#LOST MY SHIT. TRULY. THE GLASSES LOOK SO YUM ON HIM

[internallysalad]

damon salvatore and clark kent !!!!! IN ONE FRAME IN ONE SHOW !!!! i knew Ian was gonna appear after Paul did because of some spoilers but the way he's acting: the smirks the smiles the looks in his eyes !!! THAT'S MY DAMON AND HE'S WELL AND ALIVE THROUGH THE INTERACTIONS WITH LANA

[ihearthes]

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x Unnamed OFC Rating: Light Smut Word Count: 3500 Inspired by: @wanderlustwaving and “The Lady or the Tiger” by Frank Stockton

His eyes dart around the bar, seeking her. She has to be here. It’s tradition. Their tradition. January 1st. Every year. Sunset. Anguilla. The Four Seasons. 

Harry had booked this table nearest the bay a full year ago, confirming it in mid-June and again in early December. Sitting silently, his eyes shaded behind his sunnies, he watches the giant ball of fire as it descends into the water. Less of a sizzle than one would expect. Each sip of his Casamigos Blanco over ice is perfect. The sky lights up with oranges, reds, and yellows that are reflected on the clouds, resembling the Monet painting San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk which he had viewed in Cardiff. A second version hangs in Tokyo at Bridgestone Museum, and he had been lucky enough to see it once. 

The longer he watches its descent, the more he realises that this sunset is different from the paintings he’d seen. His fingers itch for watercolours or acrylics even though he knows his amateurish strokes would never capture the beauty. Last year, the sunset had been underwhelming, the clouds obscuring rather than reflecting the colours. Their first year, he had been unable to believe what he was seeing. It had been stunning with the reach of the palette across the sky, like tendrils of smoke straining to hug the entire planet. Now he captures his journal from the extra chair, opening it’s leather binding to a blank page. Flipping back to the beginning of his journal, he finds a sketch of her leaning on the railing -- drawn from memory years after their first meeting. His mind casts backwards to the non-date that had launched this annual trip. 

“Wow.” The voice belongs to a woman who steps to the railing next to him, leaning forward and twisting her head to take in the full sunset. Glancing at her, he does a double take as he recognizes her. Holy shit. She’s even more stunning in person. 

“Oh, I’d give it a solid 8.5,” Harry’s calm voice is the opposite of his turbulent emotional state. 

“Seriously? It’s much closer to a 9.2.”

“You’ve lost your mind. It’s worthwhile, but not a 9.2,” he scoffs, shifting his body slightly closer to hers. He turns toward her, planting a single forearm on the railing as he observes her in her floral sarong that matches her bikini top. Her hair is bundled lazily on top of her head, and her tanned feet are encased in strappy sandals. Surreptitiously, he takes in her curves while she’s examining the sunset. 

Twisting her head quickly, she catches his eyes on her ass. Rather than blushing, he smiles at her instead, well aware that the dimple is doing it’s job appropriately. The live steel drum band starts a new song, and she boldly turns to him, holding out her hand. “Dance?”

He doesn’t respond verbally. Grasping her fingers, Harry wraps one arm around her waist, stepping into her and leading them in time with the music. When he twirls her rather expertly, she laughs, planting a hand on his chest and gazing up at him with what appears to be a phony bashfulness. 

“I didn’t know you could dance,” she laughs. 

“Clearly you’ve never seen me live on stage,” Harry smirks. 

She clucks her tongue, “Oh, but I have. I said what I said, Styles.”

Looking away from her, he can’t help the smile that breaks loose. Damn, she’s got moxie. And it’s intriguing and beguiling. 

“You’re here alone?” he wonders, his eyes roaming the outdoor space. It’s filled with strangers -- to him anyway. 

“Tonight only. Yes.” She twirls him, and he grins at the move. 

“Me too.” The soft words are spoken into her ear as he’s drawn her closer. “I like to spend the first night of the year reflecting on the previous year.”

“Isn’t that what New Year’s Eve is for?” she wonders, her voice breathy. 

“Nah. That’s for drinking and celebrating with friends. Today is for reflection -- looking backwards and forwards simultaneously.”

“Planning to conquer the world this year, Mr. Styles?” 

“Indeed.” Arching an eyebrow, he mimics a cartoon villain, drawing his pinky to his mouth. 

She slaps at his chest, and he desperately wants to kiss her in that moment. After all, they are flirting, aren’t they? 

“Are you going to offer me dinner?” she asks boldly. “And take me to your room afterwards?”

Woah. Definitely gutsy. “Depends,” he whispers as he spins them both around once more while the band winds down. 

“On what?” 

“On what kind of sushi you prefer.”

“Ah!” There’s a gleam in her eye that he can’t resist. She’s playful and not shy about being the seductress. Harry finds the combination heady. Waving her hand in dismissal as she turns towards his table, “I usually try whatever the newest offering is -- especially if it’s fresh from those waters.” Fingers waggle in the direction of the bay, and he wants to grasp them out of the air and wrap them protectively in his own hand. 

Instead, he applauds the band before following behind her. At the table, she drags her chair from the opposite side of the small round table until she’s sat beside him. With his questioning glance, she again gestures towards the bay. “I’m not going to miss that sunset just so I can stare at your pretty face.” 

Rather than sketching the sunset, he attempts to paint the current sight with words. Everything he writes seems trite: clementines, flames, majestic, radiant, blush, hearth.

Where is she? Yes, it had been a year since they had spoken, but surely she would have sent a message if she weren’t planning to join him? Why hadn’t they exchanged numbers? Followed each other on Instagram? 

But he knows why. The mystery. The transcendental experience. The enchantment of meeting once a year, incognito, in this particular and magnificent place. No knowledge of each other outside of this 24 hours that belongs to them alone. 

Which is ridiculous. Because he certainly knows who she is and follows her career. And he would be astonished if she didn’t also pay attention to his. A few times this last year they had coincidentally been in the same city simultaneously, and he had seriously debated trying to locate her. Contact her manager maybe. Or put out feelers that would certainly have stretched to her ears like an old-fashioned game of Chinese Whispers (which of course isn’t what he should call the game now; it’s racist). The message, though, would have been garbled but sufficient for them to meet up. 

Every time, he refrained. Their unspoken commitment was to this place and this one day a year. Now he regrets not making contact. Had she decided that one day a year wasn’t worth the effort? Was she even now canoodling with someone else? There hadn’t been rumours of any recent love affairs on her end, and he snatches his phone anxiously to search her name just in case she connected with someone during the last week.

Picking up his now-empty glass of tequila as he scrolls through his phone, Harry draws an ice cube into his mouth, swirling it on his tongue to relish every tiny bit of the liquor there. The burn has vanished as it’s taken him nearly an hour to drink one tequila. No record of any new beaus. Maybe he should follow her now on social media? DM her? What would he do if she didn’t show? How much longer should he wait? 

“Oh yum! This roll is even better than last year’s.” She proclaims as she rushes to grasp the last bite of the Ceviche Roll. 

“Hey! That was mine!” Harry protests, laughing as she stuffs the full piece in her mouth. 

“Order more,” she mumbles around the rice, fish, and seaweed flavored with citrus and cilantro. 

“Nah, I’ve got a different appetite now,” he murmurs, watching her lips as she chews the sushi. 

Freezing, her eyes rush to his, and she slowly finishes the sushi she’s been eating, swallowing slowly. He wishes that she would move her chair to his side of the table like she had the previous year. This time, they’re seated on opposite sides of the table, but at an angle where both can watch the setting sun. 

“What?” Her look has made him nervous. “You’re not going to tell me you’re seeing someone, are you?” 

Her hair twirls as she shakes her head. “No. Broke up with him last week in anticipation of this.”

Having sipped his tequila, Harry chokes at her words. Coughing, he grasps the table with both hands. Holy fuck. She didn’t really expect him to --

“Kidding!” Her giggle lights up her eyes, bringing a light blush to her face. She’s truly stunning. Maybe even more than last year. 

When her foot, sans sandal, caresses his calf under the table, he knows that the night is going to be filled with sex. Fun, hot, brilliant sex that will last most of the night. Hmm...perhaps it would be best to fortify himself for their escapades. Raising his hand, he flags down the server. 

“Sir?”

“Another Ceviche Roll, por favor. Plus a bottle of Casamigos.” He pauses as her foot makes its way further up his leg, and he wonders if she’s going to slide under the table completely. “Send it to my room, please.” Voice catching as her toes make contact with his crotch, he demands, “Put it all on my tab please. I’ll settle up later.” 

With a nod of agreement, the server disappears. Quickly Harry rises, adjusting his slacks as he glances around the room. 

“Let’s go,” his voice rumbles. 

“But H -- the sunset,” she whines. 

“My room has the same view,” he insists, holding out his hand which she grasps. Gracefully sliding her foot back into her sandal, she rises and glides behind him towards the elevator. 

His stomach rumbles at the thought of eating, and he debates ordering food. The sushi at the sunset lounge is always fresh. In the past, though, they’ve enjoyed the dishes together, trying new ones every year. Dejected, he places his glass harshly on the table, his disappointment at her absence radiating across his psyche like the colours of the sunset. 

“I would say it’s a solid 8.5,” her voice sounds from over his shoulder, and he twists in surprise. Like the sunset beckons the stars, she summons happiness to his soul. He scrambles to rise, kissing her on both cheeks, his lips lingering each time. Not too long, though, in case others are watching and photographing. Which he always assumes these days. Fans. Paps. No privacy exists anywhere. 

“Hi,” he whispers, grateful for her presence, but unable to say the words that would tell her how worried he’s been. That might reveal too much of his emotions. And his heart. 

Fuck. When had his heart gotten involved? And why hadn’t he realised before this particular moment? 

“You agree?” she smiles, gesturing to the sunset. 

“I would say it’s a 9 or maybe even a 9.2,” Harry smiles, his dimple making an appearance to rival the sunset in front of them. 

“You finished your drink,” she nods at his empty glass. 

“I started early.” It’s a lame excuse, and he knows it. 

His annual partner tilts her head in his direction. “Or maybe I’m late?”

Not knowing how to respond, Harry waits, his fingers playing with the coaster underneath his drink, spinning it around, the glass slowly rotating with the cardboard circle with the restaurant’s name on it. 

“I debated,” she whispers, “unsure if I should…”

The server appears, a smile on his face. His white trousers and white shirt are complemented by a blue scarf at his neck, his accent strong. 

“What can I get you?”

Harry notices the man’s gaze on his companion’s breasts which draws his own attention to the bosom swelling around the buttons of her frock, which he just now notices has sunflowers across the lower half of the skirt. Was that on purpose? 

When she exchanges a knowing glance with Harry and smoothes the fabric over her legs, it becomes clear that she knows exactly what she was doing by choosing this dress.

He shifts in his seat. 

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she announces. 

Harry reminds the server, “Two Casamigos on the rocks please. And your newest sushi roll with light brown rice please. Thanks.”

Nodding, his date agrees to the order, and he’s relieved that at least the basics haven’t changed in the last year. 

“You were saying?” he prompts as the steward moves away from them. 

“Oh,” she blushes, her cheeks tinging slightly pink. “I just...wasn’t sure…” She swallows, her head down before she makes eye contact with him, “that this was a good idea.”

Taken aback, Harry settles his bum more deeply in his chair, feeling blindsided by the comment, wishing he had his tequila to soothe him in this moment. “I see,” he mumbles. 

“Harry --” she begins, and he waves a hand in her direction. 

“It’s just casual,” he unceremoniously argues, “right?” But his heart clutches at the phrasing. 

Her eyes drop to her lap where her hands are entwined. “Yes. I guess.” Her whisper makes him sweat. Fuck. Had she decided this was it? The last time? “It’s a pretty sunset,” she adds.

“Absolutely,” he concurs, anxious at what else she might say. Silence descends on the table much faster than the stars appear in the sky above them. Should he be vulnerable? Tell her how he feels? What he’s thinking? 

This year’s live steel drum band begins a new song, and without pause, she rises, holding her hand out for him to grasp. Grateful for the reprieve, he joins her in their corner of the outdoor restaurant, placing one hand on her waist as she rests her head on his chest. Together, they sway, and his mind wanders.

“I need another lime!” she shrieks gleefully, holding the bottle of tequila in her hand. Harry shakes his head from his position flat on the bed. They are going to need clean sheets before they sleep tonight. Maybe they will go to her room for actual sleep? 

What the fuck is he thinking? As if they had actually slept during their rendezvous in the previous two years. 

“Here. Hold this,” she laughs, thrusting a lime towards Harry to place in his mouth, pulp out. 

“Mhm. Me next,” he mumbles just before his teeth wrap around the green rind.

“You bet,” she giggles. Settling herself on the bed as she straddles him, her soft parts landing on his cock encased in its bright green briefs. She slides down his legs and leans forward, holding the bottle of tequila out to the side. “Mmmmm.” Licking a stripe up from the base of his underpants to his navel, she sprinkles salt there before tilting the bottle of Casamigos and allowing a shot of tequila to land in his taut navel. He’d worked hard on his abs the last couple of months, knowing that he would be lying here with her. They’ve got definition that most blokes only dream of. 

Quickly, her tongue captures the salt before she sucks the tequila from his belly and shifts forward to suck the lime that’s in his mouth. Fuck. If he hadn’t been hard before they started this game, he’s certainly got a hammer between his legs now. 

As he releases the lime for her, she grips it in her teeth, leaning backwards in her bra and panties, her core now on his chest, and he can’t resist reaching out with a single finger and tracing a pattern over the treasure he knows is underneath. 

“You waxed for me this year,” he comments. 

“No,” she protests, “I waxed for me this year. You give great oral, and I wanted nothing to get in the way. It’s been far too long since my pussy has been properly eaten.” 

“Oh?” Harry’s eyebrow raises, as he knows a couple of people who she dated during the previous year. 

“Yep. I would say,” she smiles, leaning down to capture his mouth in a kiss, her lips hovering just above his, “about exactly a year.”

“Hey…” he begins as they finish their silent dance just as their drinks arrive along with the plate of sushi, but he’s interrupted. 

“Here are your drinks. Our newest sushi roll is the Hot Lover,” which makes Harry cringe and shift again in his seat. “It’s spicy tuna, shrimp tempura, and avocado wrapped in soybean paper.” 

As he places the food in front of them, Harry smiles sadly and nods as the gentleman fades away into the restaurant, like the sunset has drifted into the ocean. 

“You were going to say something?” she asks, and he loses all of his courage. 

Shaking his head, he grasps a piece of the sushi roll between his fingers, sliding it onto his tongue. 

“Not bad,” he comments as he chews, trying to tuck the food in his cheek so he’s not rude. 

“It’s really not got a lot of flavour,” she grins as she mimics his eating habit. “Kind of boring.”

Did she mean their relationship? Was this one of those double-entendres? Swallowing the fish and rice concoction, he sips his tequila as the sushi sticks in his throat. For some reason, he wants to cry. It makes no sense, but the tears come unbidden to his eyes. Fuck. Looking away, he sips more of his drink as he watches the remnants of the sunset fade away, blinking furiously. 

“I wanted to call you when we were both in New York this year,” he comments softly. 

Her fingers pause halfway to her mouth, the soybean-paper-wrapped piece of sushi hovering near her lips. Harry watches as she debates how to respond to his comment, finally placing the fish on her tongue and chewing slowly. Unable to draw his eyes from her mouth, he unapologetically watches as she savors the restaurant’s latest speciality. Eyes closed, she moans. Her hands clutch the table on either side of her, and Harry feels his mouth go dry. 

Once she devours the food, she sips her tequila on the rocks, and he can visualize her tongue swirling the liquid around as she either tries to clear the flavour of the fish or fully taste the liquor. After all, her tongue has done that same move to his most favored body part. When she finishes, she makes eye contact with him, her hands resting on either side of her plate, fingers curled. Taking a deep breath, she straightens her fingers flat without breaking eye contact. Fuck. He’s sweating. 

“Truth be told, Harry -- I desperately wanted to call you when we were both in Edinburgh that time.”

“Why didn’t you?” His words are faster than his brain, and he immediately wishes he could draw back the question. 

“You know why,” she replies, and he nods because he does indeed know all of the reasons. “The sunset --” Her attention is drawn to the colours in the sky, “is lovely, don’t you think?”

“Honestly,” he admits, “I would say this is the best one of all of the times we’ve sat here together.” The words make him cringe. He wants to keep things light, but something about the moment prevents fluff. It feels momentous. Overwhelming. 

He watches as her eyes stray from his to the sky before they tear up and she nods in agreement. “Yes, Harry. I would say this is the most breathtaking of the sunsets we’ve seen.”

Did that mean that this would be the last one? Neither of them is getting younger. Sooner or later, one of them will meet “the one”. And then where will the other be? Stuck on an island with a sunset alone? Fuck. He doesn’t want to be that person. But he truly doesn’t want that for her either. 

“It’s a sensational sunset,” Harry pleads, his eyes not leaving her face, not straying to the glorious colours, not denying that they have some chemistry together. Why hadn’t he made a play for her before now? Was a hookup enough? Would he be happy if this is the last one? 

“Harry,” she sighs, sipping her drink again. “I wonder ---” 

The band starts a new song, and he shakes off the sound, willing her to continue. A group at the table behind them sings ‘Happy Birthday’ while another table nearby bursts into laughter and somewhere a server drops a tray of glasses, the shattering drawing applause from a few assholes close to the debacle. Harry ignores all of it. 

“Yes? Go on,” he encourages. 

“Maybe…” she bites her lip, looking away from him towards the sunset. 

“Yes?” His throat is dry, but he doesn’t reach for his tequila or his glass of ice water. Instead, his gaze remains riveted on her. 

“Do you think that perhaps we could…” 

His breath catches in his throat. What would she say? Would she ask for some random sex act? Cancel their relationship permanently? Or possibly -- miraculously -- suggest that they celebrate more sunsets together instead of just once a year. He holds his breath, waiting impatiently. 

“I mean, it would probably be best if we...” 

A/N: Reblogs are love, my readers.  I appreciate the likes, but reblogs help others find the story and, quite frankly, encourage me to continue publishing here. 

[smollandtoll]

HC: Science TA Geno History Student Sid

The second these photos came out we were like IT’S TIME. So HERE. WE. GO:

Imagine a universe in which Sid and Geno are separated by a few more years but not enough for it to be weird and Sid is a history major/gym addict (we just can’t picture him without the lower body) who has put off his science requirements for his degree until the very last possible time to do them. So there he is, 21/22 with a bunch of 18y/o freshmen in first year chem, looking mildly confused three times a week in lecture with his biceps threatening to burst through his intramural hockey tees, carefully seated 2/3 of the way up the lecture hall for maximum anonymity.

Sid does not like science very much. At least, not advanced science; he has no need for it beyond understanding the theory and the basics. He has no burning need to know the world’s innermost workings, and he thinks stoichiometry should go die in a fire.

But he’s also not going to let his GPA suffer because of this stupid class. He has a hard time focusing because he has so many other MORE IMPORTANT things he could be doing with his time so he gets lost easily and feels like he’s floundering and it’s ridiculous and embarrassing.

So, like a good and diligent student he goes to the TA office hours with his last quiz, bracing himself for an hour with some bored grad-school chem major to try and get a handle on the last module before it’s too far into the semester to catch up, and immediately has to squint at the name Evgeni Malkin on the door. He’s not even sure how to pronounce that. Eff-Jenny? Eve Genie? Veg-inni? He knows enough to parse out that it’s Russian and he immediately flashes to a nerdy Russian stereotype playing chess in his office behind thick glasses and a really tragic knit sweater. Sid is prepared to have the WORST time with a hardcore nerd who probably thinks a BA jock like Sid shouldn’t even be in his class - LET ALONE the fact Sid doesn’t want to be there and doesn’t get it and really doesn’t care.

Geno doesn’t make much better of a first impression. BUT to be fair:

The smell in his shared office is vinegary from the eco-friendly cleaning solution that he used to clean up an unfortunate sour cream incident in his small ancient TA office microwave. And it’s also a little like BO because...well because he smells like BO because he hasn’t been home for more than 20 minutes in weeks working on a breakthrough in his thesis. And let’s be fair, all the tiny shitty basements TAs get shoved into smell a little funky. He can’t be blamed!

Re: the point of hasn’t been home in weeks, his clothes are thoroughly dirty, we’re talking food stains, ink stains, lab stains of who knows what that soaked through his labcoat and smeared on his shirt cuffs. Also the clothes he’s wearing are his warmest and most comfortable. Oversized university sweatshirt (he’s so cold always), beanie (covering up greasy hair), his glasses because he hasn’t had time to order new contacts, extra cardigan over the back of his chair for when it gets particularly drafty after dark.

There are a LOT of mugs, and cups, and takeout containers where there aren’t stacks of papers upon papers upon textbooks. Listen, office hours are boring and any time he can get for his thesis is welcome. Cleaning isn’t high on his list of things to do currently.

So anyway, imagine Geno highly sleep deprived (who needs sleep when you have CHEMISTRY), and probably lacking a nutritionally balanced meal and hopped up on caffeine looking up at the knock to his door and seeing the most beautiful man possibly EVER standing in the doorway. He looks wary and faintly disgusted, but he also looks like he smells good, and his hair is a little damp, like he’d just come from the gym or something.

Geno legitimately thinks he's starting to hallucinate beautiful men. But then Sid opens his mouth and Geno recoils because no cute angels actually sound like that, so he must be a student.

And then Sid's asking about his quiz and he's so DETERMINED AND BRIGHT but clearly hating chem and just trying to like STRONG-ARM IT INTO OBEYING HIM. And you know what, this Geno legitimately loves chemistry; the way it underpins all of nature and all of biology, the way you can add one thing to another and get something totally surprising seemingly out of nowhere, the way equations balance out so beautifully when you get them right - the way it’s a whole language that makes perfect and total sense, unlike the confusing jumble of English he’s been putting up with since he moved here for school. He DOES want to help students learn to understand it - to love it like he does, ideally.

Geno probably pulls the test closer for a look and faintly remembers Sid seeing him up close. In class he’d never looked like much, usually wearing a ball cap that kept his beautiful face in shadow and from 40ft away in an auditorium he looked like every other university freshman, not this stacked slice of yum (on second thought, judging by the quality of his internal monologue, Geno is starting to think maybe he really does need to get some sleep).

Looking at the quiz is a little painful in some places though. Geno points out that Sid’s not dumb, but he’s careless with his work.

"This inattentiveness kill you in lab."

"I don't like science, I don't particularly want to be here, but I need this requirement and I'm not going to fly by with a C and let it tank my GPA. SO. we're going over every single one of these quiz questions."

"...You got most right though."

"Still, I could hear a repeat of the concepts, cramming doesn’t help anyone.”

So Sid sits gingerly in the moth-eaten chair in the cramped office while Geno (greasy, owlish with lack of sleep, a little too enthusiastic) tries to impress upon him the BEAUTY of Chemistry and Sid tries to dedicate himself to remembering anything at all while his brain keeps reflexively blanking out every time Geno mentions equilibriums. He’s doing better one on one, but he knew that, he always did better with a focused point for his attention.

Anyway so Sid walks out thinking the TA is like kind of a Russian Science Gremlin Nerd who chats on forums and has never eaten anything other than cheetos (judging by the contents of the wastebasket by the door). And Geno watches the door close probably thinking someone who wears as much athleisure wear and is as jacked as Sid, not to mention was only 70% successful in hiding his general disdain for THE GLORY OF STOICH, is kind of a meathead.

But Sid learned some things and Geno’s a patient if slightly judgy teacher, and Geno knows not everyone can truly understand his love of chem, so they both come out with not...100% accurate impressions of each other, but with a kind of alliance? An understanding? The usual academic relationship you might have with a TA. They're both students, the difference being one gives a shit about the topic and grades the other one’s work. Sid checks in a couple more times with questions and Geno clears up some desk space to help out if he can. 

SO THEN. The semester ends, Sid passes chem, Geno gives him a high five when he hands back his final exam, which has a sticker of a cat with pom-poms saying PURR-FECT on it. Geno loves weird animal stickers (Geno is the weirdest person Sid has ever met maybe).

The next time Geno sees Sid is in the library of all places. Geno would have never thought Sid would be caught dead in a uni library. Like that doesn’t actually make sense the more he thinks about it, but it’s true, he thought maybe Sid’s intensity about his GPA was sport-team related. But here he is stationed at a carrel that is just covered in organized stacks of books, meticulous notes, colour coded even! Sid is hyper-focused on what he’s doing, flipping through a book with one hand and jotting down notes with the other.

Geno: Oh shit I'm getting a competence boner, SID IS REALLY SMART OH NO, HE’S SO ORGANIZED AND DEDICATED. LOOK AT ALL THE TABS IN THAT TEXTBOOK.

He’s beautiful and brilliant RIP G. So then Geno kind of low-key follows Sid's academic career - sees/stalks/stares in the library if he has occasion to be there (SID IS THERE SO OFTEN OH NO), immediately ducking between a couple of shelves whenever Sid looks up or stretches. He finds too many reasons to hang out in the Russian history section, probably bothering Ovi who is actually taking history courses and has a reason to be there and actually knows Sid, much to his disgust with Zhenya when he finds out what’s happening (why not a good Russian history undergrad Zhenya??). Geno has studying to do too! The library is an ideal place to study! What’s that you say, the whole catalogue is even easier to navigate digitally? Shush, you.

The next time Sid sees Geno after the semester ends is in the biggest campus gym. One time he was running on the track for a cool-down and saw Geno swimming in the lane pool below through the windows.

Initially Sid was like "good for him, he doesn't go outside enough, lil russian potted plant/cheeto gremlin."

And then Geno grabs hold of the side of the pool and lifts himself out and Sid almost runs off the track, stumbling hard. Geno doesn't have the soft and furry pale body that Sid was expecting - he's all clean angles with an even tan and the shoulder-to-waist ratio OF A DORITO. He looks insanely long and lean, just legs for days. Sid tries to recollect if he’d ever seen Geno standing before and honestly can’t remember. But watching him wiping the water out of his eyes and walk over to joke and laugh with the lifeguard on her stand, he has to be over six feet, EASILY. He just looked so small hunched in his little office in his sweaters! His face is so angular without the glasses!

So then Sid kind of gets just as creepy as G is in the library and figures out when Geno frequents the gym and starts attending at the same time to creep. The track is raised! It overlooks the pool and he’s a frequent runner! It goes on like that for some time, some mutual creeping in the way you do when you’re on a campus with 20,000 (or w/e) people and you see a familiar face but it would be weird to say hi and so you just keep going about your day/occasionally creeping as one does.

It all comes to a head fortunately one Friday night in late January. Sid gets knocked on his ass yet again at the campus pub one night when he finds out that G doesn't always dress like a soviet grandpa or a mostly-nude glistening adonis. He’s all legs a mile long in jeans laughing with his Russian TA bros, gold chains and a bright graphic tee. He looks so at ease in his clothing the way that Sid never does, because Sid is so sold, blocky, muscular - he always looks like he's 5 seconds from hulking out in his clothing or like he's swimming in his dad's suit, there's no medium. The best he can usually manage is looking like he works in a sporting goods store with an unflattering polo shirt and some track pants. And here’s Geno all handsome and tall and easy confidence with his friends, and Sid KNOWS he’s brilliant too, like this is a disaster.

Meanwhile Geno is IN LOVE with how Sid always looks like he’s going to bust out of whatever he’s wearing but this is just because Sid is still young and hasn't grown into his face/lost some childhood fat and like learned how sleek he can look in well-tailored clothing.

(Brief moment of silent thanks for his current tailor)

G probably sees Sid at the bar as well, looking flushed pink from his drink and giggling atrociously/attractively with his friends. His lips are bright pink and the flush looks so good on those cheekbones and someone’s obviously convinced him to ditch the athleisure and dress like a normal guy for the night. And if Sid is old enough to get into the bar that's not creepy right? They're no longer teacher/student and Sid looks so so so pretty. Geno might be a little drunk and narrating all of this to a very unimpressed Gonch.

(Gonch is a PHD student who is like taking 800 years to do his work because like he's also working a day job because he has a wife and kids)

There are some glances back and forth for a bit, and eventually they can both tell the other is looking looking. Geno is just tipsy enough he plucks up the courage to go over to Sid. And Sid, seeing him approaching, catching his eye, distances himself from his history nerd friends (WE’RE LOOKING AT YOU JACK JOHNSON).

So they meet up in a little nook along the bar, and exchange smiles/greetings (Sid looking up, up, up at him and feeling his flush getting DEEPER). And then the awkwardness sets in HARD. The problem being it's kind of loud in the bar, because they always are, and Sid has trouble with accents most of the time and so does Geno, plus they've both had a few beers.

They end up 100% not understanding anything the other is saying and doing that weird smile-and-nod but not-knowing-what-to-say thing that keeps your convos stilted and awkward with a few “SORRY?”s thrown in for good measure.

They’re still both a little blushy and a little mortified about not understanding. Geno feels like he understood more the first day he came to America he's like "How have I regressed to literally zero English. I don’t remember ANY ENGLISH WORDS."

Meanwhile Sid has realized they can’t really understand each other and the beer has loosened his lips enough that he’s taking advantage of the situation and blurting a lot of awkward stuff he’s way too embarrassed to actually say.

Unfortunately there’s one of those LULLS in the bar where everyone stops talking and the music is between songs and Sid just yells "I DIDN'T REALIZE YOU WERE HOT AT FIRST."

Cue an few cackles from the wings and Sid’s instant mortification. Geno’s face is doing something between fighting a smirk of amusement and being confused/concerned.

Mostly Geno realizes that this is going to spiral out of control very quickly and tugs Sid’s elbow until they’re stepping outside together in the freezing night where their shouts will actually reach each other’s ears.

Basically they end up in a Denny’s at 2 am blushing at each other. Geno getting his flirt on, because once he feels like Sid’s into him he is all confident body language and jokes, getting into Sid’s personal space with his impossibly long limbs. Sid relaxes into being kinda snarky and snide, but so quick-witted and kind, the side of him that Geno had only briefly glimpsed during their office hour conversations. And that’s all it really takes, because they both are the type to go for what they want, and the interest is clearly mutual, and it turns out they already know a bit too much about each other’s schedules and they just make it work in the best ways.

They quickly turn into THAT COUPLE that makes all their friends roll their eyes, and Geno never stops chirping Sid for “I didn’t think you were hot at first.” both in front of other people and while Sid is trying desperately to wrestle G’s jeans off (“oh, I’m hot enough now, Sid?” “shut UP Geno and lift up your hips!!”).

Of course being the academic doorknobs they are, neither of them realize that this is an everlasting permanent kind of love, a LEGIT COLLEGE SWEETHEART KIND OF LOVE until like Sid meal preps Geno's entire week without asking whenever he knows that there's a big assignment coming up and he's never gonna get out of the lab, so he like keeps eating vegetables and not just cheetos and potato-based dishes.

Geno adopts all Sid's weird little rituals in his spaces because he respects that Sid has a system and is serious about his studies and has witnessed the meltdowns that can occur when too big a wrench gets thrown into Sid’s day. He never bothers Sid while he’s studying, but working out a system to ask unobtrusively if he wants a snack.

Geno willingly gets pranked by Flower because there’s HAZING when it comes to roommate’s significant others showering in their bathroom.

Sid has an intimidating family dinner with the Gonchars he was in no way prepared for, but gamely shows up with a bottle of wine and a button down shirt that is still creased from the packaging.

By the time Geno is cheering in the crowd at Sid’s graduation they’re maybe getting an inkling what their future looks like, full of too many bookshelves, messy stacks of papers and notebooks, missed anniversaries for papers and research but made up with good sex and take out, lumpy knit sweaters over the backs of chairs and ugly but charming antique furniture. Full of each other.

[prosenkhans]

Your body is not a temple. It’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.

It had to be the Salt Fish & Ackee. And the fried chicken. Of course the fuckin’ fried chicken.

Bourdain called Miss Ollie’s a taste of the “shiny, new Oakland”. You don’t see many tourists here, thank goodness, but the air of gentrification is present. Considered “Downtown Oakland”, you got the not-so-middle-class 20-30s something transplants messing about, bumping head long into 5th generation locals with A’s paraphernalia dangling from twin strollers. You’re just as likely to have a conversation with a person drinking craft IPA out of a laser etched glass to a person brown bagging a St. Ides 40 oz, chasing it with a Hennessy flat bottle they bury deep in their back pocket. It’s a normal thing here. The modern pressing against the traditional. “New money” and the “old school” of things. The social and economic divide that is prevalent so much here in the Bay Area. And still, the willingness by most to close that gap. The whole idea of “who’s town is this” will not be settled tonight. No. There is fish to be eaten. Chicken to be dunked in batter, fried golden, and devoured without utensils. People seem happy enough. Why not? The game is about to start.

It’s about 5:15 PM. The restaurant has yet to open for their dinner shift. And that is where I find myself, in an awkward situation as per usual, waiting in front of a door and peering into a kitchen staff hastily prepping for a Friday night. The idea was to order food and get the fuck home. I did not want to be around IF the Dubs won game 4 (they did). Not that I don’t enjoy a rowdy drunken crowd. Well I don’t actually. Not any more. Besides it wasn’t my victory, it wasn’t my team. Celebrating another’s victory just didn’t seem right, lighting fireworks and screaming in glee whilst turning over cars. Those aren’t my fireworks. I didn’t earn the drunken mob mentality to vandalize vehicles. I just didn’t want to be a buzz kill. No no. No, the only reason I stood there was because I wanted that damn salt fish and chicken! It had been a long day, made longer and mentally uncomfortable by learning that Bourdain had killed himself. No. Get the food, go home, take my pants off and sit on the couch and not so gently devour this stuff. Call it a half ass homage to the man whilst giving me some quiet time to really come to terms with all the thoughts running in my head. Oh and there was whiskey there. Pre-bought whiskey. Lots of it. Which undoubtedly has lead to this ranting essay.

When one writes shit like this it's impossible to avoid IT. The cliches, the flowery anecdotes, the over simplifications, and the glorifications of the recently passed individual. The stuff comes up because it's what we think about. However, I will say this. It a given family and friends are impacted most by a loss. Duh. Condolences, prayers up, what have you. It’s stating the obvious. What I think is escaping a lot of people is maybe we are never as close to someone we would like to think. We may love them. We may relate, appreciate, respect, and even be exceptionally close to them. But it’s becoming more and more evident to me that that UNDERSTANDING is a solo endeavor practiced by individuals specifically for their own self awareness.

We share only what we want people to see of us.

The word I most associate with Bourdain is “natural”. I know most people will go on and talk about his knowledge of the culinary world and his appreciation for amazing food. They’ll talk about his worldy travels and his willingness to immerse himself in the truest space of a city/country’s culture. People applaud and as well they should. Bourdain became the totem for all people with an ever growing sense of wanderlust. The question is why? There are plenty of who know food and culture and travel the world. Hell there are TONS of people on TV that do it and are dull as shit. So why Bourdain? Why is he, now that he is gone, ever so much more deified by those who wish to see our lives as 1/17th compelling as what he lived on screen? He was a natural. Or better yet, a “compelling natural asshole”. Yeah, that’s better.

First and foremost Bourdain was an artist. All of his shows went WELL beyond the norm of his contemporaries. In hindsight, his OG shows and the times in which he filmed them, they were damn near revolutionary. As budgets increased and skills got better, it became less so of an educational eating/travel show but more so of a docu-series of a man living in various moments. A man given the opportunity to perform a “dream job” and knowing fully well how damn lucky he was. Secondly, he was a writer. A good one. People will try to quote him in eulogy these days, but I find it hard to really pare it down. His shows were written so well that it felt like a never ending fount of inspiration meme fodder. Just Google it, you’ll see. And last, he was “cool”. And in the non pretentious type way. We just seemed like what he said, what he wore, what music was playing, hell what type of pop-cultural factoids he would equally praise and lacerate came not from a “marketing analysis report”, but a genuine opinion from a man who seemed unconcerned about the camera in his face.

What I can say is the dude gave off a vibe that drew people in. Or at least thats what he wanted to put out in the world.

I had to wait 15 minutes before I could order. Fuck. Hungry. I was starving at that moment. So even though I was annoyed and rather irritable after such a long and mentally draining day, I made my normally anti-social self do something Bourdain may have approved of. I mingled with strangers. Oh and I bought a beer. And a sausage. Of course a sausage.

Rosamunde’s was getting more crowded as the start of the game grew closer. People in their blue and gold, some with NBA Champion 2018 hats already on, even though the game hadn’t even started yet. Weird. But I made my way up to the shop keep and got my tube of meet and glass of malted hops. Yum. So with 10 minutes to kill I engaged in polite conversation with 2 gents hugging the wall. They were cousins, one local and other from LA. Of course naturally the conversation lead to basketball and the probability that all the people in this restaurant would be drunk off victory and tequila by nights end. They would be. It was a consensus. I wont prattle on about the specifics of the conversation, but within that short 10 minutes I found myself bouyed by their energy. They knew the good times to come, and they were eager to get there. And in that moment, they seemed genuinely happy. As the clock drew closer to the half hour, I started to excuse myself from the conversation. “Just stay, man! We gunna win, and then we’re gunna celebrate!” But I couldn’t. So with one last “Salanche!” (I had to teach them that Irish word), I bid them good evening and their team good luck. It wasn’t my place. Not right now. Besides, fried chicken awaited!

As I stepped away, a smile on my face, a thought in my head. Its natural when someone you admire leaves, especially in such a manner. People will focus more the WHY than anything else. I’ve resigned myself to a simple truth. We DO NOT know what anyone else is thinking. To say we UNDERSTAND another individual so completely that we can approximate their feelings, intent, and mannerism is foolhardy. It's arrogant. If there is anything that I’ve learned from Bourdain is this simple truth.......You don’t know shit. So stop guessing. Try and actually gain knowledge of, well everything. It simple requires effort and openness. And sometimes the willingness to look foolish and fall on your face.

I place my order with the lovely lady. No menu required. I knows what I want. I order a Mauby for the wait. “It’ll be like 10 minutes. You’re the first to order,” she says with a smile. I’m pretty sure she thinks my fatass is ordering for 2. Ha, oh well. I drink my weird soda and wait. And try not to dwell on the WHY.

I’ll simply state that I appreciate what Bourdain CHOSE to show us. All of it. Watch an episode of any of his shows, there is something unique about it. In every episode, Bourdain will turn from cocky asshat, to worldly listener, to foody goofball, to hipster hating old man, to a poetic soul, to an appreciated world travel, to an unwilling celebrity. There will be a facet of all those personas in each show. Every. Single. One. Now I can say that what he CHOSE to show us was a 61 year old man, full of success within a career that any of us would envy. A father of an 11 year old girl who did seemed truly proud of her developing into a full fledged human. A man who found passion and love in this “late” phase of life. A man who has grown healthier and wiser. A man, while still driven, seemed content with it all. And it apparently wasn’t. At all. So people can keep asking WHY all they want. I choose to look at it in a much more cynical view. If Bourdain, the master of the world, chose to exit it in such a state, where does that leave us?

It’s a sad thought that unicorns don’t exist.

7 swigs into my cane sugar soda, all the tables are filled. The room is bustling and the noise level increases. Smiling faces, happy banter. There is an energy in the air. But even in this moment, surrounded by the humanity, I felt alone. Lost in my own thoughts.

Bourdain once said he was “addicted to celebrity”. He wouldn’t have been as successful as he was did he not have the drive and arrogance to achieve it. Still, one would think that being placed upon a pedestal as a cultural and generational icon would become waring. On top of the 250 days of travel, he was Anthony fuckin’ Bourdain all the damn time. People see you and may potentially be expecting a life altering moment, a chance to be inspired by a simple word or action. They think they know you. And that’s with the cameras off. Even when they were rolling there are times where it is evident Bourdain was uncomfortable in his own skin. That he was crossing the velvet rope where he knew he shouldn’t. Where he was torn between enjoying a meal given to him by custom and his reluctance to be so decadent when there are impoverished families just feet away. We see a misfit become potentially what he never saw himself being. A standard bearer, a bougee VIP. A man who inspired a legion, a world of people to open their minds and hearts to other cultures through food and drink, through conversation over a meal. To take the back alley, and skip the IHOP on Main St. Ask a stranger where to get a drink instead of a guide book. To eat something you can’t pronounce. To let go of forethought and allow yourself to take the moment in. By doing so he became accepted as the norm, as how a utopian world should be. And while I hope he is proud to some degree for showing the world a new way to think, a part of me questions that by becoming a living legend, he lost that “outsider rebel” aspect of himself, his persona. That misfit.

The bell rings. My order is ready. The young lady puts everything in a bag. 2 sets of utensils. “I knew it,” I mutter to myself. “Did you say something honey?” she asks. “No,” I chuckle slightly. She smiles and turns her head to give me the inquisitive side eye. “Are you happy with everything,” she asks whimsically. I look down, and smell the food. I smile. “Yeah. Right now I am.”

So as I sit at home writing this, the last of the Ackee scrambled across my plate, I do feel a sense of sadness, but certainly appreciation. To Mr. Anthony Bourdain. I can only say “thanks”. I truly doubt we will know his full impact on society until years, generations later. But in this moment, I thank you. I probably wouldn’t have eaten this fish and chicken without him. And that in itself is worth a toast. Solanche, mutha fucker.