#Fred Gervasi

[mi4011elricksenadipathy]

Task 1: Story of Walter Lantz

Walter Benjamin Lantz was born on the 27th of April,1899 in New Rochelle, New York to Italian immigrant parents, Francesco Paolo Lantz and Maria Gervasi. Lantz's father was given his new surname by an immigration official who Anglicized it. Walter Lantz was always interested in art, completing a mail order drawing class at age twelve. He saw his first animation when he watched Winsor McCay's cartoon short, Gertie the Dinosaur.

While working as an auto mechanic, Lantz got his first break. A wealthy customer named Fred Kafka liked his drawings on the garage's bulletin board and financed Lantz's studies at the Art Students League. By the age of 16, Lantz was working in the animation department under director Gregory La Cava. Lantz then worked at the John.R.Bray studios on the series called Jerry on the job. In 1916, he became a producer with a studio of his own. By 1922, Lantz was working as a producer at the John Randolph Bray studio. In 1924, Lantz directed, animated, and even starred in his first cartoon series, Dinky Doodle, and shortly after he replaced George "Vernon" Stallings as head of production.

In 1928, Lantz was hired by Charles B. Mintz as a director on the Oswald the Lucky Rabbit cartoon series. Earlier that year, Mintz and his brother-in-law George Winkler had succeeded in snatching Oswald from the character's original creator, Walt Disney.Universal president Carl Laemmle was unsatisfied with the Mintz-Winkler product and fired them, deciding instead to produce the Oswalds directly on the Universal lot. While talking with Laemmle, Lantz bet that if he could beat Laemmle in a game of poker, the character would be his. As fate foresaw it, Lantz won the bet, and Oswald was now his character.

Lantz inherited many of his initial staff, from the Winkler studio, but importantly he decided to select a fellow animator from New York, Bill Nolan, to help develop the series. Nolan's previous credentials included inventing the panorama background and developing a new, streamlined Felix the Cat. Nolan was (and still is) probably best known for perfecting the "rubber hose" style of animation. In September 1929, Lantz finally put out his first cartoon, Race Riot. By 1935, Nolan had parted company with Lantz. Lantz became an independent producer, supplying cartoons to Universal instead of merely overseeing the animation department. By 1940, he was negotiating ownership for the characters he had been working with.

After going through his characters, he decided he wanted something new and out of all,one character called Andy Panda stood out and it became the headline star for the 1939-1940 production series. In 1940, Lantz had married actress Grace Stanford. During their honeymoon, the couple kept hearing a woodpecker incessantly pecking on their roof. Grace suggested that Walter use the bird for inspiration and make him into a cartoon character. Taking her advice, though a bit skeptical about its success,he conformed it into a short like Andy Panda and it became a success and he liked the results enough to make a series around it. Mel Blanc supplied the voice of Woody Woodpecker for the 1st 3 cartoons and later, after Blanc left the studio, Ben Hardaway became the voice of the bird.

During 1948, the Lantz studio had a hit Academy Award-nominated tune in "The Woody Woodpecker Song", featuring Blanc's laugh. Mel Blanc sued Lantz for half a million dollars, claiming that Lantz had used his voice in various later cartoons without his permission, the judge ruled him out saying he failed to file copyright for his voice or conotributions. In 1950, Lantz held anonymous auditions. Grace, Lantz's wife, had offered to do Woody's voice; however, Lantz turned her down because Woody was a male character. Not discouraged in the least, Grace went about secretly making her own anonymous audition tape, and submitted it with the others for the studio to listen to. Not knowing whose voice was being heard, Lantz picked Grace's voice to do Woody Woodpecker. Grace supplied Woody's voice until the end of production in 1972.

The baby boomer generation came to know and love Lantz as the creator of the Woody Woodpecker cartoons. He used his TV appearances on The Woody woodpecker show to show how the animation was actually done. For many of those young viewers, it was the first time they had seen an explanation of the process.

[rocohen20]

Fic Rec: Tyler Seguin- Boston’s Era

Tyler Seguin/Taylor Hall

-Sneaking up from Behind, by nuuuge, 3,060 words

Mpreg story where Tyler got knocked up after a one-night stand with Taylor, and we see how he raised his son.

Tyler Seguin/Fred Gervasi

-Let Me Do My Dance, by rsadelle, 1,335 words

Tyler and Fred gerking-off on Fred’s bed.

I like the way their friendship is written in this story.

-Let’s Get Serious, by rsadelle, 3,694

5 times story where Andrew Ference was Tyler confidant with his secretive relationship with Fred.

-Square Pegs and Round holes, by Tempore, 29,729 words

In this story there’s a group in the population who are called ‘shifters’ and they can phisically change their gender. The story followes Tyler’s journey from juniors to Boston, to Dallas. 

I really liked to see how Tyler discover his body and sexuality with time. And I should mention that the main pairing in this story is Jamie Benn/Tyler Seguin. 

Tyler Seguin/Andrew Ference

-Serpent’s Tongue, by rsadelle, 1,707

Tyler get a tongue peircing and show Andrew its advantages of it.

-Latch, by hkafterdark, 28,994 words

College student Tyler is dating the single dad Andrew.  

GOOD READING EVERYONE!

[jord38]

Acurrucada que fa fred #catstagram #catsofinstagram #cats #gates #pets (en Sarrià-Sant Gervasi) https://www.instagram.com/p/BqiOba4lyFM/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=12j7yrkj0k617

[rosercabre]

Desembre

Dijous 31

Esgoto el 2020 i els meus 37 anys, que és el mateix. Ha sigut l’any amb menys benestar emocional de la meva vida. Però podria quedar-me amb el principi i amb el final i obviar el mig i ho salvaria. Ho salvo. Malgrat tot i perquè tot. La filla ha nascut, el fill ha crescut i tots hi hem sigut. 

Dimecres 30

Ho hem començat a decidir en una plaça de Sarrià i ho hem acabat de decidir en un pàrquing del Gornal. Ho hem dit a una cuina de Sant Gervasi. Llocs que ens porten a d’altres llocs que no són aquests. 

Dimarts 29

No hem parlat del futur a la plaça marinera i jo soc una mentidera. Saps per què? Perquè sento el mar i no te’l dic. 

Dilluns 28

Allò d’ahir era un laberint, per cert. 

Diumenge 27

He tornat d’Iowa i avui no era juliol.

Dissabte 26

Hem empassat canelons en vint minuts però hem empassat canelons. 

Divendres 25

Hem dinat una estona llarga sense ser-hi tots però hem dinat una estona llarga. 

Dijous 24

Hem cantat i hem picat sense veure’ns les boques però hem cantat i hem picat.

Dissabte 19 - Dimecres 23

Una última tornada, encara. 

Divendres 18

He tingut tota la por que no havia ni sabut que es podia tenir. He tingut la nena als braços com una nina. De drap. He tingut un sotrac. He plorat l’avinguda llarga una vida que em mirava, pàl·lida i adormida. He tornat a l’hospital que va foradar al nen. El nen no hi era perquè era a casa. Content. La nena ha volgut tornar a caminar. He passat la matinada veient-la respirar. 

Diumenge 13 - Dijous 17

Se’m fa difícil fer la maleta cap a Iowa però marxar, avui, és començar a tornar. 

Dissabte 12

He tingut tota la por que no havia tingut encara. He tingut el fred de la mare. He tingut l’esglai del pare. 

Dimarts 1 - Divendres 11

Segueixo a Iowa i hi segueixo bé. 

[guillemjc]

Cròniques des del terrat (IV) – Àngela o la Bonanova, Part II

«Et sap greu que la bellesa fugissera s’hagi pansit tan irremeiablement, que hagi lluït davant teu d’una manera tan enganyosa i vana; et sap greu no haver tingut temps ni tan sols d’enamorar-te’n...» — F. Dostoievski a Les nits blanques

SEGONA PART

DE CAMÍ A L’ESCOLA

L’Àngela era de la Bonanova de tota la vida. Va néixer a la clínica Teknon i va estudiar al Col·legi Jesús-Maria. L’àvia Teresa la portava a l’escola cada matí: agafades de la mà, caminaven pel passeig de la Bonanova en direcció Besòs, sempre per la vorera de muntanya. Quan arribaven davant de l’església, l’àvia li explicava que en aquella plaça, al ball de festa major, havia conegut l’avi Pere. I que, un any després, es casarien en aquella mateixa església. 

“Per què la gent es casa, àvia?”. “Perquè és la manera que tenim de provar l’amor. I d’enfortir-lo”. “Això vol dir que la gent que no es casa no s’estima?”. “Qui no es casa no s’estima prou per comprometre’s a un amor que perduri”. Amb els anys l’Àngela aprendria que els amors duradors feien els amants exsangües i menys bells, que les seves carícies, amb el desgast, els espellaven, i els seus petons massa madurs podrien la llengua. També entendria que els amors passatgers feien esforços inútils, tenien febres frívoles, les seves carícies efímeres cansaven els cossos i els seus petons massa verds esquinçaven els llavis. “Àvia, tu i jo no estem casades i ens estimem molt”.

L’església de la Bonanova estava inspirada en la basílica de Santa Maria Maggiore de Roma. L’Àngela mirava amb embadaliment la façana neorenaixentista, amb el pòrtic sobre l’escalinata i les vuit columnes corínties. A sobre hi havia cinc finestrals d’arc de mig punt, dos d’ells amb les imatges dels sants Gervasi i Protasi, i dalt de tot el frontó i la creu. Mirant-la de cara, al cantó esquerre hi havia l’alt campanar i, a la dreta, més baixa, la torre octagonal acabada amb una cúpula i una rosa dels vents. En aquella parròquia també s’hi havien casat els seus pares, i ella hi havia estat batejada i hi havia fet la primera comunió. Però el record més dolç el tenia de la nit de Nadal: cada any tota la família, havent sopat, anava a sentir el Cant de la Sibil·la, just abans que comencés la missa del gall.

Deixada enrere la plaça, de seguida veien la tanca del col·legi. Just abans d’arribar-hi, a mà esquerra i adjacent al recinte escolar, hi havia un solar que resistia l’especulació urbanística i desafiava el signe dels temps. Era un paratge alhora ombrívol i oníric, amb una pàtina de vellesa i nostàlgia, que un dia devia haver estat un torrent, ensotat i ple de vegetació: arbres, heures, matolls, molsa i esbarzers. A la tardor, el terra s’omplia de fulles seques. Un hivern el va veure tot nevat. Limítrofa al vetust jardí abandonat s’aixecava una paret de pedra, de lloses esgrogueïdes, rematada per una balustrada ornamental de marbre. Al peu del mur naixia una escala sense barana que es perdia al fons de la clotada. L’Àngela s’imaginava que aquella graonada duia a un lloc màgic. Li semblava un escenari de conte ideal.

Passat el solar ja s’albirava la façana imponent del col·legi. S’hi veia una primera porta de ferro forjat amb dos lleons i un escut d’àligues a la part superior. Les àligues es reproduïen en sèrie, amb les ales esteses, al llarg de la reixada. L’Àngela els hi tenia por, i quan passaven per sota seu accelerava el pas. L’àvia la tranquil·litzava, li deia que eren de ferro, que no es mourien ni li farien cap mal, i li explicava que l’àliga era un dels emblemes de Barcelona. “Recordes quan l’anem a veure per Santa Eulàlia?”. Així i tot, ella no quedava gens convençuda i aquell era l’únic tram de camí en què s’afanyava per arribar a l’escola. A l’altre costat de la tanca hi havia un jardí francès, amb escultures i grans testos decoratius, uns bancs també de ferro, de joc amb el reixat, que feien encara més elegant el parc; i, com un decorat posterior, un bosquet frondós amb tot tipus d’espècies d’arbres. D’entre tots ells ressortia el colossal avet.  

L’edifici monumental d’estil historicista anglès del Col·legi Jesús-Maria també era obra, com la Casa Arnús i el Temple del Tibidabo, d’Enric Sagnier. Al frontispici, fet amb maó vist i carreus de pedra blanca, hi lluïen l’ampla escalinata i el porxo neogòtic de l’entrada principal, que portava a la galeria de la planta noble. Al capdamunt, els finestrals gòtics i el gran pinacle revestien l’edifici d’un aire catedralici. La construcció quedava completada per les dues ales laterals i, en una d’elles, la capella. Al vestíbul de la capella s’hi conservava una relíquia: unes làmpades de fusta sobredaurada que representaven uns dracs escopint foc, de la boca en treien llum, dissenyades per un encara jove i passerell Antoni Gaudí. Al cor de la planta hi havia el pati enorme on l’Àngela havia passat tantes hores d’esbarjo i tediosa letargia.

L’AVI PERE

L’Àngela va créixer al carrer d’Horaci, a tocar dels jardins de ca n’Altimira, on els seus pares havien comprat un apartament en casar-se. Ells també eren del barri. El pare era del carrer del Camp, va néixer al número 57. La seva mare, l’àvia Isabel, encara avui hi tenia una petita botiga de queviures que l’havia vist despatxar rere el mostrador més de cinquanta anys. En sortir de l’escola, el pare de l’Àngela sortia disparat cap a la botiga, impacient per assaborir el seu berenar deliciós. L’Àngela reproduiria el gest del fill de la Isabel, i tan bon punt sonava el timbre del col·legi correria amb ànsia, arrossegant el seu pare que la duia de la mà, per arribar de seguida a l’adrogueria. Allà l’esperaria l’àvia amb el berenar cobejat. “Aquesta nena és llaminera com el seu pare!”. Tots tres compartien aquelles porcions de tardes gormandes i despreocupades com una mena de conspiració, el seu petit secret.

La mare es va criar al número 4 del carrer de Claravall, darrera l’escola, en una casa unifamiliar de planta baixa amb un jardí a la part del darrere on l’Àngela havia passat els moments més feliços de la seva infància. En aquella parcel·la plena de petúnies, de geranis, de glicines, de clavells i de roses, la petita Àngela va anar adquirint, mica en mica, el gust per la bellesa: la de les flors, la de la literatura, la de la música, la dels instants de joia. Al fons del verger hi havia els arbres fruiters. A la primavera veia florir l’ametller, bandera blanca. A l’estiu, collia les dolces nespres del nesprer i se les cruspia amb delit. A la tardor fruïa amb l’anhel sangonós de les magranes del magraner.

Passava hores i hores jugant en aquell menut racó de món que a ella li semblava tot un univers, el seu. Un espai tancat en un món de llibertat i d’imaginació. El seu edèn. Quan queia rendida, a mitja tarda, reposava a la falda de l’avi que, assegut al balancí, al peu de l’acàcia, li llegia contes, primer, i més endavant novel·les senceres: romàntiques, d’aventures, de ciència ficció. L’Àngela es feia gran en mars de lletres i tardes vermelles.

― Jeanne Pissarro (ditte Minette) assise au jardin, Pontoise (1872), Camille Pissarro

Els divendres anava a sopar amb els pares a casa els avis. Mentre l’àvia cuinava, l’avi i l’Àngela s’asseien al piano i practicaven. Era un moment de serenor absoluta. L’envaïa la calma i el seu cos ingràvid flotava, delicat i fràgil, per l’estança. Premia cada tecla amb fervor: notava el tacte fred de la fusta setinada i sentia el martellet colpejar dins la caixa de ressonància. Tocaven Mozart, Beethoven, Liszt, Brahms. Tocaven fins que l’àvia els cridava: “El sopar és a taula!”. Una calidesa amable recollia tot el menjador. 

L’avi Pere s’havia guanyat un nom com a concertista de piano, tot i que la seva autèntica devoció era l’orgue. Va estudiar-ne la carrera i durant gairebé dues dècades va ser l’organista de la parròquia de la Bonanova. Deia que només hi havia una cosa al món que podria fer-li deixar l’instrument: l’àvia Teresa. Tot i que sovint s’engelosia, ella mai l’hi va demanar. Quan l’Àngela entrava en una església i sentia el so de l’orgue omplir el temple, pensava en el seu avi i en aquells vespres embriagadors en què, potser sense saber-ho, en algun moment va decidir que es dedicaria a la música.

Després de sopar, els pares tornaven cap al carrer d’Horaci i ella es quedava a dormir amb els avis. Les nits d’estiu, l’Àngela sortia fora, s’asseia al balancí i es quedava llargues estones observant els estels fins que veia arribar el polsim de lluna al jardí. Quan entrava de nou a casa, l’àvia l’acompayava a l’habitació, la ficava al llit i li llegia un conte, que mai aconseguia acabar perquè ella sempre s’adormia abans. L’endemà, en llevar-se, el primer que feia era treure el cap per la finestra.

Un matí d’hivern que la rosada cobria d’un vel blanc tot el verd de l’herbatge va veure aterrar-hi un faisà molt especial. Mai havia vist un ocell tan llampant i bonic. De faisans n’havia vist molts, fins i tot els avis n’havien tingut un al jardí, amb la seva cua llarga i estirada i el seu plomatge tardorenc d’ocres, taronges, granes i turqueses. Però aquell era diferent, aquells colors enlluernaven, més encara amb el contrast del blanc de la gebrada. Tenia un pit rogenc estrident i una capa daurada. Només compartia amb la resta de faisans el color de la cua, i una taca turquesa sota el clatell. Semblava que l’haguessin pintat. Va fer un salt del llit i va córrer cap al jardí, però quan va ser fora, l’ocell ja no hi era. “Potser no el torno a veure mai més”, es va dir l’Àngela. 

El faisà va tornar la setmana següent. L’Àngela va quedar uns minuts palplantada rere la finestra observant-lo. L’elegància de l’ocell la deixava abstreta, hipnotitzada amb els seus gràcils moviments. Era massa bonica per passejar-se pel seu jardí amb aquella galanesa altiva. Sabia que no el podria estimar, perquè sempre s’enlairaria abans que tingués temps d’encaterinar-se’n. Va sortir decidida però amb cautela, s’hi va apropar dolçament i l’animal va voler apartar-se’n, pressentint l’amenaça. L’Àngela llavors va fer una estirada brusca, elèctrica, com un llampec, i nyac!, va enxampar l’au amb les dues mans. Se la va mirar de prop i, amb la bèstia esporuguida entre les seves grapes, es va sentir poderosa. Amb la mà dreta va acariciar-li el llom, mentre amb l’esquerra sostenia el seu petit cos amb força perquè no s’escapés. “No em deixes estimar-te”, li va dir. Quan els avis es van llevar, l’Àngela tapava un sot al peu de l’ametller.

Els dissabtes definien la seva noció de felicitat. Frisosa, s’apressava a despertar els avis i rabent es dirigia a parar taula per l’esmorzar: melindros i xocolata desfeta. L’àvia, però, abans sempre li feia menjar una poma, collida del jardí: “Primer has de preparar la panxa: una fruita al dia i ben lluny la malaltia!”. Ella obeïa, sabent que després l’esperava el gran festí. Si feia bo, esmorzaven al jardí, i l’Àngela delirava amb l’amalgama de l’olor de xocolata i el perfum de les flors. Allò era el paradís.

― Fris de Beethoven (1902), Gustav Klimt

L’avi Pere, de jove, havia viscut uns anys a Viena, “llavors era la capital d’Europa!”. Li parlava de l’Òpera, dels cafès, de les simfonies de Gustav Mahler, de les novel·les de Stefan Zweig i de les pintures d’Egon Schiele. Li parlava de com de meravellat va quedar el primer cop que va anar al ballet, i de la primera vegada que va veure el Fris de Beethoven de Klimt. Li ensenyava les obres del genial pintor austríac i ella quedava absorta amb aquells colors, aquelles formes, aquells relleus, aquelles dones, aquells paisatges.

Li explicava anècdotes d’aquells dies de joventut i glòria, quan “era molt pobre i molt feliç”. A la tardor feien festes a les cases dels amics, totes decorades amb un gust exquisit; a l’hivern anaven a patinar a la pista de gel de la gran plaça de l’ajuntament; a la primavera feien pícnis als parcs; i a l’estiu, excursions als llacs dels voltants de la ciutat. Encantada, l’Àngela l’escoltava i quedava fascinada per totes les històries. “Avi, un dia jo també viuré a Viena”.

El dia de l’enterrament de l’avi Pere, se li presentaria la figura d’ell embolcallant-la amb el cos, amb l’ànima i amb les rondalles, lluny dels perills del món, al balancí, sota l’acàcia florida, al seu preciós jardí. Aquella imatge poderosa l’acompanyaria per sempre.

[sororityofbrothers]

[thiarapiazza]

Freddy Bender - Summer Nights ft. V. Knuckles & Alyssa Holmes (by Freddy Gervasi)

[ailelie]

Ficbits and Convos that have not and will not happen (That Seguin Mentor Fic I'm NOT Writing)

The following are all from drafts written during work and emailed to my roommate and another friend. They are in chrono-order, but there are gaps and things that need fleshing out. The first few bits are dialogue only since, lately, my entrance into fanfic has been auditory. The first conversations are between Tyler Seguin and Fred Gervasi. It starts post-Tweet.

Summary: Tyler Seguin is secretly-bi and planning to remain closeted. Sergei Gonchar sees potential in Seguin and decides to help bring that out. Then Gonchar catches Seguin making out with a guy. He helps keep the secret for Seguin. Pure mentorship between Gonch and Seguin. Then Seguin meets a guy and starts to question what he really wants. And, meanwhile, there is a friend back home who may or may not be secretly pining.

"So you're just going to hide your entire life?"

  "Maybe. Or I can come out after I retire."

  "Dude, what about relationships? Or marriage?"

  "I'm bi, not gay. I'm sure I can find a girl if I want one."

  "Right. You might love making out with the girls, bro, but we both know you only do long-term with guys."

  "I'll manage."

  "Look, you're already in a tailspin. Seriously, what better time than now? What's the worst that can happen? Dallas won't bench you; they gave away too many good guys to get you. Burke would probably piss his pants in defending you."

  "Not. Gonna. Happen."

  "That's just sad."

  "Yeah. Woe is me. My life is such a tragedy."

----------------

"Besides, I don't do long-term with anyone."

  "Right."

  "Name one guy I've been comm--"

  "Tyler Brown."

  "Bullshit. He's my best friend."

  "And how often has he been around lately?"

  "He has a girlfriend; he's busy."

  "Yeah, and you got all butthurt over that on Twitter too, didn't you?"

  "I never had a thing for Ty."

  "Which is why you totally did not look up that one weird post all about you two being boyfriends."

  "I Googled my name! Not my fault it came up."

  "You just had to click the link."

  "I'll be fine in Dallas. I mean, it's Dallas. What am I going to be able to do there? Team's already cracking down."

  "My offer to transfer still stands."

  "You are not switching schools for me."

  "Gonna miss you, Segs."

  "Yeah. Me too."

------------------------

"Okay. So maybe I had a thing for Ty."

  "I know."

  "I thought he was into it, you know. I mean, how many wife jokes do I have to make before the guy realizes that maybe I mean something by it?"

  "He was dense."

  "Yeah. I don't want to leave."

  "I know. Maybe it won't suck."

  "Pep talks aren't really your thing, are they?"

  "I don't want you to leave either. Why do you think I keep offering to go with you?"

  "New scene?"

  "Being dense is just a Tyler thing, isn't it?"

  "Huh?"

  "Nothing. Look, if you ever change your mind--"

  "About?"

  "Anything. Let me know, okay?"

  "Sure. You really think it won't suck?"

  "I think you're Tyler Seguin. Even if it does suck, you won't let it stay that way."

  "Ha. I should get a t-shirt. Tyler Seguin: I end the suck."

  "Might not help your dating life much, that."

  "Jerk."

------------------------

Sergei watched the kid ball up his sweater and throw it hard into the back of his stall. He raised one unimpressed brow and flicked a sock against the kid's spine. 

  "Seguin. Dinner tonight."

  "What?" Seguin asked, turning around.

  "My wife is good cook, well--" Sergei paused and tilted his head "--better skater, but okay cook." He stood and grabbed his sock. "At 7. I'll text you the address." He shoved the sweaty sock in his bag and zipped up the corner. 

  "What if I have plans?" Seguin asked, sticking out his chin like his daughter still did sometimes. Sergei suppressed a smile and rapped his knuckles against the kid's chin.

  "Don't be late."

-----------------------------

He got sloppy. Tyler did not now if it was the heat, the endless expectations mixed with disappointment, or homesickness, but he stopped being as careful as he'd been in Boston. He pressed a man in a damp button down against the wall outside the bathrooms, one hand on the man's shoulder, the other holding his face. Tyler closed his eyes and let himself pretend he was home.

  But then, he heard someone say his name. "Shit." Tyler pulled back and glanced to where Gonch, because it was always damned Gonch, stood. "What are you staring at?" He pointedly looked back at the guy he'd been making out with and gave the guy a last, chaste kiss before stepping back and letting him hurry back to the bar. Tyler crossed his arms and waited for Gonch to do something.

  Gonch almost smiled and then pulled his keys out of his pocket. "Need a ride?" 

  Which wasn't at all what Tyler had expected. His shoulders fell; and, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Sure. What the hell."

------------------------------

"This isn't home."

  "Is my home. You can have spare bed."

  "I'm not staying with you," Tyler said, but he was already unbuckled and following Gonch out of his car. 

  Gonch collected a stack of sheets on his way back to the spare room. 

  "I can make my own bed," Tyler protested as Gonch pulled back the comforter on the bed and snapped a fitted sheet down over the bare mattress. 

  "Get that corner," Gonch said, nodding toward one near Tyler. Tyler grabbed the elastic edge and stretched it over the bed.

  "Are you going to ask me about what you saw?"

  Gonch smoothed the end of the bed and looked up at him. "You are tired and drunk. We talk in morning." He picked up the pillows where they had fallen on the floor and tossed them at Tyler. "Sleep."

  "Yeah. Okay."

--------------------------

Tyler woke slowly in the haze of a cloudy morning. He stared at the window, processing the patterned curtains tied to either side as he remembered the previous evening. Gonch had caught him making out with a guy. He rolled over, turning his back to the window and hoping to slip back into sleep where he didn't have to deal with anything. A glass of water and bottle of pills sat on the nightstand. He was pretty sure that Russians hated gays. He was also pretty sure that Gonch wouldn't have made the bed or set out water if he hated him. Tyler sat up, drank the water, and ignored the pills. Time to check the damage.

---------------------------

Ksenia sat on the counter beside the stove, bouncing her crossed ankles against the cabinets and sipping a mug of tea. "What will you do?" she asked.

  Sergei poked the edge of his omelet with a spatula. "I don't know yet. I don't know if it was a one-time thing or--" he shrugged. "He's a good kid."

  Ksenia nudged his thigh. "You just think that because he's your new pet project. And if he prefers men? It would not reflect well on you if you helped him."

  "I have no designs on Sochi." Sergei flipped his omelet. Egg sizzled.

  "Liar."

  "If he prefers men, maybe he doesn't want anyone to know."

  Ksenia hopped off the counter and sat her empty mug down in her place. She grabbed a plate down and handed it to Sergei for his omelet. "And you will help keep his secret?" She reached around him and switched off the stove while he slid his omelet onto the plate.

  "Depends on how it is affecting his game."

  She chuckled and pressed her head to his shoulder. "Of course. Hockey trumps all."

  Sergei stepped back, kissing her temple as he walked back to breakfast table. "Of course. Love, hockey, and the motherland--in that order."

  Ksenia started to reply, but then stopped, glancing to her side. "Your little mouse is sneaking downstairs."

  "My mouse?" Sergei laughed.

  "He looks like a mouse." Then, in English, she added, "Good morning, Tyler. Do you want toast? Cereal?"

  "Cereal?"

  "Wheaties," Ksenia said, grinning. "For champions." She pulled him down a bowl and got a spoon from the dishwasher. "Cereal is on fridge. Milk inside." She patted his cheek and glanced back at Sergei. "Mouse," she mouthed and Sergei stifled another laugh.

  "Join me," he called.

  "Go," Ksenia said. "I shower." She slipped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Tyler looked a little lost, standing in the middle of their kitchen, holding his empty cereal bowl and spoon.

  "On fridge," Sergei reminded him. Tyler jolted and nodded. He grabbed the box of Wheaties and milk, bringing both to the table.

  "I don't--" Tyler started.

  "Eat first," Sergei interrupted. "We talk after. Sleep well?"

  "Yeah." Cereal clattered into the bowl. "Thanks."

 ------------------------

Tansy Nussbaum stepped away from the crowd of reporters clumped around Jamie Benn. He had played an amazing game with one assists and two goals, one of which had been the game winner in the shoot-out. She'd had her Jamie Benn story mostly written before she'd reached the locker room and doubted that she was going to pull anything more interesting from him.

  She glanced around the room to see if there were any stories she had missed before starting to walk over to Kari Lehtonen to ask what he thought about the shoot-out. As she crossed the room, she overheard Sergei Gonchar remind Tyler Seguin about being his ride. This was nothing new. Gonchar had taken the wayward forward under his wing earlier in the season. She'd gotten a nice piece comparing Seguin to Evegeni Malkin and some of the other players Gonchar had mentored over the years. It was a nice narrative, even if it did mean Seguin spent less time partying and causing trouble.

  The mentorship was nothing new. The nickname, however, was.

  "Ready soon, Мышка?"

  Tansy stopped and turned her tape recorder to Seguin. "Мышка? Is that a new nickname?" 

  "Yeah? I guess. Only Gonch uses it though. And his wife." Seguin's grin was impeccable, but his eyes darted once over to Gonchar behind her.

  Tansy smiled, mentally thanking her former roommate for forcing her to practice Russian flashcards with her. "So, why does Gonchar call you 'little mouse'?" A cameraman had joined her by then and so was able to catch the quick widening of surprise in Seguin's eyes and the faint blush high on his cheeks.

  "Is that what it means?" he asked, not looking at her.

  "Yes," came Gonchar's clearly reluctant reply. Tansy shifted to see him. "Is Ksenia's fault. She say he look like mouse."

  "What?" Seguin's surprise drew over a couple other beat reporters. "I do not look like a mouse."

  "Who is saying you look like a mouse?" one of the other beats asked, while the other continued over the Lehtonen, dismissing the potential fluff piece with Seguin.

  Seguin lowered his face to his hands. Shawn Horcoff stepped between Seguin and the reporters, his hands held up placatingly. "Now, now, leave our mousey alone," he said.

  Seguin groaned.

  "Is that Seguin's new nickname in the lockeroom?" Tansy asked, even though she knew it wasn't.

  Horcoff glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Mouse?" he said. "Yeah. Of course. Cause he's all quiet as a mouse these days."

  Seguin kicked the back of Horcoff's calf and Horcoff laughed.

  Tansy smiled. "Thank you," she said. "I'll let ya'll get back to your packing up now." She hurried over to the goalie, her mind already outlining her new Seguin article.

 ------------------------

"Mouse?" Fred asked during their Skype session later that evening.

  "Don't you dare," Tyler warned. "This damn town." He lay back on the bed, pulling his laptop up onto the pillow beside him. "Marshall around?"

  Fred rolled his eyes. "You're just using me to see your dog."

  Tyler laughed. "Well, he is the better looking of you two."

  Fred flipped him off and snapped a couple times with his other hand. "Come on, Marshall, Daddy wants to see you."

[chiasticbees]

~*~Friendship~*~ (also, aww, Freddy. D:)

[jord38]

M'escalfo una mica que tinc fred #cats #catsofinstagram #pet #gata #gateta (at Sarrià-Sant Gervasi) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrLYqz8li7K/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1pmrgo6a02kvp

[giganticism]

[definestrange]

[sororityofbrothers]

#knowledgeispower

[rsadelle]

@tylerseguin92 @freddybender look at that god damn vneck. Not messing around pic.twitter.com/7CRpjtTQ

Are they on a date? Someone please tell me Segs took Fred out on a date.

[chiasticbees]

Argh, I have a lot of feelings about this. 

[chiasticbees]

be home soon family (x)

I think I somehow gave myself a Fred/Segs problem. Or rather I started to write a pretend-boyfriends-become-real-boyfriends story and then got distracted trying to learn how to make gifs and this happened.