The Black Pot

The doctor knew a topic like this would come up, and he knows he could be his normal cynical self and drudge up all of those bad memories, but decides against it.

"I was in love once. Twice actually. First time, when I was in high school. A girl took pity on this wallflower at a school dance and asked me to dance. Turns out she was just tryin' to make her boyfriend jealous. He tried to make her dance with him, and she didn't want to, so I punched him in the nose, and the rest is history. We married while I was in med school, and we had a beautiful little girl." He shrugs. "But it didn't work out."

"Second time, it was pretty much a whirlwind type of romance. One of those love at first sight type of things. Never was a believer in that type of stuff until I met her. But again, it didn't work out. We were from two different worlds." The doctor smirks. "Literally. So I've figured I'm not cut out for love. Seems I always find it in the wrong places."

"As for the deserted island, I don't know what I'd bring. I'd probably bring some good books. I haven't had much of a chance to do any readin', and I miss it. Nothin' like relaxin' with a good book for hours on end. One of my favorite pasttimes is sittin' in the shade under a tree with a warm breeze in the air, readin' a book. But I suppose bringin' food would be a good idea."

Again, I've been out of touch, sorry. Had a lot of stuff happen in my personal life that took away from my online time. Barring any unforseen circumstance, it shouldn't happen anymore.

Ianto sits there, still slumped over the table, after his conversation with Alex. Love? What is love? Him and his dad, going to the cinema together, huddled together under one umbrella, eating ice cream in the driving rain. I've got some bad news about your father, Ianto. Walking Morgan to her first s day of school, her tiny hand clenched in his not-much-bigger one. Africa, Ianto. There's so much I could do for the people there. Him and Matthew, sprawled on the sofa in their crummy little flat, watching football and drinking beer. I've got a job offer. In London. Chance of a lifetime! Him and Lisa, camping together on that beach, breath visible in the freezing air, curled together in one sleeping bag. Together. Yes. Transplant my brain into your body. The two of us, together. Him and Jack, that beautiful, fragile, might-have-been, before he got yanked away here. In your dreams, Ianto. Your sad wet dreams where you're his part-time shag.. Had been, apparently, but even his memories of that are gone now, just stark black words on the white pages. Alex, breaking through that wall Alex always kept around himself, seeing the beautiful smile steal across his face, that no one else got to see. Waking up to Alex, drowsy and tousle-haired, curled in his arms. I can't do this..

What is love? Loss? Pain? Whistling in the dark, a futile barrier against the inevitable end? He mutters, not bothering to stand, not caring if anyone can hear. "I'm clearly the wrong person to ask."

She sits idly fanning herself. Very few in the room would understand any messages she would wish to send through subtle touches or elaborate twists and rills of the fan, so it is the plain, dulling monotony of back and forth. It's a pity, really, that the tradition has been allowed to die. How boring it is to have only one conversation and hope that your listeners can grasp double entendres or subtle shades of meaning. It was always much easier and satisfying to have two, or possibly three, conversations actively occurring at the same time in the old days. Now, the tradition of conversations conveyed through floral arrangements, that one she is happy to do without.

Thoughts of floral arrangements and making up saucy stories based solely on funeral arrangements oddly enough brings her thoughts to this month's topic. June weddings, which might as well be funerals for a few unlucky brides who've bought into the packet of false advertising presented by a scheming beau. Or for the grooms who would in a few years time find themselves saddled to a vapid cow who turns to bonbons and bourbon after the first flush of love has withered like the bridal bouquet. Love and marriage should not ever have anything to do with one another. Love is too fragile to withstand the demands of that social contract, at least in most of the lives she has observed.

"Love is too fragile to last long in this world, and should be enjoyed whenever and wherever it is found."

Love is duty. Anotsu briefly looks up while the others are having their say, then returns to watching the skies. Pink and purple striations, slashed with peach and indigo. They would make beautiful kimono patterns for Makie.

Makie who never questioned his decisions, who didn't rail at him when he told her he couldn't love her. She'd nodded, bowed, and gone away. Before he found Makie again, he'd been chained to his path. To his own hagakure born from contempt.

Leave it to Hisoka-dono to know better, his wife for a night; Hisoka who couldn't see and saw so much further.

"Love," he mutters around a freshly lit cigarette and starts coughing, "love is duty."

Quirrell stands up slowly. For once, it doesn’t bother him that everyone is looking at him. He takes in the different faces in the café. He suddenly jabs his finger randomly. “You love her, but she loves him.” His finger moves to another person with each pronoun. “And he loves somebody else, you just can’t win. Love stinks. If I never loved I never would have cried. Love hurts.” He lifts his hands as if helpless. “They had one thing in common they were good in bed. It’s so hard loving you. Once I had a love and it was divine. Soon found out I was losing my mind. Are you with me so far? I used to be cruel to my woman I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved. There’s gonna be heartache tonight. Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Bye bye love.” Q waves mockingly. “Bye bye happiness. Did you mean to break my heart and watch me die? You could have told me yourself that you love someone else. How can you ignore me when you know that I can’t live without you? You never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips. I was tired of my lady. We’d been together too long. All you need is love?" He sighs heavily. "I don’t think so. Love, it’s a bitch!” Q shrugs and sits down.

Q would like to take this opportunity to wish Sir Paul McCartney a very happy birthday!

Regulus has tried to stand up and share his thoughts on love quite a few times. Mostly he's just shifted dirty teacups from one table to another. The problem is (well, one of many, if we're being honest) is that he doesn't know quite where to start. Or how. You see, he does believe in love, in his own way. There's James of course, who he loves quite stupidly when it comes down to it. It just took him longer than most to realise it. And even longer to admit to it. Then there's the sheer, terrifying overwhelmingness of the whole matter.

In his case love did, quite literally, save his life.

It's an enormous, all-encompassing thing, love. Apparently. Regulus believes it at least covers the café and occasionally the beach, but certainly doesn't extend to the seagulls.

Love is something that Regulus stubbornly refused to believe in. And then, quite abruptly, did. It's still not something he likes to shout about: displays of affection and declarations of love are not given freely. Still, he doesn't complain about waking up next to James, not even when his hair is exceptionally scruffy. He'd go as far as to say (but not out loud, of course) that he even likes it that way. If that's not love, then what is?

He blames James entirely for any feelings of love that dropped in quite uninvited, of course. He suspects that there was dark magic involved, although he has never questioned James about the potential evilness of his cock. After all, it would seem a bit ungrateful to accuse something he's really rather fond of, and having love fucked into you sounds more than a little ridiculous. It doesn't stop him from thinking it more than once though.

He nudges James the next time he passes him, smiling stupidly (he was sure he meant to scowl, but he lets it pass) and nearly drops the latest teacup he's acquired for his experiment in procrastination. Perhaps he shouldn't ponder unmentionables when he's carrying china. Or perhaps he shouldn't carry china and spend more time pondering unmentionables. He knows which he prefers.

Still, he's not about to give an exposition on the contents of James' trousers, so he moves yet another teacup. The only problem is, he's got a tabletop full of teacups and now there's really no escape.

He turns round to find an expectant audience waiting patiently, and panics slightly.

"I think James has charmed come."

He has to go and hide in the kitchen for a while after that.

“Most of us measure love in terms of commitment or in terms of sacrifice, don’t we? That is what I seem to gather. The question of how we define it is probably rather psychologically important – I would guess it to be some predictor of behavior. For example, some people resist the sense of obligation – if being obliged to someone works into their definition of love, then there will always be troubles. Likewise if one is peaceable by nature and believes they should fight for their love, well, how does that ever become possible? And then we refer to sex as making love – yet the older literature believes sex is unnecessary to love, while the more recent finds love unnecessary to sex. How does one familiar with both reconcile them?” The corollary – how does this group ever reconcile them – goes unspoken. But Minerva watches.

She looks into her teacup for a moment of introspection so brief that it’s invisible to the eyes, but it’s long enough for the weak reflection to briefly hold a young and impassioned Minerva, with strength to love a man who was a stranger, strength enough to give him up altogether, never quite enough to forget him. Long enough to understand, wordlessly and with acceptance, that the child she never had a chance to give love let her give strength instead to many – or try to give them strength, and when they found it, hope quietly that it was not in spite of her. And is that love? A matter of definition.

“In short, the topic demonstrates that we are quite adept at confusing ourselves," she concludes crisply.

He studies his fingernails, notices that his hands are getting soft. Familiar calluses are disappearing, have long disappeared; he just never noticed.

He is immaculately turned out - grey suit, black shirt, dark orange tie. At times, these ensembles still feel unfamiliar and strange; they hug the body in different ways, different places. It's not unpleasant; merely... different. Less stiff, for one thing. No less formal, though. And right now it doesn't matter what he's wearing; no matter how soft or yielding, the topic would make him uncomfortable still, make him squirm in crawling skin.

"What do you mean, love?" He shrugs, projecting insouciance. "Does it exist, is it a pretty lie, have we ever loved, do we find ourselves in love at present, and if so, with whom? Pray tell, and I should share this with you, why? Perhaps, if I may suggest, you would find suitable entertainment and edification in Dante's "Fiore" and his "Detto Amore". Not his greatest works, true, but illuminating nonetheless. As for the rest... I believe it was Buonarotti who once told me, there is only God's love, everything else is the work of the devil." They had discussed this on the sculptor's dirty cot, with Cesare biting the pillow and hissing another man's name, but that's neither here nor there.

"Perhaps it is simply overrated."

“She’s no protection, love. She’s not a sword, or a staff to lean on, no shield to hide behind, and the very opposite of armor. She doesn’t make a person wise—quite the reverse, in fact.

( She does strange things to a person's vision, ne. )

He hadn't planned to spend twenty minutes in the bathroom fixing
his hair, but there is one stubborn lock that will not sit flat no
matter how much he hexes it.

"If you keep that up, it'll fall off, you know."

Sirius startles in alarm, before he realises that it's his voice,
coming from the - "You didn't just talk to me, did you?" he asks the
mirror.

"Are you a wizard, or aren't you?" his reflection snaps back, as though it
simply can't believe how stupid he is.

( Read more... )

It's the black little heart that's hanging about in his throat. "Ya vas liubli," he whispers, and shrugs. "Would be easy to say you don't believe in love. Lie, though, isn't it- because only those that could kick their hearts or souls or whatever fancy words you use for it these days until it is smashed to pulp because THAT is what it feels like- only those actually know what love is."

It's waking up in the morning and turning around because you don't want to see anyone. It's your fist in someone's guts because you are blind with rage. It's plucking flowers from a neighbor's garden when you are 4 and give them to your mother - if you have a neighbor garden ... or a mother.

He's drinking more and eating less. That is what love it. Ya vas liubli - Ya vas liubli bezmolvna, beznadeshna, to rabostiu, to revnostiu tomim.

"I guess- I guess you could say- I don't believe in love." He looks up, "But I believe it exists." And softer, "And I wish I didn't." And it's the trailing shadow that's clinging to his heart and not letting go.

Holmes smiles thinly. “I am not a young man, so perhaps my opinion is somewhat jaded. Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never love, lest I bias my judgment. Such intrusions would be as grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of my high-powered lenses. Such strong emotions are antagonistic to clear reasoning. My brain governs my heart. That is not to say I am devoid of feeling. I admire great beauty and I appreciate fine art, good food and wonderful music. No, I am not a robot but my brain governs my heart. I am fond of many things and many people, but I permit myself to go no further.”

Susan can't stop herself from glaring hard at James for the topic he announces. Just what she doesn't want to think about, great. And as much as she hates sharing these things about herself, she seems to be pretty well stuck in this place after several months without leads on getting home. Announcing these things might get it over with so she doesn't have to keep telling people about it.

"How about I start us off by bringing everyone down? I think I can nail a cynical take on love. I've already shared it in bits and pieces before." She crosses her arms and grits her teeth. "Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but I think I'll quote myself here: 'All love is unrequited.' And what I mean by that is for all that you love someone, you're never going to get enough back from them. Or as much as they love you, you lose them too early and have to grieve. They all die or they disappoint or betray you. That's what happens with me, at least."

She uncrosses her arms to tick off on her fingers. "My mother killed herself because the telepathy inhibiting drugs were killing who she was. My brother died in a war I was too young to fight in. I left Malcolm for my career and he turned out to be a bigot, so we didn't get back together. My father was sick and he died while I was far from Earth for work. Talia turned out to have a sleeper personality in her and when it triggered, it killed the Talia I loved, left someone new and horrible in her body. Marcus died literally giving his life to me and he never knew how I felt.

"I've been luckier with not losing as many friends, but the point is that the people I've felt the most for, I've already lost. I'm not all that old, really, but I'm pretty damn jaded for it. And now I'm here, and I seem to be stuck. I'm not away from everything I know, know Lyta from before, and I'm not completely alone here or anything-- thanks to Minerva, I've got a friend to live with. And I'm glad for those of you I've made friends with. But whether or not I get back to my own life, I'm not about to love like that again."


OOC: Leaving in an hour to go to Texas for family stuff, but back Sunday! May or may not check e-mails and possibly reply while I'm out there.

It's that time of year when a young man's thoughts turn to sex. Or love. Though, to be honest, my thoughts tend to be somewhere in the vicinity of sex and/or love 366 days a year.

So, this is your chance to be loving, lustful, or totally jaded, cynical and lonely. Your thoughts on love. Philosophical, anecdotal or downright carnal. If you're not in love, don't approve of love, or simply want to be a killjoy, explain to me why love is a waste of time.

And no, this was not prompted by the jingly waitress.

The tag for this topic is love.