The Picnic of Angst

Consider this the return of picnic.

Wed, 04 Jul 2012 06:31:13 -0400

I’ve spent all morning on this account and I, at least, am ready to spam people’s lives again.

~Claire.

Claire's Fangirling Adventure. Part One.

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 03:14:27 -0400

Claire, aka. Nic.

Fangirln’ like an Irish bawz.

This is an extension of chapter 19 of Taylor’s masterpiece, Second Chances.
And also this has been rotting in the drafts for a while now, but I always meant to expose you guys to my crazy and I’m tired enough to do it this morning.

Of course he knew that it was wrong. Of course he felt terrible, helping her along in her lies. Harry wasn’t naïve enough to think that telling Louis to close his eyes was the right thing to do. But he did it anyway, and when he went over to her bed, when he rested his head near her feet and apologized, it wasn’t meant for her. He was apologizing to Louis.

Oh, okay, Harry can I please just hug you right now and El and Lou can join in, we can all hug and be happy. ‘Harry wasn’t naïve enough to think that telling Louis to close his eyes was the right thing to do.’ Something about that line just kills me, and I think it’s maybe that Harry knows what he’s doing, but he’s still a child and he’s died recently and he just wants to help both Louis and El and I just don’t know. It’s possibly because Pic wrote it, though. Maybe that’s why I love it.

He was apologizing for lying, for treating him so poorly, for yelling at him and poking at his insecurities. No, it’s okay Harry bb. Because Harry knew that Louis was confused, and he shouldn’t be getting in trouble for trying to sort out his head. It could almost be the normal reaction; he’d found out that he was blind and could also see ghosts. Logically, his brain would shut down, would insist that no, it wasn’t possible, and was Louis feeling okay today. Harry shouldn’t hold that against him.

And there it is. Suddenly my heart is hurting for both my boys and just. That writing, is flawless, Pic, your writing is flawless. My heart. ‘Because Harry knew that Louis was confused, and he shouldn’t be getting in trouble for trying to sort out his head.’ And another beautiful line, but why am I expecting any different ever?

‘Harry shouldn’t hold that against him.’

BUT PIC WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME WITH YOUR WORDS?

So yes, he was sorry. He was sorry that he’d gotten angry, sorry that he’d accused Louis of not trusting him, of caring more for Eleanor. Because it wasn’t personal; Louis didn’t know what else to do or who else to talk to. And that was all there was to it. In reality, Harry had been upset with Louis all this time because he’d been honest and confused and it hadn’t mixed with the idea of dead boys speaking with him or being visible in a world where nothing else was.

See, this is why Pic is my favourite. This one paragraph has more emotion than some writers can fit into a whole story, and it doesn’t feel out of place, either, because the whole story is powerful, and that’s one of the big things I envy about your writing, Pic. The power.

Because it moves people. And people can’t help but be moved when they read it, little lines like ‘Harry had been upset with Louis all this time because he’d been honest and confused and it hadn’t mixed with the idea of dead boys speaking with him or being visible in a world where nothing else was.’ just kill people, and then people are dead because they have been feeling too much.

Oh, just wait a moment while I try and find a new bucket.

Because, oh, my tears.

And I don’t even know any more. Pic is just. Not getting enough love for her writing, which she deserves, because read this.

So they lied, and she sat on the floor behind Harry so Louis wouldn’t see her and she spoke through spectral lips to pretend that she was alive, rubbed her ghostly feet on the carpet to make it sound like she was awake and well and walking around checking machines until the beeping stopped and she’d been pulled back into her body like a fish on a line.

I was wondering about that part, as I read the chapter but of course the explanation had to kill my heart. And I realise I’m saying the same sort of things here over and over, but at least I’m saying something, because I just want to smash my keyboard to death.

Here Harry was, lying to someone who needed honesty and truth to sort through everything. Here he was, taking advantage of a blind, naïve boy who didn’t know any better than to believe him and the tales he spun. It made him sick.

It makes my heart hurt Harry, we can hug it’ll be fine. You can include your boyfriend in the hug too, that’s cool.

And believe me Pic, I would quote my favourite part out of this paragraph but this paragraph is my favourite part. idek anymore. My poor heart and I’m actually, in real life sniffling as I read this and Pic you are a magician and your magic is words and never ever stop or I’ll send Voldemort after you because you stopped.

OR LEROY. #injoke.

“I’m so sorry, Louis,” he whispered for what seemed like the millionth time, hoarse and melancholy. His tears fell onto Eleanor’s bed sheets, but they made no mark, left no residue for him to make patterns with. Reminded him that he wasn’t actually there, and never would be. “I really am.”

Nonononononono. Harry, baby, he knows you’re sorry, I know you’re sorry, you’re sorry and that’s all that matters and you are there for him and just.

‘Reminded him that he wasn’t actually there, and never would be.’ I think that actually cracked my heart. I’m not supposed to feel so much love and pity and everything for a character, Pic, you write too well.

(But don’t stop. Or LEROY.)

He didn’t know how long he sat there, alone and crying endlessly. But it seemed like forever before there was a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to find Niall, chewing on his lip and staring with watery blue eyes. “It’s okay, Hazza,” he said, voice cracking on the last syllable of the nickname, (‘scool Niall, just show up and crack my already damaged heart.) “he’ll figure it out soon. And it’ll be okay. He’ll believe in us again.”

‘He’ll believe in us again.’ WHY ARE YOU SO PERFECT, PIC? WHY CAN’T I WRITE LIKE THIS, AND JUST. PERFECTION.

Believe in us again, oh my baby, Niall join the group hug.

Harry shook his head, laughing without any sort of humor or happiness. “Is it bad? That I actually want her to go? That I want her to die?” He could see the understanding on Niall’s face, but the words were all wrong. Harry couldn’t leave it at that, couldn’t go without explaining himself. “I don’t want her gone, but. I want him to see that we’re real.”

I feel sorry for the following people during this paragraph.

1. Harry

2.Louis

3.El

4.Niall

And this is that power I was talking about Pic, because four and a bit lines and my heart is aching for four different people, for a list of reasons and I just. I’ve told you this before, earlier today actually, and you’re getting better but I want to add a thank you for becoming my Partner In Crime and being my little Pic, my little Twinny. Thank you for letting me see you get better, and letting me fall in love with you and your characters and their worlds, every single one you write.

It’s a humbling thing, to be your friend, Pic.

Niall sat down next to him, curled into his chest. “I get it, Harry.” Tears shone at the corners of his eyes, slipping out and falling down his cheeks silently. “I get it. And I want it, too.”

I WANT YOU ALL TO BE HAPPY AND WE CAN HUG IT ALL OUT, BOIS.

AND PIC, YOU WILL BE THERE.

YOU WILL BE THE VERY CENTRE OF OUR HUG.

This account has kind of been dead for two weeks now.I attempted to draw elf!Louis from...

Fri, 06 Apr 2012 21:40:30 -0400

This account has kind of been dead for two weeks now.
I attempted to draw elf!Louis from Claire’s fic, and she seemed to think it would be a good idea to post it? The exact conversation is below, but. That’s the gist of it.
(I’m not an artist. So. I apologize. XD)

~~I liked it until I fucked up the eyes…~~

HOLY SHIT THAT’S PERFECT THAT IS NO STICK PERSON RIGHT THERE TAYLOR THAT’S ELF!LOUIS AND SWEET JESUS IT’S PERFECT, THANK YOU SO MUCH AHMYGOD HONESTLY I CANNOT.

POST THIS SO YOU GET THE LOVE YOU DESERVE.

HONESTLY.

YOU DESERVE IT BECAUSE OHMYGOD PERFECTION AND ELF!LOUIS AND YOU AND THE EARRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSSS.

THE EARS.

THE ~~FUCKING~~ EARS.

AND THE NOSE IS SO CUTE BUT THE MOUTH AND THE HAIR AND THE EAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

(And the eyes look perfect, Pic. Mine will look 56473892 times worse.)

Taylor's Character Study #2!

Sat, 17 Mar 2012 00:58:24 -0400

Harry - Step One
A look at the Harry raised by cats in Claire’s mental health clinic!AU.
Sorry if this is a bit off, everyone. It’s late and I’m really sleepy, but I wanted to finish this before Claire got up in the morning. (She doesn’t know that I was writing this today. ;D)
Also, it is extremely difficult not to use big words.

Harry didn’t know much, it seemed. He didn’t like to talk and he didn’t like the people dressed in white. There was very little that he could do before they got loud and yelled or got too close, and he didn’t like when they did that to him. He only knew how he felt, and that was enough for him.

When his stomach felt funny and made strange noises, he ate. When his throat got scratchy and itchy, he drank. He used the loo when he needed to, and when he felt sleepy, he found somewhere nice and he slept. Things were supposed to be simple like that. There wasn’t supposed to be a woman who told him how he should act and there wasn’t supposed to be people scrubbing red off of the floor.

Harry didn’t know much, but he knew what blood looked like. He knew that it was Louis’ blood and he knew that Louis wasn’t there now because he had been hurt.

Harry hated when Louis went away. Sometimes he’d be gone for a couple minutes, and it wouldn’t be so bad. Other times, though, he might be gone for hours. Harry got really sad when that happened. The woman he had to see told him that it was called being “lonely”, and that he would get used to it eventually. She had said that Harry would eventually be able to go days at a time without seeing Louis, and it would be okay.

Harry had asked why he would ever go so long without Louis there. She had made a face and shook her head, and it had made Harry scared. Whenever Louis left, there was nothing that said when he would be back. He might not ever come back again. Harry had been left behind before, and he liked that even less than he liked Louis being gone in the first place. He wanted everyone to stay, because that was what they were supposed to do.

His friends back home, from before he lived here, would never have left him behind. There was always at least one of them around, watching over him and clawing at his fur. They thought it was funny-looking, that he should have fur all over and tails and ears like they did. They thought that he needed to be looked after, because he was so different from them and he needed to find a way around.

That time, it had been Harry who left them. It didn’t matter that he wanted to stay with them like he had been. The people in white had told him it wasn’t normal for him to be there and he had to come with them. He had to be fixed.

Harry didn’t want to be fixed.

Harry just wanted to go home.

Louis had told him that he couldn’t go. Louis had said that Harry would have to stay with him here, in these clean white rooms with the clean white people and the rules that he didn’t like or know very well. Louis told him that he had to sleep in the uncomfortable bed, even though he liked it better on the floor. Harry had listened, for the most part, because it was Louis and, of all the things Harry had found in this clean, white world, he liked Louis the best. (He still wouldn’t sleep in the bed.)

Zayn drew nice pictures for Harry to look at. Liam was really funny when Harry got into his room and put everything in the wrong place. Niall told great stories, and Harry didn’t really even have to know what he said to enjoy them. Louis, though, had always been there for Harry and had stood up against that woman and those people in their nice white clothes when they were mean. That was better, Harry had decided, than the watching and the waiting and the frowns of the other boys.

Louis had done something to help Harry. He didn’t always say to get off of the windowsill and he didn’t always get mad when Harry mewed and purred because he didn’t want to use his words. Louis was told to get mad at Harry when he did those things, but he didn’t always. Sometimes, he said he just didn’t have the energy.

Harry knew that Louis would be gone a long time this time, though. There was something tugging in his heart, something that hurt. It didn’t hurt like Harry did when the people in white grabbed at him, with fingers digging into his arms and clawing away at skin. This was a different hurt, almost like when he needed to eat, except he wasn’t hungry.

He thought he might be lonely again. The bad feeling in his heart told him the same thing it had when he’d been taken away from his home. It said to him that he might not see his friends again, because they were gone or maybe he was leaving. Someone wasn’t staying like they were supposed to. It said that maybe this was what the woman had been talking about when she said he could go so long without Louis.

He hoped his heart was wrong.

Harry didn’t want to leave his room if Louis wasn’t outside. He liked to hide in his pile of sheets and hide away. If he hid long enough, Louis would usually come back and tell him that it was time to get up. Sometimes, Louis would be tired. His eyes would be red, and his voice would sound funny. Harry made sure to say sorry, those times. Other times, Louis would be smiling and happy. It was a lot easier for Harry to pretend that nothing ever happened when Louis was happy.

It wasn’t Louis today, though. When the door opened, Harry lifted his head and hissed. He could see the eyes that were too blue and the fur that was too light and the jumper that didn’t look like Louis’. That lonely feeling in his chest was back, saying that Louis wouldn’t have been at the door because Louis had left Harry and he wouldn’t be back for a while because it was his blood on the floor in the loo and he had to get fixed before they would let him come back again.

The thought made Harry sad, too, right where the lonely feeling was. He wanted to be mad and he wanted to scare Niall away, but he couldn’t do that if Louis wouldn’t walk through the door later and say that everything was okay. He couldn’t be mean to Niall if Louis wouldn’t make everything better.

“Harry, it’s just me, come on. It’s okay. Louis is going to be fine.”

Niall said Louis’ name, and the sound of it was too much. That sadness wasn’t just in Harry’s heart now. It was in his head and his eyes and his lungs, too. His whole body felt it, tugging at him and bringing him to tears. He didn’t want Niall. He wanted Louis.

Harry just wanted his friend back.

Niall knew that. He was making his way toward Harry now, talking softly but not in the way that strangers did. He talked how Louis did and he walked how Louis did. He pet Harry’s head and comforted him like Louis did. Niall did everything he could to make Harry feel better, and Harry liked it.

Harry felt bad for liking it, though. He wasn’t supposed to like anyone else this much. He wasn’t supposed to fall asleep in someone else’s lap. Harry was only supposed to be this close with Louis. Niall wasn’t Louis. This wasn’t right. It didn’t make all of the bad feelings go away.

They both knew that Harry was going to lose that fight, though. It had been a long day and he was tired. He’d been crying for a very long time and his eyes were sore and his throat hurt. He had used all of the energy he would have had to fight off those white people out in the hallway when they had taken Louis away, and there was no way for him to scare Niall off. There was no way for him to get the company he really wanted to have just then.

So Harry gave up and closed his eyes. He forced even breaths through his teeth, like he’d been told he should. He tried to calm down and forget about Louis and Louis’ blood and Niall’s hands and the sound of his own screams. He tried to forget about people in white coming for him with long, thin fingers and sharp claws that hurt him. After a while, he did. Harry forgot about all of it and finally got himself to fall asleep.

Maybe Harry dreamed of Louis, but there was no way for him to really know. He didn’t know what dreams were, really, and he didn’t know what was fake and what was real. Harry didn’t know if he should believe what he saw when his eyes were closed.

Harry didn’t know much, it seemed.

Taylor's Deleted Scene #1!

Wed, 07 Mar 2012 15:44:00 -0500

This is for Second Chances. It’s an extension of Chapter Nineteen, which I just posted a little under an hour ago. :) I didn’t know where to put it, and I already have Chapter 20 started. So it’s going on here!

He was apologizing for lying, for treating him so poorly, for yelling at him and poking at his insecurities. Because Harry knew that Louis was confused, and he shouldn’t be getting in trouble for trying to sort out his head. It could almost be the normal reaction; he’d found out that he was blind and could also see ghosts. Logically, his brain would shut down, would insist that no, it wasn’t possible, and was Louis feeling okay today. Harry shouldn’t hold that against him.

And now here Harry was, telling him that Eleanor would be okay and demanding that he shut his eyes so he wouldn’t see the truth. Here he was, helping her convince Louis that it would be alright and she would never leave even though she would, someday, and it would be too soon and Louis wouldn’t be able to handle it and they knew that. So they lied, and she sat on the floor behind Harry so Louis wouldn’t see her and she spoke through spectral lips to pretend that she was alive, rubbed her ghostly feet on the carpet to make it sound like she was awake and well and walking around checking machines until the beeping stopped and she’d been pulled back into her body like a fish on a line.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, alone and crying endlessly. But it seemed like forever before there was a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to find Niall, chewing on his lip and staring with watery blue eyes. “It’s okay, Hazza,” he said, voice cracking on the last syllable of the nickname, “he’ll figure it out soon. And it’ll be okay. He’ll believe in us again.”

Taylor's Character Study #1

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 11:40:50 -0500

Louis - Tattoo
A look at Claire’s version of Lou in her dead!Zayn fic. :) I hope I got it right!

Louis was hurting.

He tried to hide it, obviously. But it was there. It was in his eyes, and he knew it every time Harry looked at him. He would turn away, would look at something else, but it was still there. Harry might still see. And Louis knew that he did, knew that his friend was concerned for his well-being and his health. Concerned for the way he never slept, never ate, and occasionally spent time on his own.

Because Louis wasn’t allowed to be alone, anymore. He was supposed to be watched over and taken care of. He was never home alone, never left the house without his parents or his sisters or Harry or Niall. Never left the house without someone following, making sure he didn’t try anything absolutely stupid. Something that he’d already tried, something that he’d already failed. Something that he couldn’t fix or undo, should it ever go right.

So he’d gone and found other ways to hurt himself. He’d found out that staying up all night was easy, was simple. Made him feel absolutely horrible. Made him feel sick, gave him headaches. And if his parents came to check on him, all he had to do was slip under the covers. Not eating worked, too. They could watch him push food around his plate, they could make him take a few bites. But he could hide them under his tongue, spit them out when he wiped his mouth with a towel. He could tell Harry he’d eaten breakfast that morning, wasn’t hungry now. Ignore his stomach as it rumbled in protest and gave away that he was lying.

He could smile and laugh and joke, pretend that it was all fine and he wasn’t hurting. Once, he had been a horrible liar. That had changed, after he met Zayn. Even then, he wasn’t perfect. He would crack a smile, would laugh. Would mix up his facts and tell two different stories to the same people. But he was much better at all that, now. Much better at saying he was fine when he wasn’t and acting happy when he wasn’t and pretending that he was a healthy, functioning teenager when he wasn’t.

And of course Harry saw through it. Of course Niall knew better than to believe him when he smiled and said he was feeling wonderful on this fine morning. Of course the teachers gave him those looks, those looks that said they understood and they felt bad when they couldn’t. They couldn’t ever understand him, or what had happened, or what went on in his head. No one could understand that. Louis wouldn’t let them, wouldn’t give them enough for them to even have an inkling.

The only one who knew was Zayn. It had gotten him far, hadn’t it? Well. Farther than Louis, at least. And maybe that was the real problem here. People always said that it got better. The therapist had told him once, back when he actually went to the appointments, that it would get better, that he deserved the life he had and everything in it and he should be happy.

But it hadn’t gotten better. He didn’t regret what he did; he only regretted the fact that he’d failed. He’d failed so often in his life; this was supposed to be his one great achievement, the first thing he finally did right, and he hadn’t. Louis had failed even his last attempts, and Zayn had left him behind. He’d let Zayn down. So many things had gone wrong. So many things couldn’t be patched up, couldn’t be fixed. Not unless he did what he’d tried to do in the first place. Not unless he finished what he’d started and kept the most important promise he’d ever made.

He’d heard before that survivors often regretted it. Heard that they had a new appreciation for life and everything in it, realized that they’d been stupid and childish and overdramatic. But he didn’t feel any of that, didn’t think anything of the sort. Louis didn’t regret the methods he used or the attempt itself; he regretted choosing the ineffective method, regretted failing at the attempt. He would try again if he had the opportunity; he would try again in a heartbeat. Because he knew that things would only get “better” if he actually succeeded at something, for once in his life, didn’t have to worry about how he was going to fail his exams and how he’d never get a job or have a family or do anything with the life he was supposed to have, supposed to appreciate.

And Louis knew that the opportunity wouldn’t come along. He knew that he’d had one chance and he’d blown it, knew that he was going to be forced into a world of low-paying, menial work that really didn’t do much for him and certainly didn’t serve any purpose. He knew that he’d fail his exams this time around, and possibly the time after that, as well. He knew that there was no real hope for someone as broken and so infatuated with the idea of leaving it all behind. He knew that he wouldn’t be going anywhere, and he hated it. All he wanted was to close his eyes. All he wanted was to lay down and not get up again. It was so simple, so easy. There was nothing truly wrong in wanting peace, in wanting an escape. Other people wanted that sort of thing, too; they were just better at resisting, better at hiding their desires and fulfilling them in some other way, like travelling or picking up a new hobby. Like going out and having fun with friends.

But Louis had done all that he could. He’d tried to feel better, tried to be happy again. If it hadn’t happened yet, it wasn’t going to, and that was that. There was nothing to be done about a teenaged boy with a bad case of depression and some serious issues with self-worth. Not that he wanted anything to be done, anyway. Not that he saw the point in trying, anymore. Not that he had any hope for improvement, not that he saw himself getting anywhere in life or doing anything worthwhile. Not that he deserved any of that sort of thing, anyhow.

And the only reason why he didn’t try harder to leave, the only reason why he still held on by some flimsy thread that he couldn’t even see, couldn’t even understand, was a boy with horribly curly hair and bright green eyes.

Claire's Character Study #1.

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 05:26:00 -0500

Zayn - Wishes.

A look at Taylor’s Zayn in her devastating cancer!Niall four-piece, Wishes. I hope I got this right, they were such big shoes to step into, but beautiful ones at that.

Zayn had always thought of himself as the bravest of the band.

It was a secret thought, something to be quietly proud of when he comforted one of the boys as they were walking through a crowd.

It was something he protected, held onto as strong as he held onto the boys, something to help him look into the mirror and smile, not to be known as the bad boy, but the brave one.

But he wasn’t, really. He wasn’t bad, or violent or confident or brave, and that left him shy and weak and scared, and he couldn’t face Niall like this. He couldn’t let himself see Niall sick, couldn’t let that Niall replace the real one in his head.

So he hid, and smoked and drank and prayed and cried at night, wondered what Niall looked like and how he was feeling, because the boys had stopped telling him, whenever they saw him. If he wouldn’t talk to them, then they didn’t have to talk to him. If he wouldn’t ask Niall himself, he wouldn’t be told.

He would get home in the morning and smoke another cigarette just outside his door, not allowing himself to feel like shit, because he knew Niall must feel so much worse than he did, knew that fucking cancer was different than whatever he was doing to himself. He still never asked, though. He never looked and he never checked and he’d never know, but he needed to keep Niall alive in his memories.

He needed those blue eyes to be bright when he looked back, needed that smile, needed the comfort of knowing how happy and well he was, once upon a time, how alive he’d been before he’d died.

And Zayn couldn’t believe, couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea that Niall wouldn’t be like that now, and he didn’t want to risk this Niall replacing the happy one in his head. He didn’t want to risk seeing a dying boy every time he remembered him, didn’t want to see his friend dead for the rest of his life.

He didn’t want to remember that Niall had ever been sick, or in pain. Didn’t want to think for a second that he hadn’t been brave enough to sit with him through the whole thing, that he’d ran with his tail between his legs, turning to drink and smoke and anything else, but he had. He’d given up on Niall before Niall had given up on himself and he’d been shown, in the worst possible way, who was the strongest member of the band.

He thought about that too, late at night. It took this to show him that he was the weakest, that he was the one that would pull away first, run from any danger he couldn’t fix with a smile or a glare, and they would let him. They would let him hide and self destruct, because they knew. They knew he wasn’t brave enough, knew that he couldn’t face it, but they didn’t know what to do about that.

But, eventually, Harry came for him.

Harry, who was just eighteen, romantic and naive and gullible and young, who’d been with Niall every second, who’d known before anyone else that something wasn’t right, came to him in the kitchen. His green eyes were tired and wet and pleading, and Zayn shook his head, quiet and scared.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t want this to be so real. He couldn’t look at Niall, couldn’t talk to him and it was fear and shame, now. Niall wasn’t stupid, he never had been, and he’d know that Zayn was avoiding him. He’d know exactly why and he’d worry about that.

But Harry was still looking at him, eyes wide and hand offered, hoping against hope that maybe his friend would change his mind. Maybe he’d give up whatever he’d been doing and see Niall. Maybe something would go right, for once.

And it hurt Zayn to see Harry like this, pale and skinny and terrified and he knew he’d never be able to look at Niall without falling apart, never be able to see someone he loved so different. He turned away, lowering his head and walking toward the door, not bothering to lift his coat because his cigarettes were in his trouser pocket, and who cared if it was cold?

But the hand that had been reaching out to him grabbed him, and Zayn let himself be pulled toward Niall, let himself nod when Harry told him that it would be okay, and it was okay if he was scared, that Niall was asking for him. He nodded again when Harry asked him to do it for Niall, looked into those green eyes and wondered how he’d never noticed the sadness in them, too preoccupied with the sadness in his own, and he resisted closing his eyes as Harry pushed him through the door.

He might not have been the bravest in the band, he might not even be near that, but he could still be brave.