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siribear · 3 years

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with the paint job finished and dried, all that’s left is to prepare for the trip. the sun creeps overhead as minutemen continue to bustle about the castle. her people strap the minigun she took from the museum of freedom to the back of her new power armor; others load in enough ammo to take down another deathclaw.

meanwhile, whisper and deacon sit underneath a canopy, double, triple checking their usual weapons of choice.

‘you’re sure this old thing will protect you out there?’ whisper rolls the fabric of the hazmat suit between her fingers. the material has thinned and worn over the past couple centuries, and even now her hands come away with dust.

‘no rips or tears,’ deacon says confidently. ‘des and carrington looked it over.’

this time, she switches to the helmet. the surface is scuffed and dirty, but intact. ‘the respirator? all the valves work? does it - ‘

‘yes.’ he sets aside his rifle and snatches the helmet from her hands. ‘it’s not as sturdy as your walking death machine over there, but it’ll do.’

whisper frowns. ‘i’m just trying to make sure you’ll be safe, deacon.’

‘then keep you and that minigun between me and any glowing sea creatures.’

another minuteman drops by with a bag of supplies: more stimpaks than she can count, a few bottles of rad-x, a handful of radaway. they’ve already packed away their rations and ammo. now they’re down to basic necessities and however many rolls of duct tape whisper can find. just in case.

the longer they sit, the more anxious she gets. every step brings her closer to shaun, but she has to take those steps. ‘i’m sure no one would notice if we just snuck out now.’

‘with the power armor?’

‘sure. i’ll distract them.’ he stands and points in a random direct. ‘everyone, look over there!’

they share a laugh when a few minutemen do stop and look, only to stare at them when nothing appears. though whisper has to wave them off in apology, she feels her nerves abate, if only a little.

an hour later, she’s back in her quarters, slipping into a spare suit of underarmor danse found for her. the muted black bodysuit offers little protection itself, but danse had said it would make walking around in the armor feel a little less awkward. pulling on the gloves, she finds they fit well enough just over her wedding ring. a break between the wrist guards and gloves gives her enough room to reattach her pipboy. the needle stings more than usual going under her skin, thanks to the mottled black and blue bruise around her wrist.

somewhere, back at home, is a picture of nate wearing a similar suit under a set of combat armor.

all dressed, she returns to the courtyard. there stands deacon, just outside and away from the crowd, ready in his bulky hazmat suit. ‘well,’ he says when he sees her, ‘you look good.’

she adjusts her collar. ‘not as good as you, partner. are we ready?’

deacon nods his head toward the others, gathered around her new navy blue power armor. ‘they’re ready for you. careful you don’t get caught up in a parade.’

preston, sturges, ronnie shaw, and alan, who runs radio freedom, do look like they’re gathered with purpose. organized. preston better not have made this into an old minuteman ceremony she doesn’t know about. when she approaches, she asks preston the same question.

‘would have killed them to give ya a new suit of armor, huh?’ sturges puts a hand on the arm of the suit. ‘but she shouldn’t give you any trouble out there. she’s even an even better model than the one you picked up at the museum, and that survived a deathclaw, too.’

‘she gets the sturges seal of approval?’ she says with a hint of a grin. ‘maybe the brotherhood doesn’t hate me so much.’

‘but don’t take any unnecessary risks,’ preston argues.

‘can’t have the minutemen fall apart again so soon,’ ronnie chimes in. ‘not when you’re doing some actual good, here.’

whisper shakes her head. ‘if anything happens to me, preston becomes - ’

‘nothing’s going to happen,’ her second-in-command interrupts, shaken. ‘you,’ he says to deacon, approaching, ‘you’ll keep her safe.’ his tone brooks no argument.

‘of course,’ deacon replies easily, too easily, in preston’s opinion, because he frowns.

‘well then!’ sturges claps his hands. ‘let’s get you in this thing, boss.’

at the press of a switch, the back of the armor opens. arm and leg plates unfold, and she steps into it, fitting herself once more into the frame. the thin material does help, as danse noted, and the metal joints barely dig in with the protective padding the underarmor provides. sturges hands her the helmet and, because she has to try it once, she tosses it in the air and flips it like she’s seen danse do before. she catches it and clicks it into place, hiding the giddy grin she’s now sporting.

the heads up display boots up immediately, picking up information from her pipboy and feeding it into the edges of her vision momentarily. she checks the fuel levels, and it’s at - ‘uh, sturges? this is reading me at half fuel right now.’

‘ah, right. we took your old fusion core from the other set of armor. figured it’d give you a little more oomf to get you out there.’

‘everything else good in there, partner?’

‘one thing,’ she says, almost to herself. there was one modification she specifically asked sturges to handle, other than the new paint job. she flips on her headlamp and aims at the ground.

‘little early for the floodlights, isn’t it?’ deacon asks, looking at her. but when she directs him to look down, at the picture that will be lost when the light is cast into the distance, he smiles. in the center of the light, in a shadowed grey, is the silhouette of the railroad lantern. she turns off the headlamp, pleased.

‘everything looks good in here, then. time to head out.’

their escort takes them to the edge of the castle’s new neighborhood. minutemen fall in line behind preston and the others walking behind her and deacon. it is a parade, in its own right, but the entourage breaks off before travis can start a rumor about the minutemen marching through the commonwealth.

and then it’s just her, deacon, and the sound of metal footsteps on broken pavement.

whisper leads the way west across south boston, sticking to the flat roads. anything to conserve fuel. december hits the commonwealth differently than she’s used to. by her birthday she’d normally be bundled thicker clothes. long sleeves, jackets. but now that it’s passed, she’s content in the underarmor, and deacon hardly looks cold in his suit.

beside her, he stretches his hands upward. ‘you’re carrying me there if i get tired, right?’

she holds her arms out in front of her. ‘feel free to hop on whenever, as long as you return the favor.’

‘sure thing, partner. as long as i get to take that armor for a test drive.’

‘what? no. after all i went through for this, you’re carrying me and the armor.’

he takes a deep breath. ‘did i ever tell you about the time i carried a whole suit of power armor on my back?’

deacon proceeds to tell her a story of how he once saved a brotherhood soldier in the capital wasteland. ‘couldn’t get that hatch to open,’ he says, pointing toward the back of her armor. ‘so i had to carry him all the way back to the doctor in rivet city. mind you, that took hours.’

she doesn’t try to keep her indulgent hum even remotely convinced. he continues anyway.

‘dropped him off at the entrance to the city, where he finally woke up. didn’t know where he was, just remembered almost getting gunned down by super mutants. so, i told him that i,’ and he flexes, ‘brought him all the way to the city.’

‘let me guess, the city threw you a party for being a hero?’

he shrugs. ‘nah. he accused me of being a synth and held me at gunpoint until the guards stepped in.’

‘i see. there’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there?’

his gaze catches somewhere to their left. the landscape is different. even from the road, she can see the metal fences and structures obviously erected long after the war. even the coast looks too close, with buildings half swallowed by the sea. massachusetts bay university. whisper remembers a few friends that went there. along with the poisoning incident that appeared in the news.

‘what’s over there?’ she asks when deacon steers them further away.

‘institute took over university point a few years ago,’ he says, gravely. ‘get too close, we might run into the stragglers.’

there’s something more to it, she figures. he’s too tense for fear. but she doesn’t fight him, instead finding a road outside jamaica plain to travel further west.

just outside milton general hospital, whisper picks up a faint distress signal. deacon stops his patrol of the area as she plays it through her speakers.

‘if anyone is out there, please... help.’ deacon sits next to her, face illuminated by her pipboy light. ‘what’s going on out there? i felt the ground shake, and nothing since. it’s been... four days, i think?’

‘this is... pre-war,’ she says. felt the ground shake. they’re still a few days away from the impact sight, but even from sanctuary hills, she remembers the sound of it. loud above even the grind of the elevator. a crack of thunder, then the shockwave coming over them like a wave only seconds later.

‘i’m so thirsty. please... somebody, hurry.’ the message ends with the woman crying, and the jarring monotone voice notifying them that the message will repeat. and it does. trapped in the jewelry safe - please help.

‘hey, shut it off.’ deacon reaches for the dial himself when she doesn’t move. ‘it’s been hundreds of years. you can’t do anything for her now.’

she snaps out of it. ‘i know. i know, but - ‘ four days. longer? no water, no one to save her. trapped in that small hole in the wall, like - like her neighbors in the vault. suffocating in their pods. and she just - slept. ‘i know.’ travis comes over the radio and flips to a new song. she lets it play through the night.

days later, they finally approach the edge of the glowing sea. blown apart trees and scattered car frames cover the area. the air grows thick with yellow-tinged fog. her geiger counter clicks slowly in her ears.

deacon snaps his helmet into place, the respirator hissing as it begins to recycle the irradiated air. ‘shit. never really thought i’d have to come out here.’

‘you can still turn back.’

he rolls his shoulders. ‘the walk back to hq would be boring without you. come on. sooner we get in, sooner we get out. maybe des will finally approve my vacation request after this one.’

stepping into the glowing sea is like diving head first underwater. whisper leads the way, branches crunching underfoot. with every step, the ground looks more cracked. ‘if not, you could always be a full-time minuteman.’ she pushes aside the shell of a car so they can pass. ‘i’ll approve your vacation myself.’

‘well, then.’ he gives her a salute. ‘yeehaw, sugar.’

through the fog, the entire landscape looks the same: stretches of fallen highway, buried underneath irradiated dirt; pools of orange water, feral ghouls wading through the sludge. one group notices them, and though whisper tears through them with the minigun, her geiger counter becomes a stream of noise instead of a steady click. deacon raises a hand in a thumbs up, unscathed.

they hardly speak, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. neither of them can tell what’s over the next hill, or the next. is that the sound of her steps or something else? did she breathe too loudly in her helmet? even though there’s nothing around them, whisper feels surrounded. even deacon is silent as he scouts ahead. quieter than her, he presses forward, keeping them away from roaming deathclaws.

though he can scout over hills, she has the advantage when the land becomes flat. a scanner built into her power armor picks out enemies in the distance, too far for him to see without a scope. when the yellow fog camouflages another pool of feral ghouls, she leads them out of the way.

as night descends upon the sea, it becomes almost untraversable. whisper keeps them at a slow pace with her night vision, but deacon is forced to stick close. a church steeple becomes her beacon in the night as she aims for a place for them to stay. though it’s half-buried, when she looks through the hole in the roof, she can see the sanctuary is still safe. mostly. she picks off the few feral ghouls she can see through the holes.

‘we can climb in through the steeple,’ she tells deacon, crouched at her hip. ‘clear out the last ghouls and we’ll be safe for the night.’

‘and how are you getting in there? you step out of that suit, you’ll die.’

he’s right. though the power armor has kept her safe from most of the radiation, her rads are still ticking upward every second. she won’t last an hour without it.

‘i jump through the roof, obviously.’ she turns on her headlamp, illuminating the broken roof for deacon to see. it’s definitely large enough for her to fit through, and with the armor she won’t even feel the impact. ‘the steeple is big enough for me to climb back out in the morning. it’ll be fine.’

they aren’t left with very many options. the area is dangerous enough during the day, but at night? and with deacon unable to see, they have to stay somewhere. there’s nowhere else nearby that she can see, either.

deacon laughs, shakily. ‘you first.’

they find a room underneath the stairs for shelter. a priest’s room, it looks like, with a now-broken desk and filing cabinets full of faded sheet music and sermons. a wooden cross still hangs stubbornly above the desk.

‘feel at home?’ whisper asks, taking up the space near the door. if anything gets curious about the gunshots, they’ll have to go through her solid power armor first.

‘ha-ha,’ he intones. ‘haven’t heard that one before. you’re as bad as glory.’

‘don’t compare me to her. you’ll hurt her feelings.’

deacon settles himself in a corner, helmet hitting the back wall with a dull thunk. whisper remains standing, fearing if she sits she’ll never get back up. ‘we’re in a church, sugar. i’m a deacon. anything you want to confess?’

‘bless me, father, for i have sinned,’ she begins, and deacon leans forward to listen. ‘i made fun of a brotherhood paladin, once, for sleeping in his power armor. and now i find myself in such a situation.’

‘i see.’ deacon sighs heavily, playing the part. ‘your penance will be to step in his shoes. rest in your armor for the night and pray we don’t have to do this again,’ he finishes, breaking character near the end. she laughs.

‘amen.’

her alarm wakes them just before dawn. deacon climbs the steeple first, stairs creaking beneath his feet. he calls to her when he’s outside, and then it’s her turn to mount the stairs. she climbs quickly, each one threatening to give with every step. but it’s only when she ducks under the steeple roof to jump to the ground that it gives. the tower leans, wood cracking beneath the power armor’s weight. she jumps, landing hard on her knees. the wood snaps, tower crashing to the ground.

‘uh,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘that’s not blasphemous, is it?’

deacon raises a hand, makes the sign of the cross. ‘you’re forgiven. but let’s get out of here before something comes and smites us.’

they head west, toward a building barely visible on the satellite view of her pipboy. given that they have little information to go on, checking any potentially sealed building sounds like their best bet. there’s nowhere for him to survive anywhere else out here.

keeping up their previous strategy, they make quick work across the sea. any heavy footfalls that don’t belong to her drive them slightly off course but they continue to follow her map west. they’re almost upon it when deacon holds out his hand to stop her.

‘do you hear that?’

whisper holds her breath. her scanner doesn’t pick anything up on the horizon, but she does hear... something. a slight rumble, then - rain. light patters turns to a downpour in moments. she relaxes, thinking it’s just the storm, until something shifts in her peripheral. she only has time to turn before a giant creature bursts out of the ground.

she sidesteps an oversized stinger before drawing her minigun. the thing steps back, large, black claws held high and threatening. it looks like a scorpion, but its size easily dwarfs a car. its body is covered in a hard, black carapace, broken up only by its exposed joints, glowing a faint green. the thing screeches, high and piercing, and whisper brings the minigun to life, firing directly into its face. green blood splatters across the ground, but it doesn’t stop the thing from charging.

deacon fires, hitting the stinger hard enough to send it plunging into the ground instead of her face. whisper continues to spray into its head, bullets flying wildly. the scorpion squeals again, and a roar answers to her right.

a deathclaw stares the trio down with pale red eyes.

‘the building!’ deacon yells, and she spins without a second thought. stinger still stuck fast in the ground, the scorpion doesn’t follow immediately, but the thundering footsteps that follow tells her they aren’t the only ones running.

she looks behind her to see the deathclaw tear into the scorpion. its massive jaw closes around the tail, snapping it off with ease. though it tries to fight back, the damage it sustained from the minigun keeps it from lasting very long. another roar, victorious, the albino deathclaw turns its attention toward the fleeing humans.

deacon turns the corner on the building’s second floor, easily accessed from a nearby hill and a hole in the wall. she hears two gunshots before she’s upon him, two feral ghouls dead on the ground. the footsteps grow closer. he runs toward an elevator at the end of the hall, and she pries open the doors to - an empty shaft.

rifle held ready, he turns back toward the hall and the albino deathclaw, slowly turning the corner. no need to chase prey it knows is cornered, apparently. but whisper has other thoughts. she grabs deacon without warning, scooping him into her arms, and jumps. they land on top of the elevator cart, the crash echoing through the shaft. above them, the deathclaw roars, thundering down the hall. it tries to fit through the elevator door. head first, then shoulders, then -

‘down!’ deacon yells, lifting the elevator hatch at her feet. this time he jumps and she follows, down into the basement. the deathclaw roars long and low, but never follows.

they head deeper into the building’s basement, clearing any feral ghouls in their way. ground zero, she thinks with each one they kill. each feral wears the tatters of office suits and dresses, likely still working before the bombs fell. too late, before anyone saw it coming.

she doesn’t know when, but her geiger counter stops clicking at the constant presence of radiation. she double checks it, just to make sure it’s working, but her screen still shows her status. and if those numbers are correct, then likely she and deacon need to stop regardless - their rads are at the edge of ‘healthy’ levels.

stepping out of her power armor in a back room, she breathes a sigh of relief. she unzips the top of her underarmor and peels herself out of the sleeves. the cooler air of the basement chills the sweat on her skin. after a moment, she returns to the main room they’ve made their shelter with a bundle of food and radaway. deacon sits, legs outstretched, in front of a fire he’s built out of old papers. whisper rests her legs atop his as she prepares to hook up their bags of radaway.

deacon flinches when she pulls away from inserting his IV. ‘what happened to you, hero?’ he reaches out toward her neck, fingers brushing against her throat, down her arm, to her wrist. she follows the trail he leaves, and sees what he means. illuminated by the firelight, her bruises stand in stark contrast to the orange glow against her skin. ‘maybe i should have gone with you, if this is what going with the brotherhood gets you.’

‘danse stopped it from being worse,’ she says, leaning back to set up her own radaway.

‘is this the lead up to, you should have seen the other guy?’

her stomach churns from the radaway. ‘considering the supermutants are dead now?’

‘i should have gone with you. the brotherhood - ‘

‘i know! look, i don’t like the brotherhood either, but danse and his team - ‘ well, haylen, if anyone. ‘ - they’re not bad people. if i hadn’t found preston first, i could have been in the brotherhood.’

‘you wouldn’t have lasted.’

‘how do you know?’

when he shifts, his knees brush against hers. she refuses to move. ‘i know what kind of person it takes to be in the brotherhood,’ he says as she stares him down.

‘deacon - ‘

he sighs, and turns the basement of the abandoned offices into his confessional. ‘you’ve put up with enough of my bullshit. if there’s one person i should come clean to, it’s my friend, right?’

whisper swallows, throat as dry as her bag of radaway. she removes her needle as he does the same. ‘i’m a liar. everyone knows it. i don’t try to hide it, because the truth is: i’m a fraud. to my core.

‘when i was young,’ he tilts his head. his eyebrows rise just above his sunglasses. ‘a hell of a long time ago, i was... scum.’ his voice cracks on the word, voice rough. she wants to tell him to stop. it’s okay if she doesn’t know if it hurts him too much, but she finds that she can’t.

she wants to know.

‘i was a bigot, like the ones in the brotherhood.’ he tosses his empty bag into the darkness. ‘a very violent bigot.’

‘like the brotherhood?’

‘worse. i ran with a gang in university point.’ he pauses, lets the pieces fall into place. that’s why he was looking at the old university. running away from his past, not the synths. ‘we called ourselves the UP deathclaws. for kicks, we’d terrorize anyone that we thought was a synth.

‘we kept egging each other on. started with some property damage. broken windows, broken fences. graduated to some beat downs in back alleys. then, inevitably,’ he swallows, ‘a lynching. the claw’s leader was convinced we’d finally found and killed a synth. looking back, i’m not so sure.’

she blinks. doesn’t say a word. nods when he continues to stare. she isn’t running away, not from him.

he hangs his head and continues. ‘i broke all contact with my brothers, after that. time passed, i became a farmer, if you can believe that.’ he laughs, smiles, wistful. then, ‘one day, i found someone.’ he removes his sunglasses and looks to the dark ceiling, blue eyes bright. watery. ‘she saw something in me i didn’t know - didn’t think - was there.’

‘what was she like?’ she asks, curling her legs against her chest, resting her head on her knees.

‘barbara,’ he sighs her name, ‘she was... she just was.’ he looks to her. ‘when she smiled, it was like those old magazine covers. her eyes - ‘ with a hand on his face, palm pressed against the bridge of his nose, he laughs softly. ‘ - we were trying for kids.’

she sits up straight, at that. a family. he wanted -

‘then one day, it turns out, my barbara? she was a synth. she didn’t know that. i certainly didn’t. i don’t know how the deathclaws found out, but... there was blood.

‘they killed her,’ she says, knowing. blood - nate’s vault jumpsuit turning red with it.

when he croaks out a, ‘yes,’ she slides in next to him. barely touching. ‘i don’t remember much clearly after that. i know i killed most of the claws.’ he laughs again, this one broken. ‘i must have made a big impression because the railroad contacted me. figured i’d be sympathetic, seeing that i lost my wife. and, well, what i did afterwards.’

‘you know i know what that’s like.’

‘yeah. you against kellogg? that was - i should have said something sooner. i’m sorry. i don’t even know why i lie anymore, but i can’t tell the truth. everyone - tom, des, you, even carrington - they deserve to be in the railroad.

‘i don’t. i’m everything wrong with this whole fucking commonwealth. but you’re the only friend i got. i don’t deserve you being okay with this, and i’m not asking for forgiveness. i just... figured you should know who you’ve been traveling with.’

‘i know who i’ve been traveling with,’ she says quickly. takes her own sunglasses off, just to prove it. ‘you’re deacon. the one friend i’ve got in this place. all that you’re doing with the railroad, everything you’ve been helping me with - you’re trying to make up for your past. that’s admirable. i’m on your side, you know?’

deacon shifts back against the wall. ‘well, i’m not really the hugging type so. good talk, partner.’

and yet, he doesn’t move away when she shifts that extra inch closer to lean her head against his shoulder. nor does he move to put his sunglasses back on. instead, he rests his head against hers. ‘john,’ he mumbles, eventually. ‘my name’s john. feel free to forget that in the morning.’

together, they watch the fire burn down to embers before bedding down, back to back in the shadowed corner of the basement.

#siri drabbles #oc: alice ward #series: we will all go together when we go #HUFFS i know i stole 99.9% of the game dialogue but i love the delivery of the lines #we love a sad deacon #and the knowing of names #when did i get over 100k words who am i

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scotianostra · 5 years

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On 24th November 1996 Somhairle MacGill-Eain that's Sorley MacLean in English, the noted Scottish poet, died.

Sorley MacLean was born at Osgaig on the island of Rasaay, on 26 October 1911. He was brought up within a family and community immersed in Gaelic language and culture, particularly song. Sorley studied English at Edinburgh University from 1929, taking a first class honours degree and there encountering and finding an affinity with the work of Hugh MacDiarmid, Ezra Pound, and other Modernist poets. Despite this influence, he eventually adopted Gaelic as the medium most appropriate for his poetry. However, it should be noted that MacLean translated much of his own work into English, opening it up to a wider public than the speakers of the Gaelic language.

During the Spanish Civil War, MacLean was torn between family commitments and his desire to fight on behalf of the International Brigades, illustrating his left-wing - even Marxist - political stance. He eventually resigned himself to remaining on Skye. He fought in North Africa during World War Two, before taking up a career in teaching, holding posts on Mull, in Edinburgh and finally as Head Teacher at Plockton High School.

It is often said that what Hugh MacDiarmid did for the Scots language, Sorley MacLean did for Gaelic, sparking a Gaelic renaissance in Scottish literature in line with the earlier 'Scottish Renaissance', as evinced in the work of George Campbell Hay, Derick Thomson and Iain Crichton Smith. He was instrumental in preserving and promoting the teaching of Gaelic in Scottish schools. Through the diverse subject matter of his poetry, he demonstrates the capacity of the Gaelic language to express themes from the personal to the political and philosophical.

MacLean's work was virtually unknown outside Gaelic-speaking circles until the 1970s, when Gordon Wright published Four Points of a Saltire - poems from George Campbell Hay, Stuart MacGregor, William Neill and Sorley MacLean. He also then appeared at the Cambridge Poetry Festival, establishing his fame in England, as well as Scotland and Ireland, where he had become something of a cult figure thanks to a fan base including fellow poet Seamus Heaney. A bilingual Selected Poems of 1977 secured a broader readership and a new generation began to appreciate his work.

Latterly, he wrote and published little, showing his concern with quality and authenticity over quantity. Never a full-time writer, he was also a scholar of the Highlands with a vast knowledge of genealogy, and an avid follower of shinty. Amongst other awards and honours, he received the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry in 1990. He passed on in 1996 at the age of 85, and was survived by his wife and two daughters.

I have posted many times about Sorley, and probably overused Martyn Bennet's Hallaig, so today I will post a short poem called Kinloch Ainort. Much of Maclean's poems lament the loss of Highland life and injustice, but in this poem, MacLean captures the imposing power of the Highland landscape. Despite the passing of time and human contamination, it not only endures but thrives. Kinloch (which essentially translates as head of the loch) Ainort is on the Isle of Skye. It lies to the south of the Isle of Rasaay, where MacLean was born and raised. Like much of MacLean’s work, the poem is rooted in place and packed with vivid descriptions of the dramatic surroundings of the Western Highlands. Kinloch Ainort is from an early period of MacLean's literary career, written between 1932 and 1940.

It is a poem, packed with nouns and adjectives. These come together to create a tapestry of landscape: there are moments when the surroundings are dramatic, points when they are dangerous and sections when they are beautiful. They are always, however, full of potential.

A company of mountains, an upthrust of mountains, a great garth of growing mountains, a concourse of summits, of knolls, of hills coming on with a fearsome roaring.A rising of glens, of gloomy corries, a lying down in the antlered bellowing; a stretching of green nooks, of brook mazes, prattling in the age-old midwinter.A cavalry of mountains, horse-riding summits, a streaming headlong haste of foam, a slipperiness of smooth flat rocks, small-bellied bare summits, flat-rock snoring of high mountains.A surge-belt of hill-tops, impetuous thigh of peaks, the murmuring bareness of marching turrets, green flanks of Mosgary, crumbling storm-flanks, barbarous pinnacles of high moorlands.

Sorley Maclean is buried in the cemetery in front of Àros, south of Portree on the Isle of Skye, Scotland.

I've posted a slightly different biography on my Facebook group, Scottish & Proud, but I keep politics off the group, so with this in mind listen and watch this great interpretation of this great Macleans poem in which he tells us “Our children are bred for emigration”

This is a fantastic recording backed by a haunting musical soundtrack. Great work. Did you hear what the great man said directly to you? He does not allow the Gaelic diaspora off the hook in terms of the root causes of the forced Gaelic march toward extinction.

Niteworks (also known by the Scottish Gaelic Obair Oidhche) is an Electronic Celtic fusion band from the Isle of Skye.

Ever since I was a boy in Raasay and became aware of the differences between the history I read in books and the oral accounts I heard around me, I have been very sceptical of what might be called received history the million people for instance who died in Ireland in the nineteenth century the million more who had to emigrate the thousands of families forced from their homes in the Highlands and Islands. Why was all that? Famine? Overpopulation? Improvement? The Industrial Revolution? Expansion overseas? You see not many of these people understood such words, they knew only Gaelic. But we know now another set of words: clearance, empire, profit, exploitation, and today we live with the bitter legacy of that kind of history. Our Gaelic language is threatened with extinction, our way of life besieged by the forces of international big business, our countries beggared by bad communication, our culture is vitiated by the sentimentality of those who have gone away. We have, I think, a deep sense of generation and community but this has in so many ways been broken. We have a history of resistance, but now mainly in the songs we sing. Our children are bred for emigration. Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration Emigration

#Scotland #scottish #Gael #Poet #literature #educator

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atsgreensproject · 8 months

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#ACE Medley Avenue #CRC Joyous Rera Number #Fusion The Brook Flats #Fusion The Rivulet Flats #Palm Olympia Phase 2 Flats

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elitephysiocare-blog · 4 years

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Physiotherapy Services Oakville

Back pain is a symptom caused (in most cases) by an injury in one or more parts of the spine. It can be located in the upper, middle, and/or lower back.

This article will talk about the most common: Lower back pain, also known as “lumbago”.

It affects nearly 60% to 80% of people throughout their lifetime. This means that 6 to 8 people out of 10 will experience low back pain. It’s the most common cause of disability in young adults: in the U.S. only, an estimated of 149 million work days are lost yearly due to low back pain, costing $100 to $200 billion a year. It’s a costly condition with repercussions in the patient’s life, the overall productivity, and the healthcare system.

It can be caused by numerous reasons, but the root cause is usually a bad posture. Other causes include accidents, sports injuries, and aging. Even though the low back pain can be disabling, it usually improves without surgery in 90% of the cases.

Anatomy Of The Back

To understand the causes of low back pain, let’s make a brief review of each part of the back:

Vertebral Column/Spine. It’s a column formed by approximately 33 bones called “vertebrae”. The spinal cord travels throughout the column. It’s divided into regions:

Cervical: This corresponds to the neck. It has 7 vertebrae.

Thoracic: Corresponds to the chest and the middle back. Has 12 vertebrae.

Lumbar: Corresponds to the lower back. Has 5 vertebrae.

Sacrum: It’s located in the pelvis. Has 5 fused vertebrae.

Coccyx: It’s at the end of the sacrum, where our tail used to be millions of years ago. Has 3-4 fused vertebrae.

Vertebrae. These are the building blocks of the column.They go from the base of the skull to the bottom end of the spine. They protect your spinal cord and help you stand straight. The lumbar vertebrae are the biggest ones. They support most of our weight and are responsible for most of our mobility.

Inter-vertebral disk. These are cushions placed between each vertebra. They have a gel-like nucleus, surrounded by a fibrous ring. They are shock absorbers and help with the mobility of the body.

Spinal cord. It’s a long, thin collection of neurons that goes from the brain to the end of the column. The nerves that go to the upper and lower limbs leave the spinal cord through a hole between each vertebra.

Nerves. They’re a collection of neurons that send and receive instructions from one place to another in the form of electrical impulses, acting like cables.

Muscles. These are the ones responsible for our movements. Each muscle is made of thousands of fibers that fusion themselves to form a cord called “tendon”. The tendon attaches to the bone. When the fibers contract, they pull the bone they are attached to, generating movement.

Ligaments. These are tough, fibrous bands attached to two consecutive bones. They restrict the movement, stabilizing the joints.

Symptoms

The related symptoms of low back pain will depend on the cause, and may include:

Sharp, stabbing, mild, dull, severe, intermittent, and/or constant pain.

Symptoms in one buttock/hip/leg, such as muscle weakness, tingling, numbness, burning sensation.

Worsening with bending, lifting, sitting, standing, and/or walking.

Sciatica symptoms: Pain from the low back down the glute and leg of one side, numbness, tingling, and/or muscle weakness.

Causes Of Back Pain

Back pain can be caused by numerous factors:

Poor Bio mechanics

Human bio mechanics can be defined as the way our joints, muscles, bones, and related structures work together to do what our bodies are supposed to do: Move. Good bio mechanics are translated into a healthy body. Movement allows the proper distribution of blood throughout the body, aiding the transport of the nutrients every cell needs to function.

Poor bio mechanics can occur for a number of reasons, and all of them can cause low back pain:

BAD POSTURE. In our present lifestyle, static postures are kept for long periods of time, i.e. working on a computer or standing all day. The body adapts to that posture overtime, perceiving it as “normal”. Finally, that can cause conditions or injuries like herniated disks or spinal stenosis, which will be described later.

SCOLIOSIS. It’s an abnormal curve of the vertebral column, causing deformity in severe cases. An individual can be born with scoliosis, or develop it through childhood or teenage years. Patients with arthritis can develop scoliosis as well.

OTHER CAUSES. Obesity and flat foot include changes in the biomechanical distribution of the body for long periods of time. Both are risk factors for low back pain.

Disk Injury

The intervertebral disk can get injured as well, causing low back pain and other related symptoms. The most common type of disk injury is the disk herniation:

It’s also known as “slipped” or "ruptured" disk. It happens when the gel-like center of the intervertebral disk pushes against the fibrous ring that surrounds it, squeezing its way through. In early phases of the herniation, the disk has a "bump" that could compress the spinal cord. As it advances, the nucleus can spill into the spinal canal, increasing the compression of the spinal cord and the nerves.

This is a common consequence of a bad posture. The bad posture compresses the intervertebral disk unevenly, e.g. does more pressure in the anterior part of the disk. This pushes the gel-like center backward, forcing its way through and creating the bump in the weakest area of the fibrous ring.

Other causes of disk herniation include:

Accidentally with lifting, pulling, bending, or twisting with heavy loads.

Wear and tear. As we age, the intervertebral disks gradually “dry”, losing their shock-absorbing properties and making them susceptible to injury.

The symptoms of a disk herniation may vary depending on many factors such as: exact place and size of the bump, area of the nerve injured, age... to name a few. They can range from mild to severe low back pain, and often include muscle weakness, tingling, numbness, and/or burning sensation in one leg, as well as gait impairment. Symptoms can last from weeks to even years.

Spinal Stenosis

A stenosis is an abnormal narrowing of a canal within the body. Therefore, a spinal stenosis is an abnormal narrowing of the spinal canal, where the spinal cord goes through.

A common cause of a spinal stenosis is the collapsing of intervertebral disks. This is common with age due to “wear and tear”. The disks lose their normal height and get closer to each other, narrowing the space of the spinal cord. This is also referred as “osteoarthritis”.

The body might respond to this by growing new bone on the edges of the vertebrae - called “spurs”- which worsen the stenosis condition and could compress more nerves.

Symptoms of spinal stenosis resemble the ones of a herniated disk: mild to severe low back pain, and include tingling, burning, weakness or numbness sensations in one limb.

Traumatic Event

Specific movements like bending, lifting, or twisting with heavy loads could cause low back pain. These are usually related to muscular spasms and should cease after 48-72 hours. The pain is commonly accompanied by stiffness and soreness.

Sports Injury

Direct contact sports like rugby or football may cause low back pain. Also, over-activity can cause muscle soreness in the low back muscles. Besides the low back pain, other symptoms include stiffness and soreness that goes away in 2-3 days.

Other Causes

A stressful environment, depression, anxiety, and smoking are risk factors for low back pain.

Red Flags

If you have the following medical history or if you are experiencing the following symptoms with your low back pain, please consult a healthcare professional:

Osteoporosis.

History of cancer.

Constant pain, that doesn’t decrease despite your position or activity level.

Fever, chills.

Unexpected/unintentional weight loss.

Numbness, tingling or weakness in the groin area, both arms or both legs.

Increase of pain with coughing or sneezing.

Burning sensation while urinating.

Problems with bowels/bladder control.

Pain that prevents from sleeping.

Unresponsive back pain therapies.

Treatment

Most of the cases of low back pain -and its emotional and economic consequences- can be prevented with physical activity and an active lifestyle.

For the ongoing cases of low back pain though, physical therapy and massage therapy are two of the best options for a non-invasive treatment to this disabling condition. Both help to reduce pain, improve mobility, and enhance the overall recovery in the short-term:

Physical therapy has shown to be very effective in patients with low back pain. Furthermore, physical therapy treatment in the first two weeks of experiencing lower back pain substantially reduces costs and healthcare resources over a 2-year period. This means quality-life improvement for the patient, reducing or even avoiding painkillers and going back on track faster. (7)

Regardless of how long you’ve been experiencing low back pain, physical therapy without pharmacologic treatment is recommended as the first option of treatment. (8)

Massage therapy has shown to provide significant benefits, including relaxation, pain reduction in the short-term, and increase of mobility. (9)

Pharmacologic therapy is recommended for patients without positive outcomes of these therapies. The last resort will always be surgery.

References

Elrich, G. Low back Pain. Bulletin of the World Health Organization. 2003;81:671-676. Available at:http://www.who.int/bulletin/volumes/81/9/Ehrlich.pdf

Duthey, B. Background Paper 6.24. Low Back Pain (2004). World Health Organization. Available at: http://www.who.int/medicines/areas/priority_medicines/BP6_24LBP.pdf

Hoy, D., March, L., Brooks, P., et al. The global burden of low back pain: estimates from the Global Burden of Disease 2010 study. Annals of the Rheumatic Diseases 2014;73:968-974. Available at: http://ard.bmj.com/content/73/6/968

Most Americans Live With Low Back Pain - and Don’t Seek Treatment. From the American Physical Therapy Association. Alexandria, VA. April, 4, 2012. Available at: http://www.apta.org/Media/Releases/Consumer/2012/4/4/

Low Back Pain. American Association Of Neurological Surgeons. Available at: http://www.aans.org/Patients/Neurosurgical-Conditions-and-Treatments/Low-Back-Pain

Low Back Pain. American Academy Of Orthopaedic Surgeons. Last reviewed: Dec, 2013. Available at: https://orthoinfo.aaos.org/en/diseases--conditions/low-back-pain/

Child, J., Fritz, J., Wu, S., Flynn, T., Wainner, R., Robertson, Eric., et al. Implications of early and guideline adherent physical therapy for low back pain on utilization and costs. BMC Health Services Research. 2015, 15:150. Available at: https://bmchealthservres.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12913-015-0830-3

Qaseem A, Wilt TJ, McLean RM, Forciea MA. Noninvasive Treatments for Acute, Subacute, and Chronic Low Back Pain: A Clinical Practice Guideline From the American College of Physicians. Annals of Internal Medicine. 2017;166:514–530. Available at: http://annals.org/aim/fullarticle/2603228/noninvasive-treatments-acute-subacute-chronic-low-

Visit our website www.elitephysiocare.ca

#are you suffering with low back pain? do you want to live with out back pain #visit out website #www.elitephysiocare.ca

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investorpart · 1 year

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worldbuildguild · 5 years

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how would you go about creating a schedule and sticking to it? ive been wanting to draw and post more but i have a hard time sticking to any schedule i create for myself. if you need specifics i rlly only have time to draw at the end of the day when schools over, and by then im very tired. are there anyways you all know of to combat this? i appreciate yalls advice a lot, it helps me a bunch! thank you in advance

Hello! Warning !!! Opinions Ahead!

Before I start, I’d love to hear other mods weigh in on this one because this is a situation a lot of us artists go through and there’s no One Size Fits All Solution; but I’m in a super similar position to yours and I want to share with you my experience and advice!

This may sound counter intuitive but,

Step 1: Don’t Make Yourself a Schedule! (yet)

When you build a schedule for yourself without the proper motivation and conditioning (see below) you might end up punishing yourself for lapses of proper time use, and find yourself in a perpetual cycle of missed opportunity.

Then you lay in bed, playing Stardew Valley for five hours after work/school, wondering why you can’t bring yourself to draw! The first step is to never be mad at yourself (or punish yourself) for failure.

Practice telling yourself, “It’s okay, I will succeed next time!” and this small [affirmation] will help prime your mind for accepting positivity into your life, which will be perfect for the soul searching journey we’re about to dive into!

Step 2: Introspection, the Art of Motivation

Motivation is what’s going to get your butt off of Stardew Valley and onto your drawing tablet. There are two types of Motivation: Extrinsic and Intrinsic. Extrinsic Motivation is when something pressures you to do something (in both a positive or negative sense). The threat of losing a house or apartment extrinsically motivates everyone to get to work in the morning, the same way the threat of disappointing a personal trainer extrinsically motivates people to train harder. Extrinsic motivation is proportional to the pressure being exerted, and so will always be limited by the individual situation. Intrinsic motivation is the much stronger force, an infinite well, and it’s all about your own positive state of mind.

I’m going to assume that because you asked this question, making art means a lot to you, and you really want to find a way to make more of it! So then, ask yourself why it is you want to make art;

It’s a hard question to ask yourself if you have never asked it before, and I bet a lot of artists have never stopped to think about it if they have enough extrinsic motivation, but there IS a reason inside of you for wanting to make art, and when you bring it to the forefront, or even create a brand new reason for yourself, you’ll be a little nuclear fusion reactor of self empowerment!

The trick is to identify Intrinsically Motivating reasons to make art and exclude extrinsically motivating reasons (i.e, “Getting lot of likes on Instagram) from your reasoning; but why is that?

Here is an excerpt from Daniel H. Pink’s “Drive” after giving children physical rewards (exerting extrinsic motivation) in return for them spending their free time drawing.

“Children in the “unexpected-award” and “no-award” groups drew just as much, and with the same relish, as they had before the experiment. But children in the first group – the ones who’d expected and then received an award – showed much less interest and spent much less time drawing. The alluring prizes had turned play into work.“ [Read the full Article Here]

People whose art is their career get free and powerful extrinsic motivation to draw, but you and I, when we get home, we don’t have the luxury of imminent financial Armageddon to get us on the tablet. When we give ourselves weaker extrinsic motivation, I bet we both fall flat on our faces pretty fast. Intrinsic motivation can be hard to find, but it doesn’t have to be much deeper than the desire to be good, or do good. The endless possibilities are exciting, but let’s run on for now!

Step 3: Creating a work Environment. (Triggering a Habit)

Okay, you’ve decided to save the world by producing explicit fanart of Barnaby Brooks Jr. Now what? Let’s start priming our mind to enable our new crusade. Cleaning your work environment is like cleaning your mind of distractions, and repeating certain small actions leading to an event/activity will naturally enable you to proceed into the harder tasks before you.

I use to clean my desk and make a cup of tea before sitting down to draw. Eventually I started letting the tea get cold besides my laptop, and now I don’t even bother to clean my desk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The routine can be anything, so long as it starts with an easy small action and leads to the computer. I totally forget who invented this piece of hard logic but if you just make it to drawing one line, then you will naturally just keep drawing, regardless.That is a powerful technique, you should just try it!

Step 4: OKAY, let’s make a schedule.

I’ve read a lot of self-help books, and they all tend to agree that while “motivation” starts an action,”discipline” is what keeps you going after the motivation wains. A schedule is a physical manifestation of our discipline, but it shouldn’t be very complicated. Now that you’ve attained enlightenment and your creative third eye has opened to satisfy the intrinsic motivation you gave yourself in step 2, it probably means completing a piece of artwork….

The unfortunate reality is that, when there’s something you want to do more of, you have to think about it in terms of what you’re happy doing less of. It’s hard to cut out the things that give little kicks of satisfaction, like watching robots reading popular subreddits on YouTube, but that’s where it’s up to you to identify what is worth having in your life and what just isn’t. That doesn’t mean giving up something completely, it just means recognizing what it is you really want and having the bravery to banish what isn’t making you happy (or productive).

You will be surprised, when you notice how much of the day is spent doing things you really don’t care about, and how hard it is to stop doing it! I’ve considered those apps that lock your wifi at certain times of the day, but eventually I did find [This App] which has made my art life 5000% more productive, considering I have sometimes only 2 hours of free time after work before I have to hit the hay. My schedule is, “Hey, if you find yourself doing [what you don’t want to do], you should just [do the easy little meaningless parts of your routine] until you get [the strength to do what you wanted to do].”

((My method is turning out to be too productive, I have neglected some basic human needs today in favor of drawing on my computer xWx’’’’ ))

I believe in you, please believe in yourself !!!

-Mod Koikro55

#mod koikro #ask #theredlinestation

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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Sensory Overload (Branjie) - SnowBun

A/N: Well… this took about a week to write, and a lot of feigning ignorance about finals. But, WHO CARES? This was so draining to write, but it was tons of fun to do. Hope you guys enjoy! xoxo

His eyes glaze over as he drinks in the faded orange of the Los Angeles skyline. He feels the warm summer air against the bare skin of his arms, and even if he never really left, everything somehow looks different. It looks so much bigger, so much more free than he remembers.

He doesn’t remember much from the first two days home from the show. All he can recall is that he’d curled up and cried about not making it to the finale the first night, and that he’d slept the whole day for the second.

By the third, he’s awake enough to realize that the exhaustion has seeped into his muscles. He can still feel his back aching from every comment Michelle threw at her, every attempt to do better only to fall flat on her face weighing it down for weeks.

For now, no one knows, and she returns to being the gay community’s favorite meme.

He doubts he’ll be able to shake off the memories clinging to his clothes like the smoke of menthol cigarettes, however long it’s been since filming ended.

Menthol cigarettes.

He remembers the way her lips, painted a bright shade of pink like the filling of Pop Tarts that she used to eat as a kid, wrap around the end of what she’d once jokingly called ‘a white death stick.’ Brooke had laughed and confided that she’d tried to quit many times before.

In the heat of the competition, he knew better than to push the topic.

Looking across the horizon again, he remembers how the same orange hue would paint the gravel of parking lots on smoke breaks. It brings him back to toned arms snaking their way around her corset-trained waist.

“Fuck it.”

He’s reckless, and he knows it. He knows that he’s getting into a sports car, and slamming his foot on the damned pedal like he’s inviting the fucking car crash to come at him. He misses him enough to not really care.

He types out the message on his phone, tentative fingers making up empty words that he fills with all the hope he has. Sure, they’d agreed to give whatever was going on between them a shot, but outside the four pink walls of the werkroom, it all seems like a fever dream.

Without even going over the message, he presses send and immediately texts Silky to invite her out for a drink or ten before rushing right out the door.

When he returns home to Nashville, the first thing he does is cuddle Henry and Riley. He showers their tiny furry faces with kisses, and completely forgets his suitcases by the door. His heart swells at their affectionate meows before they rest lazily at his feet.

He doesn’t even bother to change out of his sweatshirt and shorts when he sprawls his long limbs out on the couch, his feet hanging off one of the armrests. He relaxes for once after numerous sleepless nights spent practicing a magic show or finishing dresses made of denim and dried oranges.

He blinks and all of a sudden, the light streaming in through the window is gone. As Henry curls up on his chest, he realizes that he’d drifted off to a deep, comfortable sleep. He scratches at the dark grey fur, and reaches for his phone on the coffee table.

A quick sense of dread flashes over him before he opens it. He expects a hundred different emails about future gigs, but he knows that any mention of work will only remind him even more about how tired he is.

What he doesn’t expect to see is Vanessa’s name at the top of all the notifications.

The smell of strong, musky cologne and artificial vanilla from liquid lipsticks cloud his senses. His brain is suddenly addled by the fusion of reality with the almost fantastical world that he’d just left behind.

He opens the chat, and quickly glances at their brief exchange from ages ago. He’d messaged her after she’d been eliminated on season 10, and he almost feels a sense of pride at knowing he was right in saying that she would move on to bigger things.

V: Hey, you back yet lol

He smiles to himself, in spite of how dazed he is.

B: Yeah, why?

It only takes a moment before three gray dots start flashing. He can’t say he’s not amazed that he wants to talk to him, not after how the show had ended. They’d said it wasn’t personal, but he still feels bad about pulling her away from her dream.

V: Nothing, just checking on you lol

It doesn’t take long before his phone starts to ring with Vanessa Vanjie Mateo’s name drawn out in big white letters right on the screen.

“Hey.”

He knows it’s ridiculous for him to miss his voice, he really does. What had happened between them was supposed to be light and easy; but when he feels the pang in his chest when he picks up the phone, he knows he wants more.

“Hey yourself.”

“How you been?”

“I just got back earlier. You?”

“Bitch, I’m tired as shit.”

Tired tastes like cocktail kisses in Untucked. Tired sounds like the rumbling of the van engine after a long day of filming. Tired looks like gold glitter shimmering on tan skin. Tired feels like a warm embrace when everything feels like too much. Tired smells like coconut shampoo.

He knows that he’s not tired because he wants to be.

“I miss you.”

The words are a shot in the dark, and all he can hear is the quiet chatter of the TV on the other end. He wonders what he looks like, what he’s wearing, what he’s doing. He doesn’t have to wonder how he’s feeling. His heart’s always on display.

“I miss you too.”

There’s a silence that washes over them, but neither of them hangs up. He knows his phone bill is probably going to be fucked if this keeps happening, but he doesn’t care. He thinks that he hears Julia Roberts’ voice come from the TV, and he can’t help himself from smiling.

“I’ll be in Chicago a couple of days,” He feels for the words in his mouth, trying his best not to think too much. “Want to meet me?”

“As long as you’re paying the hotel, bitch.”

The next two months pass by in a hazy, busy bliss. Chicago, Los Angeles, Nashville and just about every city where they hole up in hotel rooms all day turn into pictures that they post on Instagram because right now, they have the luxury of not giving a fuck.

Jose waved off any bad flood from their lipsync and Vanjie’s subsequent elimination. He could practically hear the thoughts running through Brock’s head, and quickly kissed them away, stating that “it was just drag.”

It still doesn’t stop Brock from holding him closer and pressing featherlight kisses to his temple on nights when he fears the statement’s half-hearted.

The reality that they’ve built for themselves is safe. He’s so utterly content that he thinks his heart might explode in his chest, and bitch, Allie and Noah better watch out.

He nuzzles his face into Brock’s neck as he basks in the afterglow. His hand splays out on the planes of his toned stomach, fingertips lightly tickling the skin there, and he hears a contented sigh.

“Boo.”

“Mmm.”

He nips at his skin, fully intending to leave a mark. Anything that would scream that in some far-flung country, state or city, there was a man that wanted to see flowers bloom on skin because he wanted him, craved him, longed for him.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

His body shakes in his arms as he chuckles. He takes a deep breath, and he knows that he’s never going to forget this. The zing of deodorant. The sex in the air. The smell that is just so completely Brock that he wants it to fill his lungs and destroy them the way he knew cigarettes destroyed his.

Brock slaps his ass, and he groans at the loss of contact when he rolls out of bed. “I’m going to get a snack, you want anything?”

He props himself up on his elbow, and raises his eyebrows at her. “You got the munchies?”

There’s a wordless shrug, and he leaves the room. He lays in silence for a moment, cocooning himself in the sheets the way he imagines Asia’s cursed little butterflies did. It’s warm and perfect and just oh so safe.

When Brock returns with leftover chicken and two sets of utensils, even though he’d never answered him when he asked if he wanted anything, he feels it like a punch to the gut that knocks the wind straight out of him.

He’s truly, totally, utterly fucked.

Neither of them is quite sure how they did it, but they’d successfully spent the whole month apart. Brock feels like he’s 16, pining over a boy and letting his heart leap out of his chest at the sound of Jose’s voice on every Facetime call.

They go to a bar to meet Detox the night he arrives in LA. Her eyes dart from queen to queen when Jose presses a kiss to his lips before excusing himself to go to the restroom. The look on her face is so quizzical that he has to laugh.

“Sooo,” Detox draws out the word, swirling the bright pink straw in her drink. “You won more than just challenges I guess.”

He laughs, and blushes as he’s teased until Jose returns to practically sit on his lap for the rest of the night.

By midnight, the two of them are standing at the curb outside. He feels a forehead press against his back with arms wrapped around his waist as he tries to book an Uber. He brings a knuckle up to his lips, and feels the hold on him tighten.

“It’s almost here, boo.”

There’s a sigh when he pulls away from him, and a silver car pulls up in front of them shortly. They climb into the back, and he shoots a glare at Jose when he cackles at how his legs fold in the small backseat.

The ride is initially silent, apart from the Christian music playing on the radio. There’s a hand spread out on his thigh, and he turns to him with raised eyebrows. He’s still looking out the window, but the teasing smile on his face gives him away.

The driver starts to hum along to the music, and the hand drifts to the front of his pants, right out of the driver’s purview. He lets out an almost inhuman squeak, and fuck, his brain has stopped working.

The palm starts to work gently, applying extra pressure, and he has to bite back a moan. The world has started to turn dark with lust, and he knows that the ten-minute ride to the apartment is going to feel like hours.

They pass a gay club that he knows Vanjie frequently performs at, and hears the driver grumble about queens being too loud, but his brain is too far gone to really process the words properly.

“I’m never quiet, am I?” There’s a low whisper against the curve of his ear, and he feels a shiver run through his body. He plays back the sound of his scream as he pushes him off the precipice of ecstasy, and he almost faints.

The driver turns the corner on to the street of the apartment, and the palm works harder. He tries to focus on the song playing, something about a king, as they get closer. The hand stills on his half-hard dick, and he sighs in relief as the car stops.

He doesn’t remember rushing up to the apartment, but he knows he gets there in record time. He backs him up against the door, and kisses him like it’s too much. He is too much, and he wants all of it.

When his jacket falls to the ground, he feels his skin burn as hands claw at him. He whispers his name against his lips, over and over again, trying to say all the words he knows he cannot say because his brain is a clusterfuck.

He holds his breath as the other man falls to his knees, fully intending to worship everything that he is. There’s only one thought that he can muster before everything gets reduced into sound and feeling.

He’s completely fucked.

“This is my boyfriend, Jose.”

It feels good.

No, it feels right.

The smile on Brock’s face is so full of pride. It is the universe deciding to invent itself at some point, or no point, in time. It is everything that is real, but should not be because nothing should be so perfect.

He repeats the words to his mother, his sister, his drag mother, everyone he cares about. This is the birthday gift he never knew he wanted, all tied up with string. He thinks it’s almost as good as winning the crown.

Almost.

“Shit, I think your mom tried to kill me.”

He feels like he’s eaten his body weight in food when he crashes onto the couch, and hears Brock laugh as he pours out two glasses of wine for them in the kitchen. With each little movement, he whines at the slight discomfort.

“That just means she likes you.” He looks to the kitchen, and sees Brock’s head buried in the fridge, trying to find the Chalet sauce that he’d purposely saved from lunch earlier in the day.

“Bitch, how can you still eat?”

“It’s Swiss Chalet.” He answers matter-of-factly, and drinks the sauce.

He watches him saunter over to the couch, and set the wine in front of them. He turns the TV on, returning to the part of The Notebook where they’d stopped earlier in the day because he’d complained that “tear markings ain’t a good look when meeting someone’s mom.”

They end up cuddling on the couch as they watch the movie, his legs thrown over Brock’s lap and their fingers intertwined. The credits start to play, but they don’t move. No, it’s too peaceful for either of them to try.

“I love you.”

The words are muffled into his hair, but he’s never heard anything so clearly in his life. In hindsight, it doesn’t really change anything. He knows that the words started to blossom like wildflowers without either of them being aware of it.

But he sees the bright colors of the petals in Brock’s hands, holding them so gently as to not crush them. He hands him the words, and he can feel how delicate they are, how easy it is to let them fly in the cold air of Toronto.

“I love you too.”

He hears the chime signaling midnight come from Brock’s phone, and feels a kiss at the top of his head.

“Happy birthday, boo.”

J: Help me pick a bed frame

J: sent 2 photos

B: The first one

B: Want me to head over to LA next weekend

J: I have a show in NYC, sorry

B: That’s okay, love u

J: Love u 2

B: Mom says she misses you!!!

J: Awe she’s sweet, tell her I miss her 2!

J: Want me to come over for NYE

B: Hosting a party, sorry

J: Alright

B: Love u

J: Love u 2

“I think we need to take a break.”

The words are a joke, and he knows it. It’s easy to break glass bottles and KitKats and highlighters that cost a hundred dollars, but breaking what they have? He thinks it may need years and years to tear it all down. Words don’t seem to suffice.

There’s a quiver to the bottom of his boyfriend’s lip, and he instantly regrets what he’s done, even though he’s convinced himself a million times that this is what would be best for them. For him.

He’s not sure he’ll be able to survive it.

The expression on his face cycles between a handful of emotions. Anger, sorrow, confusion, and a mix of all three in different parts. His heart is still out on his sleeve, and he’s slicing it open and pouring salt on the wound.

“Why?”

The answer to his question is gone. He doesn’t know why. He only knows that before that moment, there was a reason so important that he took a flight just to say it. He deserves better than a sorry excuse on a Facetime call.

His voice is stuck in his throat, and he can barely breathe, and the words are all tangled up in his brain like the yarn he tossed at his cats before he left for LA, and—Jesus, he didn’t think it would hurt this bad.

“I’m just not sure I can handle this right now.”

His answer is honest, but not completely. He doesn’t tell him that he can’t handle his own thoughts. He doesn’t tell him he can’t handle one night when he wants so much more. He doesn’t tell him he can’t handle feeling something so strongly that it threatens to destroy him.

The humorless laugh that comes from his mouth is cruel, and he knows he deserves it. He deserves the pain that comes with giving up. He deserves to watch the flowers they’ve planted wither away in the cold of winter.

He wants him to say something, anything else that will hurt. Anything that will convince him that this isn’t a mistake; but he knows that he won’t. He knows that he’s too good for him, too amazingly kind for him, and he will never kill that longing for him because it’s what he deserves.

“Alright bitch,” The tone of his voice has no malice, and his heart breaks in half. “If that’s what you want.”

He nods, even if it isn’t.

The second night of promo week is full of screaming and laughter. Some of the girls like Nina and Soju have changed out of drag, but she can’t be bothered. She’s spent too much money on her outfit that she ignores the discomfort of the pink feathers tickling at her neck.

“Yeeess!”

The girls are yelling as Silky and her take shots of tequila. She feels it burn as it travels down her throat, into her stomach, and settling in the open wounds she hasn’t quite allowed to heal yet.

Everyone starts to diffuse about the hotel bar into their own little groups, but she doesn’t move. She wants to convince herself that she doesn’t want to go around because of the fact that her heels are squishing her toes together, but she’s never been very good at acting.

The world hasn’t ended. Not really. The earth has continued turning on its axis, and rotating about the sun. It doesn’t give a fuck about the broken heart in her chest that can’t quite understand how to heal.

New York is the epitome of it all. It feels like a large, open space that has a place for just about everyone; but she doesn’t feel like she belongs anywhere. At least not tonight.

“Hey.”

There’s a smile on Brooke’s face as if there’s nothing wrong, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She looks absolutely gorgeous, and she wants to fucking yell at her for it. Or maybe she just wants to fuck her. Either works, really.

“Hey yourself.”

Brooke orders them two more shots of tequila, and she cocks an eyebrow at her.

“You trying to get me drunk, Miss Brooke Lynn?” She throws the hair of her pink wig over one shoulder. This isn’t what she was expecting. She thought they’d spend the next week only talking for interviews, and ignoring each other beyond that.

But she doesn’t complain.

“I,” Brooke raises her glass, and she sees the color of diluted amber swish in it. “Just wanna hang out with a friend.”

The word friend burns more than the tequila does, but hell, if it isn’t the best that she’s felt in two weeks.

“So, you been getting your bookings?” She tries her best to make small-talk, even if she’s always been way too loud for that kind of thing.

“Yeah,” She leans against the bar, and she notices that she looks drained. No amount of makeup can hide the lack of a smile that she’s become accustomed to. “I’ve been here and there lately. I just wanna go home to the cats, though.”

“Oooh, bitch,” She throws her hands up. “You really love them pussies, don’t you?”

Brooke’s laugh is priceless, and when she hears it, she feels like they might be alright. This isn’t what she’d expected or wanted, but it’s a start. The realization is enough, for now.

They’re okay.

“Hey, where you at?”

The volume on his phone is low, but it sounds like she’s on speaker. Even over the thumping bass of the club, Vanjie’s voice rings true and—well, the word isn’t clear exactly. It’s just loud.

“We’re outside already, hold on.”

“Y’all better hurry over here, or I’m whoppin’ your asses!”

She hangs up on him, and he turns to Nina, as if to ask if he looks alright. She gives him a thumbs up, and he feels a flash of gratitude. Of all the queens he wants to be with him tonight, it’s Nina.

They’ve been texting and Facetiming for the past month. On his birthday, he’d called him after three shots, saying happy birthday in the back of a bar somewhere across the country. His voice was soft and sweet, and he made his birthday wish to have him in his arms the next morning.

As they make a beeline for the back, he can’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart in his ears. Everything fades away when the door opens, and he sees her standing in her glittering upside-down jersey and short pink wig.

He thinks she’s never looked better.

“Heeey!”

When her arms wrap around his neck, he thinks he might burst into tears. She’s so close, and he feels how warm she is, smells her signature cologne, hears her whisper that she’s happy to see him. It’s sensory overload.

Too quickly, she lets go and moves on to Nina. She begins to copy Vanjie’s voice, and the room fills with laughter. His sides start to hurt, and it feels so damn good to laugh like this again.

Vanjie’s in the middle of telling her manager something when Nina starts a conversation with him without words. She widens her eyes at him, and he lets out a shaky breath. It takes a moment, but he relents with a nod.

“Hey Vanjie,” She whips her head to look at him, expression so soft and kind that he almost loses the courage to speak. “Can we talk? Like alone?”

“Uhm,” She looks around the room, and apologetically throws a look at her manager. “Can we get a minute?

Nina ushers Vanjie’s manager and the bar’s owner outside, and before she leaves, she flashes him a smile for luck. The door clicks shut, and the room is filled with the vibration of the music and the air conditioner, but in the silence, he isn’t sure what to say.

She’s standing at least eight feet away, but he feels like it’s farther than LA to Nashville. He wants to pull her close, wants her to understand. He has to breathe deeply to keep himself from passing out.

“So,” She clicks her tongue as she runs a hand through her wig. “What did you wanna talk about?”

“I’m sorry.”

The words tumble straight out of his mouth. The look on her face is puzzled, so he musters up the courage to continue what he’s started, even if it means tearing down the walls that keep him safe.

“I don’t want to be away from you.” He says, tears threatening to spill out his eyes. “I was so scared of wanting something so bad that I started to overthink, and I just want you to know that I love you and—”

She pulls him down to cut off his rambling. He thinks she tastes like alcohol, vodka perhaps, and it’s all so fitting because he’s drunk on her again. She tangles her way into every fiber of his being, and the world turns into shades of wine-red and pink.

He doesn’t believe that the universe falls into a place when he kisses Jose, but the feeling of his lips shows him what it feels like. It isn’t quite the stars aligning, but it’s good enough for him.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispers the words against her lips, and she shushes him. He knows that there’s probably lipstick on his face, but he doesn’t care. He kisses her again, softer this time, savoring the way she feels.

“Hey, baby?”

“Yeah?”

“They got a camera up in here.”

He looks up to the corner of the room, and proudly kisses his boyfriend with fervor.

“Let them see.”

J: Reunion airing this week

B: They’re finally gonna know

J: How much I love that fine ass of yours

B: Haha

B: Okay, I’m about to board

J: C u in two hours

J: Love u

B: Love u 2

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #angst #fluff #snowbun #s11 #canon compliant #on set fic

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