeanor. “Only good things, I hope,” I giggle good-naturedly. “What else is there to say?” Darwin asks with a smirk. I give him an exaggeratedly fake pout and a slight push. The three of us laugh even though I don’t find the situation particularly funny and I doubt Darwin does, either. He doesn’t seem to find anything genuinely funny. At least, he hasn’t in the time I’ve known him. “Don’t worry,” Nadia turns to me after we’ve stopped, “if there’s anything that’s held true about Darwin over the years, it’s that he’s not one for idle gossip. Now, I hate to rush, but Felix has been waiting for you to arrive and we wouldn’t want him to become too impatient. This way.” She leads us into the penthouse and up a flight of stairs. The upstairs area is very… colorful. Not that that’s a bad thing! I like color just as much as the next person. It just seems a little bit excessive to me- and very bright. I would’ve brought sunglasses if I’d known it would be this bright. To be fair, I didn’t know I was going to be here today at all, but I digress. Felix Lane is sitting on a comfortable looking couch in between a bar area and a karaoke machine. Now I’ve never formally met him, but it’s hard not to know what he looks like. He got famous playing the main love interest in some movie about witches and warlocks a few years back. I’ve seen it a couple times. The script is atrocious, but he and the other actors made it work somehow. Since then, he’s moved on to better-written material. Most of his follow-ups have been big hits as well, so I’ve seen the majority of them. It’s not like I’m one of his fan-girls, though. I just need to stay on top of pop-culture for interviews and such. Even if I think he’s handsome- which he is, even in person- I’m not a fan. I just think he’s good-looking in an “I respect him as a performer” kind of way. I’m not really helping my case, though, am I? Felix looks up with a smile and waves us over. Nadia sits down next to him and Darwin and I sit parallel. “Hi,” Felix grins. Great, even his teeth are bright. “Felix Lane,” he introduces himself. I nod. “Lorie Mallory,” I smile widely and hold out my hand for him to shake. “I know,” he says as he takes it. “I’ve listened to some of your albums. You have a good voice.” “Oh, stop! You’re making me blush,” I giggle. It’s just an expression, but I can feel my cheeks actually starting to warm as I bring my hand back to my side. “Really, I have a lot of respect for people that can hold a tune,” Felix continues. “I had to do a musical number for my last project- let’s just say I delayed production for a few days while they found someone to record over my portion of the song.” “I guess the karaoke machine is just for guests, then?” I ask with a smile. He chuckles in response. “They wish!” he exclaims. “I may not be much of a singer, but get a few drinks in me and I can’t stop myself.” We both have a good laugh at this. I’ve had firsthand experience with off-key karaoke. I have a few aunts who insist they can sing Carole King and attempt to do so at every family gathering. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen them, but the thought of it is still genuinely funny. “Alright,” Darwin says as the laughter dies down. “As important as it is for you two to get acquainted, that can come later. I’m sure you’re curious about why we’ve scheduled this meeting.” I turn to him. “Yeah, you wouldn’t tell me anything!” I exclaim as if I’d forgotten. “I’m super curious.” Felix nods. “Nadia’s been keeping me in the dark, as well,” he states and glances over at her. “Well then, allow me to shed a little light on the subject,” Darwin says. “You two have some things in common- one of them being that you’ve never dated. At least not in the public eye.” Felix blushes slightly and my eyes widen. Darwin isn’t going to suggest what I think he is, is he? “You,” he goes on, locking eyes with me, “can only say ‘I’m not seeing anyone at the moment’ for so long before everyone starts to catch on that you’ve never been seeing anyone. After realizing the similarities between your situations, Nadia and I came up with a solution.” “Wait,” I interject. “You told someone?” Darwin shakes his head with a slight smirk. “I only told her that you have your reasons for not being in a relationship, and she said the same about Felix,” he elaborates. At this point, Felix is noticeably red in the face. I can understand, I’d probably be embarrassed too if I wasn’t so angry with Darwin right now. I hate it when he goes behind my back like this. “But,” Nadia jumps in, “how we reached our conclusion isn’t important at the moment. What matters is that we have a solution to the problem at hand. Darwin is right- it’s only a matter of time before the media catches on, and who knows what that could lead to them finding out. To avoid that, Darwin and I think that you two should date.”
“What?” Felix and I exclaim in near-unison. “Not actually date,” Darwin responds. “You just need to pretend you’re dating when you’re in the public eye. You don’t have to go crazy with the PDA either- just hold hands, make appearances together. It’s entirely doable.” I don’t like the way Darwin thinks he can decide that. He’s not me. He doesn’t know my limits as well as he thinks he does! That being said, I can’t say his proposal sounds impossible to me. “What do you think, Felix?” I turn my attention to him. He’s red as a tomato. “Well,” he starts nervously, fiddling with his jacket, “I can’t say I’m very comfortable with the idea. But I guess Nadia hasn’t steered me wrong yet.” I nod. As much as Darwin frustrates me on occasion, I can’t say he’s ever given me bad advice. I sigh. “Okay,” I say and put a smile back onto my face. “Then, what do you say we give it a try, ‘boyfriend’?” Felix smiles back with a furrowed brow. “Sounds good to me,” he replies. His grin is still incredibly bright, but maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. I think this whole thing might not turn out to be so bad. I figure we can always just fake-breakup if it does. I don’t get lonely when those two go out. I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t so much that one might even start to get the impression that I do. That’s how lonely I don’t get. Cabinet left early this morning- couldn’t have been past eight. She works a lot, says it keeps her busy. It sure does, not that I mind. She can be as busy as she wants. She can be busy as a bee for all I care. Squid’s a different story. He rarely ever works. I don’t think he’s even once mentioned having a job, but he always pays his share of rent on time. I thought it was kind of odd at first, still do even, but whenever I ask him about it he just shrugs. He’s not a big talker, that Squid, so I don’t miss him one bit when he takes his weekly excursion to who-knows-where. Not. One. Bit. In fact, I’m so un-lonely right now that I’ve decided to go for a walk. Not in the hopes of running into someone, mind you. I just think it will be a nice change of pace to enjoy my solitude outside. I exit through the back door, as that more often than not leads outside. Our front door is a bit more temperamental, so I only use that when entering the building. It’s a widely known fact that the act of entering is much more stable than exiting, and I rarely experience problems using either door to do such. The back door doesn’t disappoint me, and I set off in the direction of the docks. I’m not even halfway there when a rather unpleasant sight catches my attention. It’s him. I can tell it is even through his disguise. His light blonde hair is slicked back underneath his beanie as it always is. I feel bad for the poor hat, probably sticky with hair gel. As a hat collector, and general fan of beanies, the thought sickens me. He’s wearing those ridiculous sunglasses of his, obscuring his bright blue eyes. I find myself relieved at this- on occasion I’ve been known to get lost in them, and have wasted a great collective amount of time staring into the deep, oceanic abyss contained within them. I hate those eyes. I’m not so presumptuous, however, to think he has them covered for my sake. No, when he goes into ‘disguise mode’ it’s only for one reason. The reason being, in his own words, he ‘wouldn’t want to be recognized and cause a scene’. As if a third-rate actor like him would cause a scene! He turns his attention in my direction and runs over. I bet he’ll ask if Squid and Cabinet are out today- as if that has anything to do with why I’m on a walk. Then, if I tell him they are, he’ll say "poor lonely Porridge, I’ll keep you company". I don’t need his company! “I’m not lonely,” I assert before he gets a chance to get a word in. He laughs in response. He has a singsong kind of voice that causes his chuckles to sound like a vocal warm-up. I hate it. “What’s so funny?” I ask him with a frown. “Oh nothing,” he smiles widely. “It’s just cute how you try to predict what I’ll say to you.” Cute? I’m not anything of the sort! He’s the one who’s… always saying terribly rude things, that is! I was most certainly not planning on finishing that sentence any other way. Not. At. All. He chuckles again. “Porridge, your ears have gone quite red,” he comments smugly. “W-what? They ‘ave not!” I exclaim, but reach my hands up to cover them anyway. “Whatever you say,” he grins. I hate how he grins, so triumphantly- like he’s won. It gives me the impression that, when he’s involved, I always lose. I hate to admit it, but I’m a bit of a sore loser. “I don’t know why ya’ always decide to pick on me so much. Don’t ya’ ‘ave more important things ta’ do, oh great celebrity Doll?” my question is coated with an incredibly thick layer of sarcasm. I hope his ears choke on it. “I have the day off from filming today, so I get to tease you all I want,” he points a finger at me and pokes the tip of my nose with it.
I go red in the face- from anger; I’ll have you know. That’s definitely the reason. Doll always knows exactly how to push my buttons. “And do I not get a say in that?” I question, raising my voice a bit louder than I intended to. “Now, now, there’s no need to get all in a huff about it,” he chuckles, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Although your indignant side is cute, as well.” I feel my heart skip a beat- not good. I brush his hand away with mine. I’m so angry I can’t bear to look at him. “I-I,” the word stumbles out of my mouth as I glare at my feet, “I’m goin’ down ta’ the docks now. Don’t follow me, ya’ hear?” I see him nod out of the corner of my eye. “Alright, I won’t,” he states, still sounding as sing-song happy as ever. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Porridge.” He gives my head a pat as he walks past me, going on his way. Good, I think, heaving a sigh- of relief, that is. Now I can go back to being un-lonely. And I do just that for the remainder of the afternoon. “Vincent, what did I tell you?” Marshall asks sternly. It is the evening after he went and broke his promise to forget, and so Vincent knows exactly what Marshall is referring to. Vincent, however, decides that Marshall doesn’t need to know that he does. “The oyster fork goes to the right of the spoons?” he instead answers with a question relating to the previous evening’s manners lesson. Marshall shakes his head with a disappointed expression. “To forget,” he says with a slight frustration in his tone. “I told you to forget about what you saw in Master Sullivan’s room.” “Oh,” it’s all Vincent can say. “Oh.” “But you didn’t, did you?” Marshall goes on. “Instead you went and told the young mistress. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the two of you decided to resort to blackmail. You do realize how unbecoming such an act is, don’t you?” Vincent’s bottom lip begins to quiver. He feels awful. “You’ve made Master Sullivan very unhappy,” Marshall continues without noticing. “By extension, you’ve made me very unhappy as well. I’m terribly disappointed in you, Vincent. Lies, blackmail- and here I thought you were a good kid. Do you even feel the slightest bit of remorse?” “I do!” Vincent wails, covering his face with his hands as he begins to cry. He feels so terribly guilty. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he cries as Marshall stands there in shock- perhaps he was a bit too harsh. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know my question would make Master Sullivan sad! I didn’t know… I didn’t… I… I’m a bad kid!” Vincent blubbers incomprehensibly and Marshall feels quite like he’s become the ‘bad guy’ of this situation. He sighs. “Vincent, please don’t cry,” he says, crouching down to Vincent’s level. “You’re not a bad kid- you’ve just made a mistake. Everyone makes them from time to time. As long as you realize what you’ve done wrong and learn from it, it’s perfectly fine to do so.” “It, it is?” Vincent sniffles, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Yes,” Marshall nods. “But you still do have to apologize. Not to me- to Master Sullivan. Tell him that you’re very sorry the next time you see him, and all will be well.” “O-okay,” Vincent agrees. He’s not incredibly fond of the idea of speaking to Sullivan- especially after what happened that past morning- but he knows apologizing is the right thing to do. If he doesn’t, he’ll spend the rest of his life feeling guilty. Satisfied with this response, Marshall lets the matter drop and begins the night’s lessons. A moderately large brick building stands by the docks of Whiskerman’s Warf. Not too close, but not too far away either. The building has seen all sorts of use. It had once been a factory before being renovated into a house. When that house was foreclosed upon, it became a meeting spot for local gangs and graffiti artists, as well as gangs of graffiti artists. That was years ago, however, before it was purchased by a strange young man with ashen hair and turned into a rather profitable nightclub. As it’s been a while since he first purchased the building, that man has become somewhat of a fixture in the area and few still consider him strange. In fact, a much stranger, slightly younger man is currently standing just outside the nightclub, with his comparatively average butler by his side. “So this is a ‘club’,” Sullivan breathes with a wide smile on his face. “What do you think of it, Marsh?” He turns to Marshall, who has a few doubts about this establishment. It seems to be in a relatively nice area of town, but nightclubs, from what he’s aware, aren’t known for attracting very polite clientele. Then there’s the name, “Death Parade Bar and Club”- not the most inviting thing to see flashing in bright fluorescent letters, to be certain. Instead of voicing his concerns, however Marshall just nods. “It certainly seems… interesting,” he decides on a rather neutral response. “It does, doesn’t it?” Sullivan grins excitedly. “Let’s go in and see what it’s all about!” The two of them enter the nightclub, Sullivan walking a few steps ahead, an excited spring in his step. Marshall looks around warily. The walls are covered in graffiti, but the decorations in general are surprisingly cheerful. There are even, he notes, a couple of small ceramic animal vases containing colorful succulents situated near the front entrance. He allows himself to relax slightly. That might have been a mistake. No sooner than Marshall lets his guard down, a bespectacled man with gray hair that doesn’t match his youthful appearance walks up to Sullivan and wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace. This man happens to be the owner of Death Parade Bar and Club. “Welcome! Welcome!” he exclaims cheerfully, showing no signs of letting go. Sullivan isn’t quite sure what to make of this strange human greeting. How should he respond? Is it proper etiquette to hug someone back in this situation, or would that be considered uncouth? He can’t settle on an answer, and so he leaves his arms wavering horizontal, a few inches from the bizarre man. Marshall is also unsure how to respond, but for different reasons. Should he tell this man to get his filthy hands off of Sullivan, or would that be too direct? What if Sullivan doesn’t mind the hug? He would certainly make a fool of himself in that case. Marshall, as well, stands wavering a few feet away from them with a sour expression on his face. “It’s always nice to see new faces around here!” the owner continues and gives Sullivan a squeeze, causing him to squeak nervously. Just as Marshall decides it’s time to step in and separate that man from Sullivan, an individual with blue and blonde-streaked hair walks up to the two of them. “Phoenix, that’s enough,” the individual addresses the owner. “You’re making your customers uncomfortable.” The owner, Phoenix, pouts and reluctantly releases his grip. “Sorry about that!” he turns to Sullivan with a sheepish smile. “I always have trouble remembering the customs around here- especially when I’m blinded by a beauty such as yourself.” Sullivan stands there dumbstruck as the blue and blonde individual smacks Phoenix on the back of his head. “Ow!” he exclaims in response. “That hurt!” “As it should,” the individual replies, turning their attention back to Sullivan. “Sorry about my boss’ lack of restraint. Sullivan, right?” Sullivan’s face lights up with recognition as he nods. “That would be me! I have to say, this place is even better than you had described it,” he comments cheerfully. The individual shrugs. “It’s okay. This guy here,” they gesture towards Phoenix, “has pretty strange taste in decorations, but at the very least it’s interesting to look at.” Sullivan nods and looks around the large, open interior. The bar has a rustic, nautical feel with a chalkboard menu on the ground next to it, propped up against a half-wall. There are a few retro tables situated around the area, and potted plants are scattered all about. He looks back towards the door and is struck by a sudden realization- Marshall must be feeling rather out of the loop at present. “Marsh,” he calls over to him, in hopes of rectifying that, and Marshall walks over. “This,” Sullivan continues speaking, motioning towards the blue and blonde individual, “is the person who recommended this establishment to me. We have been exchanging messages over ‘social media’.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss…” Marshall addresses the individual, leaving a space for them to introduce themself. “I’m not a miss,” they say instead, not politely or rudely but with some level of courtesy in between, “and before you go making assumptions, I’m not a mister either. Indigo’s the name.” “Right then,” Marshall replies. “It’s a pleasure to meet you mi- I mean, Indigo.” Indigo nods. “Back at you, Marsh,” they say. “So, what does everyone say we head over to the bar for some drinks? Non-alcoholic, of course. I make a mean Shirley Temple.” “That sounds wonderful,” Sullivan agrees and then turns to Marshall. “Indigo is a bartender here.” As the three of them start to head over to the bar, Phoenix grabs Marshall’s shoulder and pulls him back. He takes the confused butler by the arm and leads him over to an isolated section of the club. “What is it?” Marshall asks, trying to sound as polite as possible. He’s still quite a bit miffed at this man for hugging Sullivan. “Ah, you know, I’m just curious,” Phoenix responds with a wide smile. “About what?” Marshall raises an eyebrow. Something about Phoenix seems suspicious to him. There’s something unnerving about his presence. Marshall knows better than to let his guard down around people like this. Phoenix can tell. Marshall’s wary of him, he knows. He has that kind of effect on people. “About your… friend,” Phoenix answers. “Sullivan, was it?” Marshall frowns. “Oh, no need to make such a scary face!” Phoenix chuckles. “I know, I know, he’s more than just your friend, isn’t he?” “That’s…” Marshall averts his gaze. “Don’t worry, I’m not one to pry about things like that. What I’d really like to know is,” Phoenix lowers his voice to a near-whisper, “is Sullivan a vampire?” Marshall’s eyes go wide for a moment, but he quickly regains his composure. “Vampire? You must be joking. Those are nothing but a fantasy,” he states. Phoenix narrows his eyes, but his smile remains ever-present. It reminds Marshall of the kind of expression a cat makes. Like it knows something you don’t. Smug- that’s the word for it. “Do you really think so?” Phoenix asks, the unnerving atmosphere growing heavier. “I was going to let you be honest, but I suppose it’s a two-way street.” Marshall can feel an instinctual fear rising from deep down inside him. “What do you mean by that?” he swallows it. “I mean we’re, both of us, a couple of liars at present. Do you want to know how I know this?” Phoenix leans over conspiratorially. “I know that Sullivan of yours is a vampire, and you do too.” Marshall should protest, tell him he’s got it wrong, but the atmosphere is so thick it feels like it’s choking him. The fear is so great he can’t push it back down. “I know because I’m not human either,” Phoenix whispers. He has to be telling the truth- there’s no way this feeling came from a human. But Marshall also gets the feeling it didn’t come from a vampire, either. “What?” he manages to squeak out a fraction of a question. What in the world is he? Phoenix grins. “I’m your kind’s worst nightmare; death.” “What are you two talking about over here?” Sullivan’s voice breaks into the conversation and the atmosphere dissipates. Marshall feels shaken to his very core, the aftereffects of such an intense presence clinging to him. “We need to leave,” he says and takes Sullivan by the hand. Marshall pulls Sullivan out of the club and back into the street with some minor protests from the latter. Once the two of them are a safe distance from Death Parade Bar and Club, Marshall’s grip relaxes and Sullivan pulls his hand from it.
“What was that about, Marsh?” he asks with a pout. “You spent the whole time just talking with the owner, and now we’re just going to leave?” Marshall heaves a relieved sigh as the aftereffects slowly fade away. “I’m sorry, my Rosebud,” he says sincerely. “That man, Phoenix, he was dangerous.” “Dangerous? How?” Sullivan questions with a tilt of his head. “I don’t know. There was just this feeling I got, like a primal kind of terror,” Marshall shivers at the memory. “He said he was ‘death’.” “Death?” Sullivan raises an eyebrow. He remembers vaguely, when he was very young, his mother telling him stories about a figure that went by that name. Those were only fairytales, however. Grim Reapers don’t actually exist. “That’s just an old wives’ tale,” he states. “Nothing to worry about.” Then, noticing how shaken Marshall looks, he puts a hand on his cheek in a comforting gesture. “If it makes you feel better, we can go back to the manor now,” he says, and makes a mental note to ask his mother about those stories when they do so. Marshall nods, feeling slightly embarrassed at his childish behavior, and they set off for home. I wake up to the sound of a multitude of clocks all chiming in unison. They go “DING! …DING! …DING! …DING! …DING!” and so I imagine it must be five or later- whether in the morning or evening or night I can never be certain until I open my eyes. I would like to be certain- although I’ve found I rarely am- and so, I do just that. The clocks kindly inform me it’s about seven, and the light pouring in from my window suggests morning. The window has been wrong before, and even my clocks are out step on occasion, but I’m the type who enjoys taking things at face value- even if there is more to a clock than its face- so I’d say it’s seven AM. I’ve decided I’m certain about that. I’m also decidedly certain that today will be a very good day. No, it will be a great day. It may, in fact, be one of the greatest days to happen today- and, mind you, that is a very competitive title to hold. I roll out of bed much as I imagine most do- onto the floor. It’s a rather comfortable carpet today, unlike a few weeks ago when it had the consistency of cactus, so I’m tempted to lie there for a few more moments. Lying on the floor for an extended period of time, however, would not make for the greatest of todays. I quickly spring to my feet, although not as quickly as I’d imagine I would have if my feet were actually springs. Wandering over to my dresser, I wonder what I should wear today. Well, that all depends on the weather. The weather, being a rather unpredictable thing, isn’t something I, or anyone, can depend on. No, the last meteorologist died in the Pancake Wars years before I came into existence, taking all of his meteor-knowledge with him. I’ve always been a bit skeptical of how rocks that fall from space can help one predict the weather- maybe they’ve conversed with the clouds on the subject? Even so, it doesn’t worry me that no one knows how to speak with meteors anymore. I can get dressed just fine on my own, and I do just that. I step into my closet, stumble around for a few moments untangling hangers, and pick out an outfit I’d say is rather appropriate for the greatest today. Once I’m properly attired, I exit my room and find myself in the hallway, as I do most days. There are, however, days when that door leads to a large, open field and disappears behind me. Those can hardly be considered good days, though, as I have yet to figure out how to get myself home from that field in a timely manner, and the process of doing so takes up the entirety of those days. I find myself relieved that today isn’t one of them. But, then again, how could it be? I’m certain it’s the greatest today, after all. The stairs at the end of the hallway are tangible at present, and so I walk down them into the kitchen where my housemates are waiting for me. “Well if it isn’t Cabinet! Decided ta’ finally join the wakin’ world, did ya’?” my good friend, and housemate Porridge calls out to me between bites of his cereal- his first of three breakfasts. The second such meal is currently being prepared by my other dear friend, who also happens to be my housemate, Squid. He’s gotten much better at cooking over the years I’ve known him. In the beginning he burnt nearly everything he ever cooked. It got to be such a problem for our kitchen that it was decided the most he should do in there is wash dishes, and when he started to burn those as well we set upon getting him cooking lessons. He is now the most skilled of any of us at not burning things, and we’re very proud of him for it. Squid didn’t, and still doesn’t eat often, which I would suppose explains why he had never previously learned to cook. On the rare occasion when he does eat, Squid empties our pantry without fail- as well as the neighbors’ pantry, but we don’t speak about our neighbors anymore. “Yes,” I reply, sliding onto the barstool beside Porridge. “I figured it was about time to wake up when my clocks started making a fuss about it.” Porridge nods, he’s well aware of how persuasive they can be, as he resides in the room next to mine. “How did you sleep, Porridge?” I ask him as the comforting smell of a home-cooked meal wafts around the kitchen and into my nostrils. He shrugs. “I suppose I slept fine. I can’t say anythin’ particular about it one way or the other,” he tells me and proceeds to drink the muddy-colored milk out of his bowl with a decidedly loud slurp. “And you, Squid?” I direct my question towards him. He doesn’t respond, as I knew he wouldn’t. He’s far too engrossed in cooking. It takes a lot of attentiveness for him to not fall back into the old habit of setting the kitchen aflame. As I, too, have my shortcomings, I understand completely and decide not to distract him farther. The second breakfast comes and goes, and the third signals it’s time for me to do the latter. “Are ya’ leavin’ already?” Porridge asks as I get up and walk over to our front door. Much as he is prone to complaining about our company on occasion, he’s always disappointed when either Squid or I leave the house. “Yes,” I nod. “I have a variety of odd jobs to do today, and if I don’t get started early I won’t have enough time to make them even.” I peer out of the little window in our front door. It looks to lead to the outside of our house, and by extension, to the road. Looks, however, can be deceiving. I exit through the door, and enter into Old Mrs. Topiary’s living room. This saves me quite a bit of time, as organizing her home library is one of today’s odd jobs. It also saves me the trouble of explaining why I’ve appeared in someone else’s living room. That never ends well. Well, it does if you consider taking a trip to the police station and a spending a night in one of their jail cells ‘ending well’. I, personally, don’t. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Old Mrs. Topiary asks sternly, placing the magazine she had been reading back into its proper place, and standing up to look me over. She has hair the color of a fork- the good kind, not plastic- clumsily pulled behind her head, folded up against itself and held together by a hairclip- the plastic kind. Her eyes always seem to be searching for something wrong with the world, or maybe she’s just near-sighted and refuses to wear glasses. I’ve always had trouble telling the difference. “In fact I have,” I reply. “I’ve always thought it a rather intrusive custom- quite noisy, as well.” She shakes her head with a thin smile. “You never change, do you, Cabinet?” she asks. I shake my head and smile back. “No, ma’am, I don’t.” She nods, seeming satisfied with my response. “In this kind of a world, one must take what consistency they can get,” she states and leads me over to the archway that normally leads to her front hall.
I couldn’t agree more. Although I would add that one must take the inconsistencies as well. I’m not the picky sort. “This,” she says, bringing my attention back to the archway. “Is not often consistent. One day it will take me to my powder room, the other to an upscale restaurant- it’s quite a pain to end up one of those places expecting the other.” I listen as Old Mrs. Topiary goes on to recount a particularly detailed account of one such occurrence. About a week ago she had been expecting her bathroom, and instead found herself in the upscale restaurant in nothing but her bathrobe and slippers. I nod sympathetically as she wraps up the anecdote. “That, however, is besides the point,” she says and turns back to the archway. “Today this one leads to my library. You’re aware of how the literature should be organized, correct?” “By color in reverse rainbow order!” I answer enthusiastically. “Then what are you waiting for? Get to it.” I take a step towards the archway, but Old Mrs. Topiary pulls me back. “I almost forgot,” she says, grabs a net from off of her wall, and hands it to me. “If they decide to fly about or situate themselves on the ceiling, use this to round them up.” I nod. The first few times I organized the library I found this statement a bit confusing, but now, as I am currently an expert on capturing literature, it makes perfect sense. With net in my hands I cross over the archway’s threshold and into the library. Today is shaping up to be a very good one. I've been thinking about the pros and cons of starting a secondary story to experiment with. I wanted it to be something that's almost completely different from The Illusion of Light, and eventually settled on trying to make a comedy about superheroes and sidekicks and all that good stuff. I thought, before I do that I should see if I can actually make sims that look like superheroes, so I did. I tried my best, so consider this a possible sneak peek at characters that might be in a story I may or may not start up. (I also gave them everyday outfits but those are nowhere near as interesting.)
Sullivan detests a great many things. His lack of a reflection, Acacia, and children in general are among the things he hates most. Ranking right up there with those are vampire societal expectations, and his inability to meet them. A vampire must be dominant, in control. A vampire can never show weakness, as vulnerability is beneath them. A vampire is meant to rule over lesser beings, such as humans. Above all, a vampire must not allow a human to have control over their weaknesses. As you’ve probably already gathered, Sullivan has failed to uphold these tenets rather spectacularly. But he doesn’t like to think about that, so at present he’s thinking about his lack of reflection. It really is a horrible pain to not know what you look like at any given moment. Considering that he cannot be photographed, either, Sullivan barely knows what he looks like in general. His only points of reference are a portrait that his mother had commissioned of the family when he was twelve- it hangs proudly in one of the manor’s many unused rooms- and what Marshall tells him. Neither can be considered incredibly accurate. The portrait is seven years old at this point, and Sullivan highly suspects Marshall is flattering him. In the midst of his pondering, Sullivan hears the door open from behind him. It can’t be Marshall who always knocks, or his mother who can’t be bothered checking up on him. No, it can only be that wretched sister of his and her stuttering fiancé. He spins to face them with a glare. “What did I tell you cretins about entering my dwelling?” he growls. Acacia smiles politely, but speaks with a definite underlying smugness. “Brother, you should really learn to hold your tongue,” she states. “Us ‘cretins’ have more power than you know.” Sullivan laughs in one short, annoyed exhalation. “And what kind of power could little pests like you hold?” he asks. Honestly, he would squash them like the bugs they are and just be done with this whole ordeal if his mother wouldn’t squash him in return. Acacia grins a sweet, innocent grin. “Power over you,” she sings. “Vincent found out your dirty little secret~” She’s enjoying this immensely, Sullivan can tell. Despite how much this annoys him, he turns his attention to Vincent. “And just what could you possibly think that is?” Sullivan snarls. He has to keep his cool- there’s no way this brat knows anything. They must be bluffing, trying to goad him into letting something slip. He won’t fall into their trap. Acacia nods in Vincent’s direction as he glances over at her, giving him permission to answer. “Uh-uhm,” he stammers, “we know that you like it when Marshall bites you?” He sounds much less certain than he’s sure Acacia meant for him to, but he’s so confused about this whole Sullivan situation that he couldn’t have sounded differently if he tried. Sullivan’s high and mighty attitude deflates as his face turns a bright pink color. He opens and closes his mouth rapidly, as if trying to form words. How? How could they know that? “Yes,” Acacia chimes, picking up where Vincent left off. “A vampire wanting to be bitten- how shameful. And by a human, no less! Tell me brother, have you taken a special interest in our butler?” “Get… Get out,” Sullivan commands in a voice much weaker than how he intended to sound. “Honestly, brother, how much farther do you plan to embarrass yourself? Do you want to become even more of a black sheep than you already are? Will this be a repeat of the Kokinos incident? And yes, I am aware of that- everyone but mother is.” “No,” Sullivan chokes out a whisper, holding back tears at the mention of that terrible event. “How do you know?” Acacia questions, her smile ever-present. “You’re so trusting - it’s rather pitiful. What are we to do with you? My poor, dear, failure of a brother, you’re such a sad thing. Mother has all but given up on you. If we were to tell her, what do you think she would do?” Sullivan trembles with a mixture of rage, humiliation, and fear as the tears that had been threatening to fall drip down his cheeks, now blushing a brilliant shade of flamingo. “What do you want?” his voice quivers. Acacia grins again, and there is absolutely nothing sweet about it. “Well, for starters,” she says, turning to Vincent, “Vincent has a question he’d wanted to ask you. I want you to answer it.” She turns back to Sullivan as Vincent prepares to speak. Vincent, while of course still curious, is also feeling a bit guilty at this point. It doesn’t feel right to him to have made someone cry, even if that someone is Sullivan. But he supposes that Acacia would disapprove of that feeling, so he keeps it to himself. “Why did you have Marshall bite you?” Vincent asks. Sullivan stares at the ground with a defeated expression. “Be-because,” he sniffles, turning an even darker shade of peach at the thought of answering, “it feels good.” Vincent already could have guessed that much. He’s just about to ask for Sullivan to elaborate when Acacia beats him to the punch. “Yes, yes, brother,” she sings with an impatient smile, “everyone is aware of your masochistic tendencies- that’s nothing new. What I’m more curious about is why you had Marshall bite you.” Sullivan clutches at the hem of his jacket, his shoulders shaking violently from what is now a constant stream of sobbing. His eyes are shut tightly as if to block out the reality of the present situation. “That’s,” he manages to choke out the word in the gap between sobs, “I-I… I… I… l-lub… him…” It takes great effort for him to push the sentence out of his mouth, and even then he couldn’t even say ‘love’ properly. Acacia laughs her wind chime laugh, politely covering her mouth with her hand, as Sullivan sobs. She laughs as if trying to drown him out. She finds the sound of sobbing unpleasant- it sounds like guilt. Vincent finds himself feeling rather like one of those one of those rides at carnivals- the teacups or the zipper. The contradiction of the sounds ringing in his ears is making his head spin. Just as he is beginning to feel unsteady on his feet, she stops. Almost as suddenly as she had started, Acacia stops laughing and goes dead silent for a good minute while Sullivan weeps. “That will be all for today,” she states as though the events that had previously transpired never did at all. “Come now, Vincent. We still have a good few hours left to play dolls.” She extends a hand in his direction and he takes it immediately, relieved that this unpleasant situation is coming to an end. Later that morning- so much later that it could be considered afternoon in a matter of only a few hours- Marshall goes to meet with Sullivan. He’s running a few minutes late- he’d gotten stuck on the phone with an incredibly persistent telemarketer- so he expects that Sullivan won’t be in the best of moods. Sullivan has a way of taking things personally regardless of their relation to him- something that stems from his relatively low self-esteem. If Marshall is ever late to their morning rendezvous Sullivan feels like Marshall doesn’t care about him enough to be on time, and then gets angry to mask that feeling. Marshall knows this is likely to happen again today. He even expects it to. He does not, however, expect to find Sullivan in the worst of moods. He knocks on the door to Sullivan’s room and a faint “come in,” sounds from the other side. Marshall enters the room to find Sullivan looking absolutely distraught, with eyelids red from crying and an angry, pouting expression on his face. “Marsh,” he whines, “you’re eight minutes late!” “I’m sorry, my Rosebud,” Marshall addresses him using his pet name. “I had to deal with a very stubborn telemarketer who refused to let me hang up.” “Never mind that,” Sullivan brushes his minor indiscretion aside much sooner than Marshall had anticipated. “I’ve had an absolutely horrid day.” Sullivan scoots over a few inches on his king sized bed to make room for Marshall, and motions for him to sit. Sitting is just about the only thing that bed is used for, given Sullivan is unable to sleep comfortably in anything but his coffin. It also makes for a decent, albeit a rather large, decoration. It almost gives the room a look that it could belong in any average human household- if you ignore the giant coffin in the corner, that is. Marshall sits down beside him. “And what exactly happened to make today such a disaster?” Marshall asks. He expects that it’s something to do with the children, but hopes that it isn’t related to what transpired yesterday. “My sister,” Sullivan starts with a frown, “and that wretched fiancé of hers, they…” It makes him feel a terrible mix of emotions just thinking about it. “Somehow,” he continues after a brief pause, “they found out about us. The two of them came in here demanding I answer their ridiculously intrusive questions, threatening to tell mother if I didn’t comply.” Marshall sighs and shakes his head. “I told Vincent to forget what he saw. And then he goes and does the opposite,” he laments. Sullivan turns to face him with an incredulous look. “You knew?” he asks accusatorially. “There’s no need to become so hostile, Rosebud,” Marshall states with a smile and a peck on Sullivan’s cheek. “I was aware, but I thought I had been able to sort the problem myself. Vincent promised me he would forget about it, so I didn’t feel the need to worry you.” Sullivan pouts as his ears go red from embarrassment. Marshall always treats him so kindly, and there he was, about to blow a fuse again. “I can’t do much about Acacia, but I’ll be sure to speak with Vincent about this the next time I see him. I’ll make certain he understands clearly this time,” Marshall tells Sullivan, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close reassuringly. “There’s no reason to worry, love. I’ll take care of everything.” Sullivan nods and snuggles up to him. He’s wearing the cologne that Sullivan got him for his birthday the previous year. Sullivan finds the smell of it comforting- it means that Marshall is still his. As he is forever Marshall’s, it’s a nice fact to be reassured of. One looking from the outside in might think it similar to how an animal judges where its territory has been marked. Marshall might even think that from time to time as well, but it makes Sullivan happy so that doesn’t very well matter to him.
“Say, Marsh,” Sullivan says, now in a substantially better mood, and leans his head against Marshall’s chest, “do you think we could go out somewhere tomorrow night? I’ve heard of this kind of human establishment called a ‘club’, and I’m awfully curious about it. You’ll go with me, won’t you?” “Of course, my Rosebud,” Marshall nods, stroking Sullivan’s hair back from his face. “I’d be delighted to.” |
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