Ah hah! *makes exaggerated triumphant pose*
lol, I don't blame her XD I love your writing Trip. You bring your Sims to life so very well ^^ And you know how to keep us on our toes!
What was your discovery, though?
Thanks for the compliments!
The conversation between Annette and Lily was great. They just seem to click. And I'm definitely hooked on the back story, all the realistic details you include just make it so absorbing 
I always imagined Lily as someone who was just tailor-made for a dynasty. Well, her requirements were pretty easy.
Thank you!
I don't think I have commented here before, but I love reading your dynasty. It's very well written. I do wonder if we will learn more of Ms. Stone...
And I hope you will feel better soon.
Thank you too, new reader! And of course you'll learn more about Ms. Stone. Jo's no stranger to trouble.
Chapter 38: Buttered Butterfly
Franco spent most of his vacation doing his usual things. Canvases with just a few paintstrokes sat on nearly all of the easels, a bit weathered, but still worthy of finishing. Lily watched, but only for a minute. Shark and Julian worked with their chainsaws, and the whirr of the blades caught Lily’s attention much quicker and for much longer. The instruments of destruction crafted delicate figures and features in the ice. Lily kept her eye on them.
When she wasn’t calling her friends back home, anyways. Loki and Tristan, and her cousins, and Notzo had a few shimmering vampire nieces who were around Lily’s age. Franco remembered that only when looking through the phone bill later, though.
All of the kids were in Twinbrook! France appeared to be a very adult place to Lily, with hardly a kid in sight. She stuck around the house, because talking about current issues over croissants was hardly a vacation to her.
Thankfully, having fun at the house was a pretty easy thing, even if she couldn’t join the sculptors just yet.
Although sometimes a sculptor joined her.
Or in Shark’s case, tried to act like a doting uncle-figure. “My goodness, you’re just cute,” he said before bedtime, trying to pinch her cheek. She recoiled.
“No! Stop calling me cute. I’m here as one of the guys.” Lily did her darnedest to intimidate Shark, in all of his height and fitness. Almost taken aback by her words, he needed to set that little one straight.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to be nice. Now go upstairs. Maybe I’ll read you a story.”
“Upstairs is where you wrestle with your boyfriend. No!”
“Franco? Julian? Anyone?” asked Shark. He was mostly spent, but a little fidgety. He indeed invited Jules over every night, with the possibility of this being his last trip to France looming over his head. He almost never slept, well, unless Jules was right next to him. There were so many things to do in the space of a couple of what should have been stress-free weeks.
Julian just finished a bowl of midnight cereal when Shark needed some help getting Lily to bed. “I’ll take care of this.”
“...And that is how you cook a frog,” Julian closed the cookbook.
“Yeah, I still don’t get it,” said Lily.
“You don’t have to. Sleepy yet?” he asked.
“I guess.”
“G’night, little flower.” He pulled the blanket up to Lily’s neck and gave her a chaste kiss on the top of the head, “I’ll get your king tomorrow.”
“You wish!” She slept soundly for the whole night.
Julian slept maybe twice that whole vacation. Foreign coffee and the Motive Mobile kept him strong enough to hold a heavy piece of cutting machinery after 48 or 72 straight hours awake, and still alert enough to entertain a child after 96 hours awake. Franco still painted, on the same lack of sleep as Julian, but he was mostly absorbed into the medium as heavy paper absorbs watercolors; you could get him out, but it took a lot of strength and careful technique. The rest of them didn’t bother to even try.
Shark slept, but the vacation was meant to be an actual vacation for him. Any rare moment when he and Jules were in the same national borders had to be an actual vacation for at least one of them, anyways. That vacation, he nabbed his final steady partner.
One day at sunset, when the temperature was a perfect 20 degrees and the crickets started their choir practice, Shark even found a gathering of butterflies. Not the glowing ones he heard of in legends, but they were a bright pastel yellow, the color of butter, actively fluttering or landing on flowers. He could see them from the banks of the river, on an island.
Shark rolled up his pant legs, wading in the river. The gentle current didn’t make him falter, instead just lapping his legs. The entire stream was shallow, barely reaching above his knees. And the grass on the island felt fertile and fresh under his bare feet.
He outstretched his arm towards a butterfly that aimlessly fluttered around.
“Don’t be shy,” he said softly. Soon, the butterfly flew closer to him, almost touching his fingertips. Shark leaned in just an inch closer. The butterfly landed on his fingertip, resting its wings.
For a few minutes, Shark stood there with his butterfly. It flapped its wings occasionally, just to keep its circulation going, but was otherwise calm on his hand and as trusting as an insect could be.
The butterfly eventually flew away, thirsty for some hydrangea’s nectar, but Shark never forgot it.
Later that night, the men plus Lily broke free of their comfortable French cottage and found themselves at a campsite in the hills, packing sausages and produce and, of course, charcoal and matches. They pooled together the food; sausages for all, a wedge of charred lettuce for all. They all told jokes while they ate, or whatever child-appropriate humor came to mind.
Lily crashed pretty early quickly getting out her sleeping bag and falling asleep right on the ground, looking at the stars for the few moments before she drifted off into a heavy sleep. Shark took the tent. Julian and Franco had two cups of French roast that morning, and maybe have taken the Motive Mobile for a joyride. They still stood steady on their feet, not sucumbing to exhaustion for another few hours.
They spoke in hushed tones about art, though Franco tuned out most of the stuff about sculpting. The third dimension hardly appealed to him, definitely not in the same way the canvas and oil paints and color theory did.
“...I think Lily will make a fabulous sculpting student,” said Julian, which piqued Franco’s attention, “I like spending time with her, she likes spending time with me, it will be great when she gets older!”
“You stop right there,” Franco snapped, “Don’t lay a hand on her.”
“Franco, I didn-”
“Behave yourself around her.”
Julian’s eyes, those sinister Rotter eyes, filled with rage, beyond what any of the Waverlys ever saw from Sinbad. His brow furrowed deeply, his irises almost retreated back into his skull in literally blind anger. Julian’s hands clenched into a tight fist, his knuckles and fingertips ghost-white under the pressure.
No, he couldn’t actually touch Franco. Compared to Julian, the man was impenetrable. Too soft to injure, but as indicated by his thick arms and hands as big as a dinner plate, too strong to intimidate and escape without a bruise the size of a grapefruit and something shattered inside.
His fist wouldn’t relax, though. His fingers hurt from the pressure, but Julian couldn’t let go of the accusations.
He punched Franco with all of his force, right in the jaw. Hitting something hard underneath his chubby cheeks, and hearing him scream from the blow.
“Oh my god! What was that for?” Franco was livid. He held the right side of his face where he was hit. He himself could do that right back at Julian, but he ran off down the hill like a greyhound, hands in the air and flailing, and Julian himself screaming in falsetto.
Franco found Julian asleep the next morning by the river. He was alive, if shaken by what he just did. He forgave Julian for the moment, escorting him back home. Ashamed, Julian didn’t speak to Franco for the rest of the vacation, just silently cutting through blocks of ice. He didn’t speak with Lily either, and left her to play one-person chess games. Franco spent the rest of the time in confusion over Julian’s defensiveness.
Back at home, Lily found Jeffrey playing video games, what he usually did when not with Gena. Angry at everyone for ignoring her France, she waited around for a break in the action.
“Hey! Are you doing anything fun tonight?” she asked Jeffrey.
“Nah, just going out with my lady,” he said.
“Well, can I go too?”
“I mean, if you behave yourself.”
“I promise!”
She left Gena and Jeffrey to have their time in peace. She even helped him pick out the flowers beforehand. Even Lily smiled wide after seeing Gena’s face light up, as she gave her boyfriend a hug afterwards in thanks. It was truly as sweet as the smell of those pink roses.
Of course, she also fought with her cousin Lynn.
“Oh god, it’s dad’s annoying little niece,” he said.
“Oh god, it’s uncle Shark’s annoying little bloodsucker,” she said, mockingly.
Lily getting angry didn’t bother Jeffrey much at all. As long as she didn’t try to separate him and Gena.
“Oh, looks like dad’s here,” said Jeffrey, “Hun, I’ll take of this.” He gave Gena a peck on the cheek before changing into something a little comfortable and heading downstairs.
No, Jeffrey did not need Lily’s fighting to distract him. His own sufficed, much to his half-brother’s embarrassment.
While Lily and Jeffrey created enemies and public disturbances at the gym, Franco drove by himself up to the Bayless house. Its humble exterior was enveloped in thick fog, and cattails brushed against his pant legs as he walked to the front door. The back porch was filled with random things; chairs, old tables, a stereo that still worked in the rain.
He rang the doorbell, to be greeted by Tay a few minutes later. The old man was slowed down immensely by his old age. He walked hunched over a cane. His voice was as creaky as the bad floor plank on their front stairs.
“Franco Waverly. I don’t think we’ve formally met,” Franco said, outstretching his hand.
“No, but I’ve destroyed at least two mattresses at your house. I’m cooking dinner right now. Enough for two and some leftovers.” The fragrance of prawns and tomatoes and cooking pasta wafted through the front door.
Tay finished up dinner, slowly, his hands shaking a bit as he drained the pasta. Franco hesitated to help; he didn’t even know what al dente felt like or how to test it. But as slow as he was, Tay got dinner on the table; a pot of linguine and the prawns and tomatoes, of course. Franco took a bite. It was basically as good as anything Annette did on a normal day.
“You didn’t have to do this for me at all,” said Franco.
“It’s fine. I always cook for two, but it’s just me now.” Tay looked over his shoulder, at a picture of Chase, his older sister, that hung near the stairs. Franco vaguely remembered Chase. She got a makeover later in her life, and liked to tell jokes the whole time.
“I’m very sorry,” Franco said, quietly, “Dinner is delicious, by the way. I almost see why she likes you.”
“Hannah? There are many reasons she likes me. But she never has anything bad to say about what I cook, you got that right.”
“I guess I’m always going to be confused about what she sees in you. And I mean, I am so very sorry about anything bad I’ve said. I think, I think I’m actually glad that she found someone.”
“I know you care about her. She talks about you a lot. She says really nice things about you. She’s a delicate little minnow, if you ask me. She thinks she’s big, but deep down, she knows that she’s fragile and that the world ain’t easy on her. I had to spend two days getting her to stop crying about her mum. All she did was spill her sorrows about mum for two days. I can’t imagine it. I loved my mum. But ol’ Ms. Carlton couldn’t stand Hannah. Yelling, fighting, slap-fights, not buying her new clothes.”
Franco quietly listened to the old man, and ate his pasta strand by strand. Tay’s plate was mostly untouched, and with only a small serving. Franco could count the ribs through his sweater.
“She never cried about it to me, I guess,” said Franco, “I’m glad that she was able to.”
“I like to think I help,” said Tay, “She calls me every night to say good night. Her nose flares when she laughs, and her lips are just so soft. And her hands are really warm. I just find her dreamy.”
Franco held back the urge to say that he wasn’t the only one. He felt like he had a monopoly on Hannah’s willow-thin, warm hands at one point, or the feeling of the tip of her nose against his. It felt like everything that mattered to him was someone else’s domain, and whether he admired or was disgusted with that frail old man for taking what was his was unclear to Franco.
“She’d make a good mother,” said Tay, “There’s a lot of good in her heart. And she always says good things about Lily...that’s your little girl, right?” Franco nodded.
"Lily sounds like the sweetest thing. I bet you're doing a good job with her."
The two of them departed on good terms, and for Franco, with a little less confusion, and a new problem. With Hannah’s boyfriend basically in the Reaper’s waiting room, her biggest source of comfort might be gone the next day. And somehow, Franco feared that he couldn’t fill that void afterwards.
As for Lily? She was too young to love, or at least Franco thought, but he still feared for her. That some other man would get her attention and dear old dad was just another old man in the house. No one told him that she accompanied Jeffrey and Gena out to dinner, and that she stayed while they watched the stars and told inside jokes.
If he was almost able to let Hannah go, then Lily was his next challenge. She searched for the Jeffrey to her Gena immediately, but it was a short journey. Her soulmate hovered closer than anyone suspected.
Word Count for this chapter:
2,325Word Count so far:
52,179The picture of Shark and the butterfly has been my laptop's lockscreen basically ever since I took the picture, and I don't think that will change for a while.
Unfortunately, some bugs undid the trip to France. And a lot of Lily's childhood. I sat on quite a few screenshots thanks to Lily basically being a child twice. I liked her as a teen, though. I guess I'll have to show that eventually.
