#art & patrick: and all my thoughts of you; they could heat or cool the room.

[lastblues]

collecting the ship tags i have somewhere. i think this is all of them so far. maybe

[sceletaflores]

any nasty down bad breeding kink art musings love of my life?

viciously yanked me out of my mini challengers rut with this one because yes. yes i do have some thoughts on that.

for some reason the first thing that came to mind was virgin!art....in a universe where he somehow didn't get laid before stanford lol

like auurgggghhh virgin!art and his deep seated breeding kink. it's literally ingrained in him even before he has sex for the first time.

you're his first real girlfriend, met when you needed a tutor in accounting and art's professor suggested him.

the two of you have been dating for two months and he already knows that he loves you despite what patrick says about "playing the field a little man, you're not married to the chick."

but the thing is that art would marry you. he'd up and marry you tomorrow if that's what you wanted. he doesn’t care how crazy it sounds.

he loves you and he wants you to be his first.

maybe he wasn't entirely expecting it when you laid on your back on the mattress of his dorm, peering up at him through your lashes as you announced that you were "ready to take our relationship to the next level..."

he was hard before you finished talking.

art could barely think straight, his body reacting faster than his mind. he swallowed hard, trying to steady his hands, which had started trembling the moment you laid back on the navy blue comforter of his bed.

“are you...are you sure?" his voice came out more breathless than he intended, his brain scrambling to keep up despite all the blood rushing to his dick.

your gentle nod, paired with a soft smile that made his heart stutter in his chest was all it took for him to lose any lingering doubts.

he crawled up the mattress, leaning down to kiss you with more tenderness than urgency, his heart thudding against his ribcage like it was trying to escape his chest.

he fumbled his way through fingering you, his hands shaking with nerves even though you've done this part countless times.

it wasn't until the two of you shed all clothes, art settling himself between your legs before you were speaking, thighs twitching to close around his hips.

"you'll have to pull out, i'm off the pill."

fuck.

art's heard of that before, pulling out. usually the punchline of some jokes the guys like to tell in the locker room, or from patrick recapping his own hook-up stories.

the dirtiness of it makes his cheeks burn, and he hopes to god you can't see the embarrassing red blush he knows is there.

he takes a deep breath, steeling his resolve as he presses the leaking head of his dick to your slick hole.

"okay." his voice sounded pained, his hold on your hip probably a little too tight as he held his throbbing dick steady and nudged his hips forward until just the tip slipped inside your fluttering hole.

"oh fuck."

art’s brain short-circuits for a moment, his entire body freezing as the tight heat of you grips the head of his dick. he sucks in a shaky breath, trying to keep his cool, but every nerve in his body is screaming at him to move, to take more. to bury himself so deep he wouldn’t know where he ends and you begin.

he lets out a low groan, fingers digging into your skin, knuckles turning white with it. he wasn’t prepared for how overwhelming it would feel, like his entire life had been leading up to this exact moment.

"jesus...you're so—" he can’t even finish the sentence, his voice breaking.

"art," your hips shift beneath him, making him jolt forward, sinking just a little deeper inside you. his mind goes blank, a vast space of nothingness but the tight heat wrapped around his dick.

there's only you, your soft skin, your quiet gasps, the feeling of being wrapped in the most sinful warmth.

for a while art gets lost in the feeling. in the way you pant into his open mouth, too overwhelmed to kiss him properly. in the way your hands grip his shoulders harder with every inch he gives you. in the way your pussy shakes around him like it can hardly wait any longer.

art knows he's getting close, that he probably needs to pull out soon. but you're just so soft and you smell so good and your pussy is sucking his dick in so wet and warm like it never wants him to leave again.

"i can't," he grits out against your collarbone, shaking his head frantically. "i can't do it."

"don't stop," you whine, manicured nails digging into the toned muscle of his shoulders, "don't stop, baby. fuck, give it to me harder, harder please-ah!"

art screws his eyes shut as tightly as he can, brows pinched together as he presses his forehead against the sweaty skin of your shoulder to ground himself. his hips speed up to punch out more high whines of his name from your slick lips.

there's an odd feeling working it's way through his body as he ponders his options, a wrongness flashing in the back of his mind each time he reminds himself of pulling out to spill over your stomach.

despite the fact that he's never done this before, his gut tells him no.

you deserve his come inside you, painted along your insides as he claims you for the first time.

"i can't pull out," he whines through clenched teeth, big hands tightening their hold on your waist. his voice is pinched and high in a way it's never been before, desperation leaking through his tone.

your lips fall open on a gasp, your head shaking back and forth dazedly, but he feels the way you clench around him. the way your pussy tightens up like it's trying to milk the load directly out of his aching balls.

"fuck! please don't make me baby," he begs, self restraint snapping in two as he buries his face in your neck. "lemme come in you, it'll be okay. we'll be fine, nothing’s gonna happen if it's only this once."

"no..." you moan, "art don't, gotta pull out..." but your hips start rising of the bed to meet his thrusts, the dirty smack of skin on skin filling his tiny single. you're dripping around him, coating his dick with a slick layer of shiny wetness.

"i can't," art repeats breathlessly, dick twitching inside you warningly.

"i need it…need you, need to come in you so fucking bad," his voice is strained and cracking, hips trembling with the effort, but you’re so tight around him, every squeeze pulling him deeper.

it's too much and not enough all at once—the heat, the wetness, the overwhelming need. it has pure kerosene burning in his veins.

"art," your legs stay wrapped snug around his hips, ankles locked over his lower back. "m'close, gonna come, fuck! i'm coming—!"

so is art. the added squeeze of your pussy coming around him shattering the last of his resolve and sending him careening him over the edge.

"fuck," your name falls from his lips in a tight groan as he unloads inside of you. flooding your pussy with warm come as his hips keep up the punishing pace he set.

art doesn't stop thrusting even as he comes so hard his vision whites out. he can't stop, like you've got some sort of magnetic field that keeps pulling him in over and over and over.

your too-loud moans and cries dissolving into sharp keens and gasps as he fucks you into over-stimulation, his hips pumping in in in as the image of his come getting fucked deeper and deeper inside of you plays on a loop in his mind.

when his arms finally give out and he collapses on top of you in a sweaty heap of limbs, your arms immediately come up to wrap around his shoulders. a pleased hum rumbling through your chest as you scratch your nails along his scalp soothingly, smug smile hidden in the sweaty halo of his hair.

art's out like a light in five minutes, falls asleep right there with his head resting on your bare-chest and his dick kept safe inside you.

patrick buys a plan-b for art the next morning when he's too nervous to face the cashier at walgreens.

[girliism]

being best friends with art and patrick was supposed to mean all romantic feelings were off limits.

“wait so you made out with both of them?” your cousin asked. “first of all i did not make out with either of them it was just a friendly kiss.” you had told her about the kiss you and art shared at formal and then the one you and patrick had yesterday. “friendly kisses don’t last so long that the two of you break away to breathe.” she makes a good point, they were far from friendly. but admitting that means you have to admit how your stomach erupted in a fit of butterflies during both kisses.

“what the fuck is this?” patrick walks over to you and art waving his class schedule in the air. “we don’t have home room together.” the three of you huddle up looking at your papers. “oh he’s right we don’t.” art points out. “at least we have every other class together.” you say. “at least? AT LEAST. we are supposed to have all classes together what if i get stuck with weirdos? who’s homework will i copy? i should get my parents up here.” patrick’s complains “honestly i don’t think it’s that bad it’s just home room pat you’ll live.” art patted his shoulder.

being without the two boys glued to either side of you was weird you felt exposed. “hi, can i sit here.” a voice asked from next you. “yea sure.” you look up to be faced with a boy. he was definitely new cause there’s no way you would forget a face like that. “i’m luke by the way. i just moved here.” you introduce yourself and the two of you talk all class time. “we have three classes together plus lunch which you can totally sit with me at.” you offer. he was new and didn’t have many friends you were being nice. “cool, i’ll look for you.” he smiled at you and you felt your cheeks heat up.

art and patrick were already at lunch when you walked in with luke. “art! patrick! this is luke he’s new i said he could sit with us.” you plop down in between them. art and patrick eye the boy suspiciously “hey, i’m luke.”

you and luke started dating a little while after that and art and patrick were not feeling it. “luke is nice why don’t you guys like him?” you pout just wanting them to get along. art hated him because of the tender way he’d kiss you when he thought no one was watching. but art was watching, burning with jealousy. patrick hated him because now with him in the picture you stopped letting patrick lay his head on your lap and combing your fingers through his hair opting to do that for your boyfriend instead. “it’s just we know nothing about the kid.” art says mouth full of popcorn. “yea this kid could a fugitive for all we know. you don’t want you to get pregnant by a fugitive do you?” patrick ever so dramatic adds. you scoffed. “what is your obsession with my womb.” “i just don’t want anything in it ok. you’d probably look ugly pregnant anyways. i’m helping you.” you stare at him in shock. patrick shows his love in weird ways.

you loved luke he was sweet and funny but he wasn’t art or patrick, and the feelings you were trying to ignore you had for them was getting harder.

“when is art coming this project is due tomorrow.” you flop down on your bed. “he said he can’t make it and to just do it without him.” so you and patrick worked for three straight hours. “uughhh, can we please take a break and watch a movie or something.” patrick groans draping his big body over your pressing your cheeks together. “fine.” you push him off of you getting up to close the curtains turing on a movie.

you’ve been alone with patrick before but this felt different. suddenly you were hyper aware of whenever his arm brushed against yours and how it would made your heart speed up. “are we ever gonna talk about the kiss?” patrick doesn’t know why he brings it up. the question was coming out before he could even think. your eye widen. “what is there to talk about.” you wanted to throw up. “maybe how i wouldn’t mind doing it again.” you can feel patrick’s eyes studying your side profile trying to read your thoughts. patrick always thought you were pretty. “i have a boyfriend.” you whisper looking into his eyes. he just mumbles ok before kissing you.

that was the beginning of something for you and patrick but unknowingly the end for the three of you.

“oh don’t the three of you look adorable. come on say cheese.” it was year end formal and you, art and patrick were standing in the foyer of your house while your guys parents took more than enough photos. “you look good.” patrick leans down to whisper in your ear hand resting lower than it should be. you and patrick have been sneaking around all school year and yea you felt horrible for cheating on your boyfriend but mostly you hated how you were lying to art.

knocks hit your door pull you from your thoughts. “oh! that must be luke.” your mom says opening the door to invite him in. “babe, you look great.” he smiles a you pulling you in for a kiss. art and patrick burn imaginary lasers into his head.

formal was fun much better that last year. you danced with both art and patrick at the same time giggling and stepping on each other’s feet. you snuck to the bathroom so you and patrick could make out in the hallway. this year the seniors let you guys crash their party.

“cassie’s been flirting with you all night art i don’t get why you don’t like her.” you say picking through the chips in the bowl in front of you. “she’s just not my type.” she’s just not you. is what he really wanted to say. “i have to go make a call i’ll be back.” art rushes outside. he’s been acting really distant lately.

you feel hands squeeze at your waist. “come upstairs with me.” patrick whispers in your ear leading you upstairs into a random room.

“you looked so hot tonight.” he pants into your mouth laying you down on the bed then getting onto of you. “thanks” you sigh out as patrick starts kissing your neck. the two of you have never gone farther than kissing and maybe light grinding. “have you noticed how when weird arts been lately.” you had no idea why you brought up art. but it’s be waying on your mind for days. patrick lifts his head up. “i mean he’s been a little quiet these days but if there was something going on he’d tell us.” patrick reassures going back to kissing you.

downstairs art walks back in the kitchen confused to see you gone. he taps some guy on the shoulder asking if he saw you leave. the guy points him upstairs. art walks into something he really wish he hadn’t. he walks in on you and patrick eating each other’s faces. “art!” you’re pushing patrick off of you to chase after him.

“art wait.” he only walks faster before turning around to yell at you. “how long has this been going on? how long have you and patrick my supposed best friends been lying to me. how long have you been lying to luke?” art was angry and sad. “a while.” you admit shamefully. art laughs throwing his head back. “i didn’t plan for this to happen it just did. and we only kept it a secret for you cause i didn’t want to ruin what we three have.” you were crying now, your eye makeup smudging. “oh so you and patrick were lying to protect me? that’s a pathetic excuse really.” art scoffs “you know i liked you first. while patrick was running away with a new girl every week i turned down everyone cause i was waiting for you.” that’s what this was really about. you didn’t know what say. “art i’m so sorry please don’t hate me.” you plead. art sighs completely over this entire night “i don’t hate you. i hate myself for trying to play nice guy all my life when i should have just went for you like patrick did.” “we’re still friends right art? cause i need you. i need the both of you.” you say desperately trying to keep together a dying friendship. “yea just like how i needed you and patrick just now and you two were seconds away from fucking.”

you knew something was going on with him but you were to caught up with your secret relationship with patrick to actually talk to him about it. “why what happened?” you grab arts wrist not ready to let go. art pulls his hand away. “it doesn’t matter. i’m tried i’m just gonna go home. don’t call me tomorrow” your tears are cold against your cheeks “ok. but we’ll still hang out this summer right?” you ask and it’s probably stupid but you really needed know. “can’t my parents are dragging us up to see my grandma she’s not doing well.” “oh. i’m sorry.” art hums “you’ll come back for the fair though.” another stupid question saying anything to keep him here. art sighs looking you in the eye. “i don’t know i’ll try. have a good summer bee.” he called you bee. that stupid nickname he and patrick gave you in second grade during your bumblebee phase.

art didn’t contact either of you all summer. letting yours and patrick’s calls go to voicemail. he also didn’t come back for the fair. the fair was something the three of you did every year. racing each other to the dock on your bikes, making a bet on who’d be the first to throw up after all the fried food and rides. you did break up with luke and officially start dating patrick though.

the next time you and patrick see art was on the first day of school. you three finally had home room together and you waved at him to come sit with you but he pretended not to see.

senior year was gonna suck.

part three

[theitgirlnetwork]

Earn It

Ch. 6: Pepperdine

Note: Okay...this one is long as hell, so sorry in advance! Thank you for all of the love, notes, comments, rebloggs! They are really inspiring and it's great to interact with you all. Some people have made me aware of things that I can do to make this easier to find, so I will sit down and apply those changes later today. I hope you all enjoy this one, and alsooo my best friend just started reading this story so if you're reading this hey boo! Thank you all for reading and reminder...all of the characters are pieces of shit in their own way...as it is in the movie. Alright! Enjoy <3

Warnings: Cheating (back to sorta), mild sexual content (MDNI!!!!!), some strong language, mention of injury.

Taglist: @spookystitchery@anehkael@fkaams@butterflyybabe@sun2flower @holierthancunt @silkenthusiasts @wolflover384 @liziihorta @summerssover @jackierose902109

She feels like she’s going insane. For what it’s worth, Heaven did not get a single ounce of sleep after she did what she did. Her lip curls as she looks down at Art, his arm tossed over her lap, his large hand spread over her bare thigh, the heat of it a reminder of her…predicament. 

I love you.

She winces as she envisions the moment again, hears Art’s voice and pictures Patricks face, Tashi’s face if they knew, jesus. Heaven bites at her thumb nail nervously, staring off at the mostly bare wall in Art’s dark room. “Fuck.” she mumbles to herself, picturing Art kissing her, touching her, on top of her, between her legs- “Fuck” 

Art’s hand tightens on her leg and she shifts her gaze down to him. He’s in the same position that they’d laid in when they’d gone to bed. His eyes are closed, she can see his lashes against his cheek. It’s annoying and unfair, men always have the best eyelashes. Art’s are a brown color, not quite dark brown or black, not quite blonde. She likes looking at his eyelashes, but she does wish that she could see his eyes.

It would distract her. From the tightness in her chest that had her wrenching his thin twin XL blanket off of them both because she was pretty sure the fabric was trying to smother her, earning a groan from Art as she slipped from under his grasp and sat up with her back against the cool painted cement walls of his dorms. 

Heaven takes a deep breath trying to get rid of the squeezing feeling in her chest without waking the blond man half draped over her lap. Clenching her teeth she rolls her eyes upward  to look at the ceiling as she wills her thoughts to slow the fuck down. 

I love you. 

She didn’t say anything. He said he loved her and she said nothing. Jesus, she is just like Tashi. As much as she loves her, the thought is scary. But what’s even scarier is that she almost wasn’t. She almost wasn’t Tashi. When Art looked at her and said what he said her mouth fell open, and she almost said the thing. She almost…she almost said what he said.

I love you.

“Fuck you.” she whispers, gaze dropping back down to the man below her. A careful manicured hand sweeps over the pale skin on his cheek, sliding along his jaw before a traveling finger smoothes over his nose. She giggles breathlessly as his nose wrinkles and his arm tightens around her legs. Heaven smoothes back the messy blond hair that had fallen on Art’s forehead as he slept, smiling to herself as he hums in his sleep, leaning into her hand.

I love you.

Heaven’s brows furrow as she suddenly feels very naked and very self conscious. She yanks her hand away from him, careful not to disrupt his sleep as she tries to lift his arm off of her. She barely has both feet on the cold, white dorm room floors before the arm is around her waist.

“Where’re you goin’?”

His voice is raspier in the morning. Heaven feels herself melting at the feel of a thumb smoothing over her stomach, rubbing circles over the baggy shirt she’d borrowed from him. Stolen? She has absolutely no intention of giving it back. 

She almost gets back into bed. It would be so easy. Sliding into his arms, feeling him burrow his face in her neck, kissing her as she’s lulled back to sleep. Just one leg up, and then the other. It could be good. It could be great.

But then her eye catches on a framed picture on his desk. It’s one she’d known he’d have, but didn’t think he’d have so readily on display. Patrick was very open with discussing his affection for Art. He has no problem kissing his friend on the cheek or forehead. Talking about how they’ve pushed their beds together since their second year of being roommates, always opting to sleep next to one another in their one, big ‘super bed’ as he’d called it. 

Art was subtle. He might share some food or toss an arm over Patrick’s shoulder. Turning red and furrowing his eyebrows when Patricks would lean into any insinuation about the two of them. But he loves his friend. It’s clear, it's obvious. And Tashi’s a homewrecker for messing with them.

And so am I. Heaven eyes the picture of Art and Patrick. Bright smiles on their faces, kissing their trophies while cheersing each other. This is too much. It’s all too much. Between Patrick and Tashi and now these feelings for Art…Art’s feelings for her- Heaven needs out. 

This toxic jumble is not her idea of fun. 

Her decision made, Heaven takes one more deep breath. She steels herself, and decides she’s doing what’s best. Snatching her bag and jeans off of the floor where she’d let Art tug them off the night before she rushes out of the dimly lit room as the sun starts to rise through the cheap, white shutter blinds. And she only lets herself look back once.

Thirty minutes. Art lays in his bed with his eyes squeezed shut hoping he dreamt it. He was praying to himself that he felt the cold morning air on his chest because he was having some kind of bad dream, not because Heaven had snuck out of his bed without saying goodbye all to probably go running back to Tashi and go back to pretending there wasn’t anything between them. The longer his eyes were closed, the longer he could pretend he still felt her soft fingers ghosting across his face. He could pretend that she was his.

He had to be fair, he asked her to pretend for the night, he never said anything about the next morning. 

Sighing deeply, he opens his eyes, staring up at his ceiling he frowns, forced to be faced with reality and the hand he’s been dealt. All he had really accomplished was planting seeds of confusion in the girl’s head, they were far from the point where she was ready to leave her relationship for him. She still has feelings for Tashi, and what’s worse, Patrick. 

Art loves his friend, he really does, but he knows him very well. He’s watched the guy go through puberty, learn that he’s got a sleazy type of swagger a lot of girls find attractive. He’d been there for Patrick’s first date with Lana Powel and his second the same week with Angie Cooper. Art had watched Patrick run through women like water, down to his last girlfriend who he had just started dating when he met Tashi and Heaven. Poor girl couldn’t compete with the hot Princess of Tennis and the sexy Ballerina two for one special being dangled in Patrick’s face and was therefore left high and dry with a simple breakup text. It’s not working. You were great.

Yeah. Forgive him if he doesn’t exactly think his friend is all that deserving of the masterpieces that are Heaven Whitlock and Tashi Duncan. 

And Art doesn’t pretend he’s a saint. Like Patrick has said, he does…well for himself in the women department and has since he hit a cute little growth spurt back in the 8th grade. But he has the common decency to make his feelings for the girls he would see clear. If they were his girlfriend, they knew it, he would treat them like a girlfriend. If they were a fling, he would acknowledge that they were just having fun. It ends with him getting a lot less drinks tossed in his face than his friend does.

See, Art is smart. He knows how to compartmentalize. Random girls who throw themselves at him after tennis matches go in one category, nice girls he meets in class go in another. 

Heaven and Tashi are in a league of their own.

Tashi is awe inspiring. Beautiful, talented, smart. Scary.

Heaven was scary in a different way. Scary like, the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Scary like he was desperate to do anything and everything to make her happy, including play along in this little push and pull game she’d tossed them into. Scary in a way that despite the fact that she creeped out of his bed at the crack of dawn, cowering away from the feelings he has with her tail between her legs, he still pushes his nose into the pillow she’d laid her head on the night before, trying to take in the last of her scent before it fades into the morning air. 

Dragging his way out of bed and away from what he has left of Heaven, he makes his way to the bathroom and forces himself to face the day.

Match point. Tashi thinks to herself, whistling out the extra hair in her lungs as she regulates her breathing, bouncing from foot to foot as she finishes out her final scrimmage against her teammate before her match with Pepperdine.

Her brain is nearly empty, the only thing swirling within her thoughts is following the ball, the only sound in her ears is her own breathing and the sound of her opponent’s sneakers scraping against the court. There’s no one in the world other than her and the girl across the net. 

With a final swing she sends the ball sailing over the net, down the line where the girl is just not quick enough to reach and with that Tashi had one. It was over. Tashi always gets this brief, melancholy feeling when she finishes a match, or even something as small as a scrimmage. The high she gets from playing simmers down into a dullness that makes her miss the version of herself she was just moments before, when the match was still going. 

That numb thrumb of disappointment under her skin usually dies out as she reminds herself that there will be more. More game to play. More time on the court. More of a tennis player she can be. 

What can she say? Tennis makes her feel greedy. It was never enough. The only thing that ever brought her a similar high was being with Heaven. And while she meant being with Heaven, she also just meant…being with Heaven.

The two of them have been together in every capacity that matters. Friends, best friends, friends with benefits, girlfriends, exes, partners. The only title she would never give Heaven is her rival. They have too much history for that.

Tashi feels the sensation of a toe pushing insistently at her side, digging into her ribs as she tries to focus on the sound of Aaliyah singing in her ears. “Stop it.” She says lowly.

“‘M’trying to show you something, just look for a second-” her little brother Ellis whines, tugging at his seatbelt to get more wiggle room, nudging the girl again with a snicker when she swats his foot away. “Tashi, play with me-”

“Jesus, can I have one fucking second-”

“Tashi Sierra Duncan!” 

The voice is sharp and unforgiving. Her mother’s tone leaves no room for nonsense as she whips around to stare her down, her father’s own gaze in the rearview mirror. Ellis is suddenly quiet, wide eyes watery as he looks at her from his seat causing a pang of guilt to form in her chest. 

Great. Now she’s the bad guy. 

Big bad Tashi. Taking her parent’s attention away from her siblings, needing to travel for tennis, being too tired to play all the damn time. Between struggling in school, watching her five younger siblings and helping her parents pay the bills with what she won at challengers and bigger competitions, somehow, she forgot to force herself to have the personality of a disney princess. 

Sue her, she wants to focus before her match. God forbid she wants to be at her best when there’s a fucking Nike rep watching her, a detail about today that her father had only mentioned 500 times, mentioning what a great fucking opportunity it was. 

Maybe she was the bitch who couldn’t take the time to glance over at her 8 year-old brother’s gameboy as he won the same game over and over again. But she was also the bitch who was working her ass off so that he could get new games. So that her sister would be able to afford the cute clothes by the time she started high school. So that her mom could stop working the job she fucking hated. 

When everyone forgot that, she didn't know. What she does know is Cleo demanded that she let her do yoga with her this morning, and Carter fucking had to practice his recorder at the exact time she started meditating. And now she’s sitting in this hot ass car, with no air conditioning, stacked with her parents and siblings, looking at her like she's the monster for wanting to do her pregame ritual.

But they’d all be smiling at her when she won.

Just 20 more minutes. 20 more minutes until she could have some peace. 20 more before the world will disappear, and all there will be is tennis.

“Apologize to your brother, please.” 

But for now she’s still here.

“I’m sorry, El. Didn’t mean it.” She sighs, brushing the back of her hand over the little boy’s wet cheek. “Mom, I need to start working my heart rate, I’m gonna take a lap.” 

“Okay, honey, just wait for us to sign in.” 

“Kay.” Tashi pushes the door open to the car, ignoring the whines of her youngest sister to go with her as slams the door to the minivan shut. There are crowds of people already gathering. Other competitors and their families. Coaches. Hers should be around here somewhere. 

Normally she’d scope the competition. Her presence tends to put the other girls on edge, so she often chooses to warm up in front of them, letting them know what the fuck is on the other side of the net before they even hit the court. But today, all she could think about is all that’s on the line. Her head swirls with thoughts of how winning today could change a lot of things for her and the people she loves. 

All she wants is to get rid of those thoughts. She wants to be one track minded. She wants to get on the court and have a good fucking time without worrying about what’s going on in the stands. 

“Hey, I heard Tashi Duncan’s here, should we all just like, quit tennis and kill ourselves?” 

A smile forms on Tashi’s face as she turns away from the van, finding Heaven standing behind her holding a piece of poster board. “Hey, there, Serena. I got here a little early. You’ve got bitches quaking already.” 

The taller girl basically hops forward, tossing her arms around Heaven, Tashi giggles as the girl stumbles back a little in an attempt to catch her. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I think my best friend plays in some of these things. I came to cheer her on.” Heaven squeezes her back before stepping away, holding out the poster for Tashi to see. “You’re crumpling the poster I made you.”

“There’s,” Tashi laughs again, placing her hands on her hips. “A lot of curse words on that.”

“I’m passionate.” 

“The poster makes you look like a fan girl, Hev.” She jokes, looping her arm with Heaven’s, guiding her toward the tennis club’s center and away from her parents' car. The headache that had started forming moments ago begins to fade as she and Heaven step side to side as they make their way to where the fences surrounding the courts are, ignoring the nervous looks from the girls they pass. “I’m usually a little more subtle when I come to see you twirl.”

“Twirl, you bitch.” Heaven scoffs. “Well, you don’t like flowers-”

“Who said I don’t like flowers?”

“Um, you, when Dylan Cho bought you some and I watched you regift them to your elderly neighbor after you said, quote, ‘I don’t fucking like flowers’ end quote.” 

Tashi stops walking, standing in the little grassy area next to the fence she rolls her, “Fine, correction, I don’t like flowers from Dylan Cho.” 

“And from Heaven Whitlock?” the shorter girl flirts, rocking on her feet. 

“Dunno, get me some and find out I guess.”

“You’re annoying.” Heaven huffs. Her eyes narrow as Tashi plops down into the grass, ignoring the blades poking at her bare legs and sitting criss-crossed, taking in a deep breath. “You okay?”

“Yup, I’m fine.” Tashi sighs, eyes slipping closed.

“Oh, okay.”  A beat passes. “It’s just you don’t seem okay. So, what’s up?”

“Just got a lot riding on today. And, I didn’t get through my regimen, so I feel fucking,” she waves her hands around as she tries to find the words. “Like just…too much. I’m thrown off. I hate when shit is too much right before I have something to do. Like, I like doing this, but I didn’t get to do what I need to and now i feel like-”

“What, you’ll lose?” Tashi’s eyes shoot open at that. Heaven had crouched down to her level, head tilted as she genuinely looked at her like she’s confused.  “Since when do you do that?” 

“What? Lose?” Tashi asks, staring into the deep brown eyes of her best friend.

“No, stop betting on yourself. You’re a tennis player, right? That’s what you are.” 

“W-yeah-”

“Okay, so you’ll win. Because you’re a tennis player and because you’re the best. Because you have to. Because its what you do.” Heaven gently pushes Tashi’s cheek with the knuckle of her pointer finger. “And because I don’t move my dance practices for people who don’t fucking win.”

“No pressure.”

“You’ll be fine.” Heaven shrugs. Tashi laughs, dropping her head forward. It almost alarms her how similar she and her best friend are in times like this. Heaven is genuinely her other half. She’s the only person who can demand that she show results and get away with it. Tashi respects her, she’s strong and yet understanding. She’s a perfectionist, and expects excellence, but she can meet her own expectations. With her, Tashi doesn’t feel like she has to run everything, she doesn’t have to carry her weight along with her own. She’s her equal. 

She may have grown up in a different kind of home, being an only child and not very close to either of her biological parents. She might be rich and spoiled. But she has what Tashi has. She knows it. The drive, the tunnel vision, the lust for her craft. 

Tashi remembers the first time she’d seen Heaven dance. The girl had shown up to the gym they used to hang out at, held her hand out to Tashi, and demanded she come watch her dance in one of the empty rooms. She’d said she’d watched Tashi play and it was only fair that she knew she was the best at something too. Tashi couldn’t have known what she was about to experience. The heart pounding, throat tightening feeling of watching someone change your life with every movement. Heaven’s eyes had been closed. It was like Heaven might as well have been alone. Everything had fallen away, including Tashi. It moved the young tennis player.

That was years ago, and now they were 16 and inseparable. They practice together, go on double dates, workout, and spend time with each other’s families. Mostly, they were themselves, not having to apologize to each torah about their passions. They were best friends. 

Which is why Tashi is shocked when she feels Heaven’s hand cup her cheek, her face moving impossibly close to hers, yet, their lips not touching, her eyes searching. “You’ll also win, because you’re Tashi.”

Blinking slowly, Tashi’s eyes flick between Heaven’s eyes and lips, her own parting slightly as she inches just a little bit closer, yet still refusing to be the one to close the distance. “What’re you doing? Trying to motivate me?”

“You need me to motivate you?”

“I’m always motivated.”

“Okay.” Heaven’s smile brushes Tashi’s mirrored one for a moment, causing both girls to shiver. “Then it’s not motivation.” She stands abruptly, swiping the grass that stuck to her legs with the morning dew away. “It’s just something to think about.” With that, Heaven turns on her heel, jokingly waving her slightly explicit, very encouraging sign in the air before calling over her shoulder. “Destroy that bitch. And then, I’ll take you out for ice cream.”

Before Tashi takes the final serve she sees Art coming through the fence. He sends her a soft smile and a wave before he moves along the edges of the court to avoid getting in their way. 

She hadn’t gotten to see a lot of him recently. Between classes, tennis and trying not to blow her brain out listening to Patrick bitch about tour, she hasn’t had time for much else. Yesterday she had four missed calls and no texts from Heaven when she’d gotten back from the courts. She offers him a smile back before serving the ball over the net.

When the match is done, Tashi watches on as her teammate pretends to whisper as she talks shit about her, taking a swig out of her water bottle before pushing it into her bag.

“Hey, you look good out there.”

Tashi looks up from her bag to see Art standing before her. He’d definitely gotten more defined in his time at Stanford. His muscles are more cut, his shirts a little tighter. And he seemed to have a little more swagger about him, his head a little cocked back as he addressed her, an easy smile on his face. And his win record was fucking great right now. It makes her think that maybe her assessment when she met him was right. He’s fucking good. Just terrified of his own best friend. Being out from Patrick’s shadow clearly agrees with him. “Thanks, stranger, it’s good to see you.”

“Oh, that’s my fault? I’m the campus celebrity that gets caught up signing her fans’ t-shirts on her way to class?” he jokes.

Tashi raises one shoulder noncommittally, sweeping her bag onto the other. “I hear the girls talking.”

“All talk, I swear.” He says, eyes widening. There’s the sheepish boy whose ears turn red at the drop of a hat.

“Hey, man, get your dick wet, I don’t care.” Tashi laughs, nudging Art before slipping past him. 

“Wait-” He calls from behind her, stepping into her path again. “Let’s catch up, we can get lunch at the dining hall.”

Tashi quirks an eyebrow, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. “On you?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Good, I’m out of points.

“So, thanks for lunch, it’s nice to see you.” Tashi smiles, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth. “What’s up?”

Art shifts in his seat. He doesn’t know what he’d been thinking. He’d gone to the courts to hit the ball a little but for some reason, as soon as he saw Tashi, he found himself inviting her to lunch. If anything, he should probably be avoiding her out of guilt or something. And he does…feel guilty. He’s buying her lunch as if the fact that he’s getting her a mediocre campus lunch makes up for the fact that he’d spent the night with his face between her girlfriend’s legs. 

It makes him wonder though. The fact that Tashi wasn’t tossing her gatorade into his face meant that Heaven probably didn’t tell her what happened. Maybe she plans to keep it a secret, and expects him to do the same. Maybe she freaked out and drove all the way back to UCLA, something he prayed didn’t happen because he was sort’ve banking on at least seeing her again later today. He knew he’d be forced to keep his distance, Patrick is coming at some point today and he knows if Heaven was still here, she wouldn’t give him the time of day in front of both of them.

Or maybe she did tell her. Maybe she told her that he’d said he loved her and Heaven and Tashi had a good laugh about it. Maybe Heaven promised that it hadn’t meant anything, and she was never going to let him near her like that again. 

The thought makes Art irritable. 

His mouth ticks downward as he sits back against the back of his plastic chair. “It’s nothing, I just wanted to catch up.”

“Mm, okay, well, Patrick and Heaven are supposed to be coming down later for the Pepperdine match, we should all get dinner or something.” 

That makes him freeze. So she doesn’t even know she was here. 

“If you want.”

Tashi’s fork hits her plate causing a plink sound to ring out in the air between them. “Okay, Art, this is fucking stupid.”

“What’s stupid? What’re you talking about?”

“Like you ask me to this lunch and then you’re being all weird-”

“I wanted to catch up with you, it’s not weird.”

She huffs, resting her elbows roughly on the table. “Just fucking say it. Spit it out.” 

He shouldn’t. Art’s not an idiot, he knows he shouldn’t. He should shut the fuck up. Or make something up. This line of conversation would lead to nothing but trouble and he should know better. He does know better. So, he’s not gonna say it. He’s gonna keep his mouth shut-

“I’m just surprised you guys are all still together, that’s all.”

If looks could kill, Art Donaldson would be dead and fucking buried. The icy stare that Tashi fixes him with has him slumping in exasperation with himself. He just couldn’t fucking help himself. Tashi’s brows furrow as her eyes move across his face almost rapidly, studying him. “Why?”

“I don’t…I’m just surprised. I just, like Patrick’s never-”

“Is he fucking other girls on tour or something? Like is this your way of trying to tell me?” 

“No, I don’t know, we don’t talk about that-”

“Bullshit.” Tashi rolls her eyes. “So what? There’s someone else? Or you feel like…like they’re fucking each other behind my back?”

“No, I don’t think Heaven is fucking Patrick behind your back.” Art scoffs jealously. This is where he fucked up. He shouldn’t have said her name. He knows he can’t say it normally, there’s always something behind it. Even Art can hear it. He adjusts his hat nervously as Tashi sits forward even more.

“I get it. You like her. That’s fine. She shows you attention. Fucking great. I bet it feels good. But Heaven isn’t going anywhere. Not without me. I know that, you know that. I’m gonna give you some advice because I’m actually a good friend. I know I sound like a bitch. I know it feels like I’m the mean one. But I’m actually showing you some grace. You don’t have what it takes to be with Heaven-”

“And Patrick does? He has what it takes to be with you two?”

“I do.” she asserts, scooting her chair out. “You might just be the worst friend in the world.”

The words cause a pang of pain that makes Art hang his head, eyes slipping closed. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.” Tashi scowls, grabbing her keys to leave.

“He’s not in love with you. Either of you.” He calls, squeezing his eyes shut, picking at his nails under the table, but keeping an even expression as Tashi rounds on the table again.

“What makes you think I want someone to be in love with me? Did I say I wanted someone to be in love with me?”

“No.”

“Okay.” she turns to exit again, stopping just short as Art’s word vomit fucks him over one more time.

“But Heaven does.” He says, scratching at his hair and dragging his eyes up to meet Tashi’s. “And she deserves it. You both do.”

Tashi snorts, meanly, crossing her arms over her chest, her large gray t-shirt wrinkles under how tightly she wraps her arms around herself. Her curls shake with her head as she looks down at him in disbelief. “You think because she gives you a crumb of pussy you know her better than me now? Don’t try to play me for her Art. I don’t lose.”

With that, Art watches as Tashi storms out of the cafeteria, her half eaten lunch sitting in front of the empty seat across from him and for the first time, he acknowledges that Patrick might not be the only opponent in his bracket.

“So, have you-uh, you been seeing anybody?” Art shoves his change in his pocket before balancing the two churros he’d bought in his hands, making his way back over to Patrick.

“What’re you talking about?” Patrick shifts on his stool, hooking his foot into the base of Art’s and tugging the chair closer as his friend plops down. “I’m taken. I think that Tashi and Heaven are making an honest man out of me.”

“Right.” Art laughs. 

“What, you don’t believe me? I really like them, man. They’re both good for me in different ways. I didn’t realize how good it could be having girlfriends.”

“Girlfriends? Is that what you are to each other?”

“Yes, actually, that’s exactly what we are.” Patrick chuckles, taking a bite of his churro, “What did they say something?”

“No, not really,” Art shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I just had lunch with Tashi earlier, like we talk sometimes, and it just doesn’t seem like she’s taking it as something serious, you know?”

“Is that right?”

“I dunno man, it just gave that vibe. And like, Heaven, what do you two really have in common?”

“What? Aside from being hot for each other you mean?” Patrick smirks, flicking Art’s hat. 

The muscle in Art’s jaw jumps at that as he involuntarily grits his teeth at the vision of Patrick being with Heaven, touching her, knowing her in the way he does, or worse, knowing her better. “I can’t help but think she might want something more than that and I know that’s not really your style is all. Just don’t want you to get hurt.” He mumbles, staring out of the large window in front of them.

Patrick scoffs and nods to himself before pushing out of his seat, leaning over Art, wrapping his arm around his shoulders as he presses his forehead to his. “You little fucking snake. I’d be doing the exact same thing, I’m almost proud of you.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Sure.” Patrick says smugly, popping the rest of his churro into his mouth before snatching Art’s, taking a bite and holding it out for the blond to do the same. “Planting seeds of doubt, smart.”

“I would never do anything to sabotage your relationship, I’m just looking out for you.” Art says breezily, brushing sugar from Patrick’s lips.

“Hm, sure,” Patrick gets a text, slipping his phone out of his pocket, he grins at his phone, smile going even wider when he sees Art trying to nonchalantly peek at the device from his seat. “Hev’s here. You know this just makes it hotter for me right? Knowing you’re here, pining for them. Scheming and shit.”

“Fuck you, m’not scheming, I’m very happy that you managed to scam your way into two girlfriends, Patrick.”

“This is good. It’s nice to see you all lit up about something, I miss that. Even if it is my girlfriends.” The two men stop for a beat and think about the situation they’re in and suddenly they find themselves laughing. It’s crazy. They’ve only ever liked the same girl once before in their lives, and they were kids then. It is absolutely insane now that they both have feelings for not one but two girls. Maybe normal friends would be able to share. They’d each pick a girl and that would be it. But something about this situation was different. Beyond the fact that both of them thought both of the girls were too amazing to pass up, there's an added layer in the conflict, because they both had a fear they didn’t want to address. 

Each girls’ feelings for them are conditional. There is no Tashi Duncan without Heaven Whitlock. There is no Heaven Whitlock without Tashi Duncan. Where one goes the other follows. That’s why none of their boyfriends and girlfriends ever worked out. They tried to divide them. But the grip the two women had on each other was too strong. Even if they could come to an agreement, if Patrick and Art decided they preferred one girl to the other, it wouldn’t matter. The two of them will always choose each other, and would always expect everyone else to fall in line.

It’s a sobering thought for both of them as they sit in the empty cafeteria, silence falling between them. Patrick feels his mind drift somewhere it seemed to be going a lot lately. He wonders if he and Art have the kind of relationship Tashi and Heaven do. Obviously they don’t fuck each other, though he’s pretty sure he’s made it clear before he’s down to hookup. But the loyalty. 

They’re best friends. Fire and Ice. It’s not lost on him that despite the fact that his friend clearly has some strong feelings for his girlfriends, they’re still friends. He still checks in on him. They’re still happy to see each other. Art still feels like Art. And Patrick’s grateful for it. So he can overlook some of the snarky comments, the glares over his shoulder, the questioning of their relationship. As long as things ultimately stayed the same between him and Art, Patrick would be fine. He pats his friend on the shoulder, getting up from the stool, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Walk me over.”

“You look pretty.”

“You look pretty too.” Tashi hums, leaning over and kissing Heaven deeply. When the two girls pull apart Tashi pushes her hands under Heaven’s large red t-shirt, running her hands along the skin of her stomach. Her brow arches as she looks down at the girl. “Art give you this shirt?”

“Tashi-”

“I know it didn’t mean anything.” Tashi says lowly, glancing over at the bathroom door, careful not to let Patrick hear the conversation. “He’s pressed though, so, what do you like him or something? Like are you over Patrick?”

It didn’t not mean anything.  “It’s fine, I…just couldn’t get you on the phone and Patrick was busy, so…it, I was just having a bad day.” Heaven breathes, bringing Tashi’s hand to her lips and kissing her palm. “Sorry.”

“Fair is fair, I’ve hooked up with both of them, now you have too.” Tashi shrugs. As much as her face is fixed in an uncaring expression, Heaven can tell she’s bothered by the fact that Heaven had been messing with Art. She’d never even addressed that she’d gone to visit Patrick without her again. Heaven wants to talk to her about these feelings she has. She wants to tell her that these guys are different from the others for her, and she thinks they are for Tashi too. The knob turns on the bathroom door and Patrick comes out, pulling his shirt over his head.

But now is not the time.

“Starting without me?” Patrick jokes, leaning down and kissing Tashi’s knee as he wraps a hand around Heaven’s ankle, causing her to squeal as he tugs her down closer to him. “Missed you.” He murmurs against Tashi’s skin before pulling away to capture Heaven’s lips. “Both of you.”

“Yeah?” Tashi smiles, sitting up and planting her hand on Patrick’s chest, pushing him down onto the mattress. He sits back, staring at the two women sitting on their knees in front of him. Tashi climbs into his lap leaning over and kissing Heaven one more time before she sinks down beside Patrick, kissing along his jaw. 

Patrick reaches over and tugs at Heaven’s shirt, unable to get it off from beside her so she sits up, pulling the shirt off and tossing it. His eyes trail after the fabric as his face takes on a confused expression. “That’s Art’s shirt?”

Heaven sits up, wide-eyed as she exchanges a look with Tashi. “Uh, yeah, he gave it to me earlier.”

“Earlier. Right,” he shifts his gaze to Tashi, letting her guide his face back to hers. “When were you guys gonna tell me about him?”

“He’s your best friend. I figured you knew.” Tashi hums against the skin on his cheek as Heaven kisses his lips. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” he mumbles against Heaven’s lips, pulling  back and watching as Heaven assists Tashi in getting her shirt off. “I’m the one who won the match. What do I need to be jealous of Art for?”

“Well,” Heaven kisses Patrick’s neck, murmuring her words against his jaw. “He’s smart, and handsome-” her hand slips down in the space between Tashi’s legs and Patricks, she relishes in the gasps they both release. 

“And really fucking good at tennis.” Tashi cuts in.

“He’s always been very good.” Patrick grunts, burying his fingers at the base of the loose braid in Tashi’s hair. 

“But he’s gotten better since he got here. I mean he’s really fucking good.”

Heaven’s brows furrow as she hears Tashi’s whispers. Was this really the time to be talking about Art? Hell, since when did Tashi have such a good fucking glowing review of him? Literally minutes ago she was dismissively saying that she knew hooking up with him would mean nothing. If she was trying to make Patrick jealous she should know the mission was already accomplished. As soon as they started talking about Art, he started kissing them a little rougher, gripping them a little tighter. “He’s never beaten me. We’re not still playing for your numbers. I won.” Patrick laughs. 

“He’s been working hard.” Heaven blurts. Both her boyfriend and girlfriend look at her as she crosses his arms. “It’s just like, are we gonna hold that shit over him forever, he’s our friend.”

Tashi purses her lips, looking between the two of them. “See? This is your problem. You always think the match is over before it is. It’s why you’ve still got that serve.”

“Jesus, Tashi-”

“Are we talking about tennis right now?” Patrick asks, eyebrows raised.

“I’m always talking about tennis.” She huffs, sitting up straight, still perched on his lap. Heaven rolls her eyes, knowing exactly where this is going. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she snatches Art’s shirt off of the floor and storms into the bathroom.

Patrick gestures toward the bathroom exasperatedly. “Could we not?” 

Tashi tilts her head from one side to the other, cracking her neck before chirping out a short, “Sure.” Climbing off of him she grabs a fresh t-shirt from her drawer and pulling it over her head. “Don’t know what else there is for us to talk about-”

“Maybe we should talk about the fact that she’s wearing Art’s shirt and neither of us knew when she got here.” Patrick follows the two girls off of the bed, standing in the middle of the floor between the bathroom door and where Tashi was rolling out her yoga mat.

“Heaven’s attracted to winners.” Tashi squats deeply on her yoga mat, not bothering to even look at Patrick out of the corner of her eyes. “So am I.”

“So what are you trying to say?”

“Art’s been winning, that’s all.” She says passively, standing into a tree pose.

“And so she’s cheating on us because Art’s getting better at tennis?”

Tashi fixes Patrick with a sharp look. “She’s not cheating on me. But if you want to confront her, go ahead, be my guest.”

“Yeah, fine I will.” Patrick takes two long strides and bangs at the bathroom door. “Hev. Can you come out here?” The door creaks open and the girl is fully dressed, still wearing Art’s shirt and a pair of shorts. “You’re dressed.”

“Yeah, imma head out, see you guys at the match.”

“Patrick wants to talk to you about Art.” Tashi says, moving into her lunges. 

“Now’s not the time, Tashi has a match.” Heaven shrugs, grabbing Tashi’s water bottle and taking a drink.

“And you don’t think it’s important to talk about this now?” 

“I tried to talk to you.” She sighs, “But I’m not gonna throw her off right before the match.”

“So this is still about tennis? Are you fucking serious?” He looks at the blank stares that both girls offer him and throws his arms out. “This is fucking crazy. So, you’re messing with Art because I lost a couple matches on tour?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Heaven frowns, crossing her arms. 

“I’m saying I don’t need a fake fan for a girlfriend who's gonna mess with a different guy every time I go through a rough patch.”

“A rough patch?” Heaven scoffs. “Patrick, I’m having a rough patch. A rough patch is a bad day at practice, not your shitty win-loss record. Look, I’m sorry about the fucking shirt, okay? I’m sorry I went to see him, I’m sorry for this stupid fucking conversation, so take this-” She wrenches Art’s shirt over her head, and tosses it on the bed, grabbing one of Tashi’s instead. She looks at the girl with a scowl on her face. “You did this on purpose. I’ll see you guys at the match.”

Patrick watches in disbelief as Heaven has the audacity to be the one storming out and turns back to a still stretching Tashi. “I don’t need a coach for a girlfriend either.”

“Seems like you do.” She sighs, stretching her back. “Look, what is it you think you need from me, Patrick? Like really? There are plenty of girls who’d like to be your little girlfriend, cheerleader, whatever. You’re cute, you’re rich, you’ve got a big dick, go be with them. I get it, you’re living the dream, having two fucking girls but, Heaven and I actually expect results, so, I dunno. It’s kinda embarrassing, if you suck.”

“I suck now? I’m sorry not all of us are running around playing against Suzy Country Club, calling ourselves the Duncanator.” 

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t see you harassing Heaven about skipping rehearsal to come see me.”

“Heaven’s a fucking professional. Doesn’t embarrass me.” Tashi scratches her ear as she sits on the floor. “Do you know how much of a fucking waste of time it is for us take turns sitting through listening to you bitch about how you’re being cheated out on tour?”

“Sorry for inconveniencing you.”

“You are actually.”

Patrick crouches next to her, face close to hers as she faces forward with a blank look. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m beneath you two, I’m not desperate for you to like me, I’m not Art. I’m your boyfriend, not a member of your fan club.”

He stands and Tashi quickly follows, scowling at him as she stands almost nose to nose. “You’re not a member of my fan club?”

Patrick stands his ground, staring down at her. “I’m your peer.”

Tashi scoffs, laughing humorously. “Look, I’m just warning you, if you lose her, it’ll be your fault. And I’ll go with her.” Patrick curls his lip, sneering at that. He knew that. He knows that. But to hear her say it. Like its a given. The verbal confirmation that he’s valued less has his blood boiling. “I don’t have time for this, I’ll just see you at the match.”

“You don’t get to just dismiss me.” Patrick huffs, grabbing the shirt Tashi had shed and pulling it over his own head. “I don’t need this shit.”

The pieces of Tashi’s hair that had fallen out of her braid blow into her face as the door slams shut, and all she can do is try to regulate her breathing as she thinks that she somehow lost another point because there were too many balls in play.

Heaven’s leg jumps as she sits in the bleachers at the school match. She watches students climb into the stands, decked out in ‘Duncanator’ attire. She’s fucked everything up. With Tashi. She’s pissed. She knows she is. Her even voice and blank stare is something Heaven knows well. And now she’s digging shit up with Patrick. 

She knows it’s her fault. No matter how sad she was she knows she had no business hanging out with Art. Not while he…feels the way he feels about her. Not while she feels the way she does. She clearly can’t handle even being his friend. One minute she’s just running into him, or alone with him by happenstance, or just calling to chat. The next he’s looking at her the way he does and her mind is foggy. 

She needs to do better. Patrick and Tashi deserve better. Art deserves better than half of her. So she’s going to keep her distance. 

In her peripheral view she sees blond hair moving up the stands towards her and immediately curses whatever god decided to make a joke of her today. She can feel Art’s intense gaze burn into her skin as he moves to sit in the seat next to her, pausing briefly, choosing to put one empty seat between them. 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He says softly, eyes on her as she faces forward determinedly.

“You aren’t.”

“You won’t look at me.” His voice cracks on the last word and on the side opposite of him, Heaven grips the bottom of the bleachers, willing herself not to face him. “It’s because of what I said.”

Yes. “No.”

“Yes.” Art breathes. “I know I fucked it up. But I just…care about you. A lot.” 

“I care about you too.” Heaven sighs. “But-”

“What would it take?” He blurts, shifting completely in his seat to face her. “I’m just…he won and that’s fine but it was a stupid fucking game, so, what do I need a rematch or something, because I’ll win this time. Heaven, I’d win this time.”

“Art, we can’t talk about this okay? Patrick’s-”

“Not coming. He isn’t coming.” The blond man shrugs, sitting back in his seat, still watching the girl beside him. “I came, Heaven.” 

“It’s complicated. I shouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place. I’m fucking up. Even now, sitting here, I’m fucking up. You’re confusing me, a-and distracting me. It’s not like that with them, and I’m…I can’t come running to you crying with my problems every time I’m upset. It’s not fair to you-”

“I want you to come to me.”

“It’s not fair to them. And…I’m gonna stop, Art. We’re going to stop.”

Before Art can say anything the crowd starts cheering loudly, everyone jumping to their feet apart from him and Heaven. He just stares at her. It’s as if he could blink and she’d be gone. He feels her pulling away, and it’s causing him to panic. He nervously picks at his fingers, chest rising and falling rapidly as he sifts through his brain, anything he could do or say, just for a glance, he just needs her eyes. Just for a little bit. Just one more time. He didn’t know what to do. What to convince her. He could be so much better for her. He would do anything. He could be anything, if she’d just look at him. He’d show her he could earn her attention. Her love. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t notice the match started. Art watches Heavens pupils focus on one side of the court. He knows who’s over there. He knows who’s getting the attention he’s begging for. But she has his. Even like this, breaking his heart, she’s beautiful. The sad look on her face hardly affected her beautiful features. Her unbreaking focus makes her look otherworldly to him. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve been able to appreciate her passion, even if it wasn’t directed at him. 

A pained wail finally pulls Art’s attention away from Heaven. 

Studies say that the color of pain is red.

Studies are fucking right. Red is all Tashi fucking sees when her body decides to betray her and her knee absolutely snaps in half. The entire rest of her is numb as her knee screams and she feels her dreams start slipping away. It’s not fair.

Hurting this bad is not fair. That’s what really has her screaming out into the air. Several sets of eyes locked on her as she writhes on the court. The crowd had the fucking audacity to gasp when she went down. Oh you’re shocked? Me fucking too.

Quick footsteps make their way to her and she hears a man’s voice as she feels her head being lifted from on top of her racket and onto someone’s lap. “Tashi, Tashi-”

“Get that fucking camera out of her face, now! Fucking idiot!” There are two more steps and the sound of something sliding on the ground next to her. Suddenly, she feels a soft hand on her jaw. “T, you gotta breathe, babe, you have to breathe or you’ll pass out.” 

The softness of Heaven’s voice makes her cry even harder as she tries to lean her head toward her. “You shouldn’t move, Tashi.” 

Art. He’s here. Of course he is…Heaven’s here. But, still, as he smooths his hands over her hair, she thinks, he’s here. Despite what she’d said to him, he came. He’s here, after she yelled at him, holding her, lifting her gently to carry her to the infirmary. And Patrick was nowhere to be found. When she finally opens her eyes, she turns her head to focus her wet eyes on Heaven who was holding her hand over Art’s shoulder. Through her tear soaked lashes she can see the way Heaven was looking at him. And suddenly, she realized that she was too late in what she warned Patrick of. He’d already lost her. He was a sinking ship. Losing Heaven, fighting with her right before a match, not showing up. He’s unstable, unable to follow the course Tashi was charting. And she refuses to go down with him.

“Tashi, Tashi listen-”

“Out! Patrick out!”

“Just listen to me, Heaven talk to her-”

“Don’t fucking talk to her.” Tashi yells from the medical examination bed they had her wrapped leg hoisted up on. She points to the door again with venom. “Out!”

“Patrick-” Heaven starts, biting her nails from her seat next to Tashi, holding her hand with the other, Tashi whips her head to look at her, a teardrop escaping from her eye causes the girl to go quiet, sweeping her thumb across her girlfriend’s cheek. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, just listen-”

“Patrick get the fuck out!”

The outburst even startles Heaven. She turns her head to see Art standing from his seat, breathing heavily, fists clenched. Patrick’s face absolutely drops as he takes one slow step backward before turning and leaving the room entirely. 

As soon as he leaves Tashi’s head falls back against the pillow, bottom lip shaking as he stares up at the ceiling. She attempts to disguise a sob as a sharp breath and Heaven hops down from the examination bed, ignoring Art’s soft call of her name and Tashi’s wide eyed look.

“Hey!” Heaven rushes out into the hallway, eyes burning from sterile white lights and drying tears. “Hey! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” 

“Look, your girlfriend and boyfriend told me to go so-”

“So…so you’re just gonna leave? Fucking loser” She huffs, shaking her head at Patrick. Her lip curls as she sees him standing there in Tashi’s shirt. He’s breathing heavily, eyes narrowed at her disapproval. “Gimme her fuckin��� shirt back.”

Patrick scoffs, wrenching the fabric over his head, tossing it roughly at Heaven’s feet. “Here, give it to Art. Guess it’s his turn with you now-”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” she whisper-yells, not flinching at all as Patrick walks up on her, his nose nearly touching hers.

“I know you’re fucking him.” He says, a mean, rueful smirk on his face. “We know you’re fucking him.”

Heaven swallows hard. Clenching her teeth and looking back toward the door, praying that Art and Tashi weren’t hearing this conversation. Her voice betrays her as her heart drums against her chest. “You don’t know anything.”

“She’s done with me, so, so are you. That’s how this works, right?” He challenges, not moving an inch as she turns back to him. “You’re her bitch.”

“I’m her bitch?” Heaven laughs humorously, tossing her head back, looking up at the ceiling. “You’re a fucking fan.”

“I’m a fan? Yeah, no, sweetheart, wrong boyfriend-”

“No, you’re a fucking fan, Patrick. It’s how you met Tashi, it’s how you met me, it’s why you’re about to cry like a little bitch because Art yelled at you, God for-fucking-bid-”

“Is that all?”

“No. And you’re a bum. You’re talented but it’s a fucking waste, why don’t you go out there and win something, instead of watching everyone else achieve shit and scoffing like a pretentious prick. And then you won’t waste all your time shitting on people for actually working for something.”

The brown haired man sucks on his teeth, nodding along. “My turn yet?” Heaven just places her hands on her hips as the man moves closer. “You know what, Hev, maybe you’re right. Maybe that shit is true. But you’re looking in a mirror, baby. You’re just like me. You might go to your fancy school and you’re a hell of a dancer but at the end of the day you learned to like tennis for her. You came here for her. You like me, you like Art, but you’re so fucking scared of her being unhappy that you can’t move. Everytime we fight it’s over her. Do you even know what you want?”

Heaven sniffs, looking off to the side as Patrick smoothes back some of the hair from her ponytail fell into her face, his palm slightly soothing the headache that had formed the moment Tashi hit the ground. “I didn’t tell you to leave, Patrick.” 

“Alright, so come with me.”

“What?”

Patrick leans on the wall staring at her, daring her. “Come with me.” He watches as Heaven wraps her arms around herself, brows furrowing, and scoffs at her again. “We both know you’re going back in that room.” 

“Yeah.” she nods. “I am. And you’re fucking pathetic if you don’t come with me.” 

“And do what?”

Heaven’s hand fists in the baggy shirt, propelling her up slightly so they could be more face-to-face. The disgusted look on her face is evident as she stares him down, pretty feature’s dancing with rage. “You broke her, you fix her.” 

Patrick’s face softens as he looks at Heaven. There’s emotion behind the anger, the fear. There’s desperation. She’s desperate for a solution, desperate to help Tashi, one way or another. Right now, it's clear nothing else mattered in Heaven’s eyes. It's clear that she blames him.

He brings his hand down to the raw, bleeding skin of Heaven’s knee, cupping the back of it. “That looks bad-”

Heaven knocks his hand away, lip quivering as she pleads with him through brown eyes. “Are you gonna fix it?” All it takes is a look. And then she’s shoving away from him, storming her way back to the room, sending him one last scowl of disappointment before slamming the door behind her. “Fucking pussy.”

“What the fuck did you chase him for?” Tashi calls harshly from the padding. “Heaven.”

Heaven just silently limps in, trying hard to mask the pain in her own knee. It’s nothing like Tashi’s. It’s not even worth dealing with. Not when Tashi is in pain like that. She simply sits on the edge of the pad, careful to sit on the side that Tashi’s isn’t injured on. Her eyes slip closed as she leans up, pressing her forehead to hers. “S’okay. M’gonna fix it.” she promises. “This doesn’t…it’s not over. We’re gonna fucking fix it.”

Art’s jaw sets as he looks away. It felt like he was intruding on a moment between the two women. He hears Tashi’s faint sniffles mixing with whatever Heaven was quietly whispering in her ear. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. He was worried for Tashi. Heartbroken for her. Laying in the bed, with an injury like that…he just doesn’t know. 

But all he could focus on is that damn drop of blood traveling from Heaven’s leg and splattering on the cold, white floor. The pink flesh showing from where she’d skinned herself, for her. She won’t just look at him. 

As he watches Heaven tend to the injured girl, Tashi’s words from the day before echo in his mind. But that damn drop of blood. He can't help himself. So he stays.

When the pain drugs finally force Tashi to sleep, Art’s had enough. 

Heaven was just…sitting there, watching Tashi sleep, running her hands over her hair with one hand, holding her hand with the other. He watches as she runs her thumb over Tashi’s forehead, staring blankly and biting her lip.

He takes a deep breath before whispering. “Hey, let me wrap that for you.”

“Wrap what?”

Does she really not feel it? She has to. The adrenaline had to have worn off, and she was limping when she came in. That scrape had to hurt like a bitch. 

“Your…your leg, Hev, let me wrap it.” Art says softly, pushing off of the chair and walking around to the side of the bed she’s sitting on. “It looks like it hurts.”

Heaven doesn’t look up from Tashi as she quietly shakes her head no, opting to continue combing her fingers in Tashi’s now loose hair. 

“Baby, c’mon-”

“I said no.” Heaven snaps, whipping her head to look at him briefly before turning back to Tashi. “Don’t call me that.”

Don’t try to play me for her. I don’t lose.

Art steadies himself before stepping closer, wordlessly holding his hand out to Heaven. He knows what he’s hoping for. He wants her to take it. But he also knows what he expects. 

So he’s shocked when he feels a soft hand in his. 

She’s still sitting. Still holding Tashi’s hand with her other one, but she took his. He has to do the rest. He knows that. Her eyes tell him that’s the only step she’ll take today. It’s been a rough one. For both of them. 

So he pulls, and she stands, and he scoops her up. Hands holding the backs of her thighs as he lifts her, eyes locked on hers as she flinches, once, as her hand pulls from Tashi’s grasp. Art sits Heaven on the infirmary counter and digs around in drawers until he finds alcohol wipes, gauze and band-aids. 

He makes work of her injury slowly, taking his time as he crouches in front of her. Art cleans the torn skin with the alcohol wipe, blowing cool air on it to soothe the sting, looking up at her through his lashes as he cleans her. He holds her thigh as he adds the gauze and band-aid, relishing in the feeling of her eyes on him. Only him. 

Finally, when he’s done, he stops her from hopping down and retreating back to Tashi’s side, bringing the injured knee to his lips and placing long, deep kisses to it, all while giving her his eyes. He watches as different emotions flash across her face as he murmurs sweet nothings and prayers into her knee, allowing herself to be soothed for a moment.

Before long she’s swallowing back her own tears that draw him up to her, determined to catch them on his finger and chasing them with his lips along her cheeks and jaw. He gently pushes her hair back before bringing his lips to her ear, holding her close. “I know, baby, I know.”

“I-” her voice cracks and Art feels her drop her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“What can I do? How can I make it better?”

She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut and curling into him completely. “I wish it was my fucking leg. Instead…instead of hers.”

“Don’t say that.” He breathes. “Heaven-”

He stops. He was going to say something else. She says something else, her words mumbled against his skin. But Art misses it. 

Because all he can focus on is Tashi’s staring from the bed as he sees the reflection in the mirror.

[growntolovesecrecyfic]

Grown to Love Secrecy - Chapter Two (Petekey)

Can be read here.

Summary:  Mikey Way hates Oscar Wilde but Pete Wentz convinces him to read The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Chapter Two: Walking on Fire

--

Pete spent a lot of summers in cramped vans, and hotel rooms with sweaty dudes and expensive musical instruments and this summer is no different. The slight homoerotic tension between Pete and almost every dude he’s ever met is strong, not that Pete or any of his friends minded.

They all kiss sometimes and most of the time the press pays not mind as it’s not that big of a deal and other times tabloids have him and his friend kissing on the front cover everywhere with the F-slur painted across in bright red telling the world, “Hey, look! Pete Wentz kisses dudes!”

The tabloids have a lot to say and quite frankly, he doesn’t care anymore. All press is good press, right?

Pete spits into the sink of the Walmart bathroom that other bands from Warped have occupied that morning. Today was Patrick’s day on the bus bathroom.

He rinsed his mouth and stepped aside, letting Andy take the sink for his own routine. He walks over to the wall where Joe is and leans against it. The eggshell-colored wall was cooled against his hot skin after being out in the Dallas heat.

“Hey, man.” Joe greeted Pete to which he responded with a nod, “so any plans for after our set?” Pete thought for a moment, remembering that he did in fact have plans with Mikey tonight. Not that anybody in the band needed to know that.

“No, not that I know of. You?” Pete asked while fiddling with the drawstrings of his clandestine pajama pants. Joe shrugged before responding, “Just regular life on the Warped, you know?”

Pete nods and they exchange some more small talk and soon enough, Andy joins them, and they’re ready to take on Warped.

As they exit the Walmart, they pass families whose kids stare in adoration and parents stare in disgust. It’s not that uncommon for people to recognize them. Fall Out Boy was getting big fast and it did stress them out as they felt the pressures from their record label to push out a new album as soon as possible to keep the momentum going. Warped is their salvation for that summer. No record label, you’re constantly busy doing the thing you love and sometimes you’re in bumfuck nowhere and nobody knows who you are, those are the best kind of places.

After walking out into the parking lot, the trio realize that they’ll need to find some place to eat before their set that morning. They have three hours to kill before practice and without a car and Patrick still on the bus, it is their civic duty to fuel up now and get Patrick something he’ll like, like oatmeal or something.

And later that morning when Pete met a fan who was uncontrollably crying and threw up on his shoes, he could tell that it was going to be a painfully long day.

And he was right. After their set, they met with some fans and he had some run ins with some reporter asking about Jeanae or whatever her name was. He chooses to forget those years in his life. He ignores her texts, fake pregnancy positives and whatever sexual favor she asks of him that day. It’s been pissing him off that entire day and he wanted to let off steam. The only positive that came from that day was Patrick buying him some new underwear for a late birthday gift and his new fuckbuddy, Mikey Way. He promised to meet with him tonight and Mikey told him that the bus was empty. Pete feels that he’ll finally cop a feel tonight.

Laughter and The Smiths fills the My Chemical Romance bus however the guys were nowhere to be found except for a pair of boys at the back of the bus on the floor, “Rusty? Really?” Mikey asked and Pete just responded with grin and nodded enthusiastically.

Mikey shook his head, “Nuh-uh, I don’t believe it one bit. You don’t even look like a Rusty!” Mikey accused.

“Dude trust me! I would have been Rusty Wentz!” Pete cringed a bit at the thought but turned into a fit of laughter after seeing Mikey clutch his stomach and roll over on his side, hand covering his mouth trying to contain his laughter.

After a few minutes, the laughter finally died down. Mikey removing his glasses to wipe his eyes and Pete coughed as he tried to catch his breath before something caught his eye.

“What’s that, Mikeyway?” Pete asked. He points at an object to show to Mikey where it is.

Mikey turns to see where Pete was point at, “Oh, that’s some book that Gerard has been trying to get me to read but never did.” He answers as he gets up and gets it from his bunk. He sits on his bed and goes through the pages, “I have beef with Oscar Wilde.”

Pete chortles at Mikey’s last statement as he sits on the bed next to him, “Yeah? I love him. He’s one of my favorite writers.”

Mikey looks up at older man, furrowing his brows and slowly handing him the book, “Really? Never thought you were the type.”

“To what? Read?” Pete joked.

Mikey was quick to defend himself, “No! I never thought you were into this type of literature. It’s darker and like a horror, I guess? I think that’s why Gerard likes it so much.” He moves closer to Pete, hesitant to lay his head on his shoulder but swallows his doubts and gently place his cheek against his right shoulder.

Pete smiled, eyes moving from the book and on Mikey now, “Do you mind if I read this to you? Maybe I can learn you a thing or two.” His grin was wider now, and Mikey couldn’t help but smile back at him. He loves this. He loves that it’s them. Them alone. And with him.

“Sure. Maybe you can teach me how to love Oscar Wilde at the end of this?” Mikey asks. Pete only laughs, “I can’t teach you to that. It’s up to you if you want to love him. You chose to hate him so why not choose to love him?” Pete asked, his eyes back on the book.

“Well, we can’t choose who we love now, can we?” Mikey asked. It was more of a question for himself rather than Pete. He’s had this struggle within himself for a long time. The first boy he’s ever kissed was his best friend in 8th grade and they haven’t talked since. He’s been quiet about their whole fight and why he came back home with a black eye (and broken heart).

Pete stilled at Mikey’s question then resumed to his reading. He turns to the preface, “Do you wanna start here?” Pete asks Mikey in a whisper. He nods and Pete continues, “The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.”

Mikey raises his head from Pete’s shoulder, raising his eyebrows, “Hm, wow. That’s kind of deep?” He readjusts himself, “Do you mind if I put my head on your lap?”

Pete smirks, “I mean… What do you plan on doing down there?”

Mikey didn’t get it immediately but lightly smacks Pete on the arm when he does, “Dude! No! I’m not that type of guy.” He exclaimed, his cheeks and nose turning pink. Pete laughs in response, rubbing his arm.

“I don’t believe that, Mikeyway. I’ve heard the rumors about you.” Pete shook his head and set the book down, placing a hand on Mikey’s thigh.

Mikey froze up a bit. What rumors? Why is his hand there? Why is he feeling so lightheaded? The warm knot in his stomach is forming slowly but surely. That can’t be good, right?

“Uhm, wh-what rumors?” Mikey asked. He’s genuinely confused, being behind Gerard’s shadow for most of his life he didn’t know that people cared enough about him to start rumors about him.

“Oh, you know.” he grinned at Mikey, moving closer to him. He put his other hand on Mikey’s other thigh, moving them both up slowly. Mikey’s breath hitched and Pete took this as a ‘yes’.

Mikey shook his head. He didn’t know.

“The ones about how you’re always willing to fuck after a show and your tight jeans no underwear combo,” Pete stops when his face was inches away from Mikey and whispers, “I just wanna know if it’s true.”

He leans in closer, capturing Mikey’s lips into his own. Mikey let out a small gasp in shock before Pete does so. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Yes, Pete and he kissed before but not like this. He couldn’t.

He moved his head away from Pete and pushed him off.

Pete was confused, Mikey never did that before. He looked at him and tried to read his face, but it was confusing him.

“Uh, did I do something wrong?”

Mikey’s heart was pounding so hard and fast, he didn’t really know what to say. He wanted to kiss Pete but he’s so confused. What rumors? Who’s saying those things? Nothing could leave his mouth. It was all different thoughts racing through his brain that day.

He shakes his head and brings Pete’s mouth back to his again.

[howtolistentomusic]

There's a radio sitting atop a pile of boxes. I grab it and hand it over to Carlos. He sets the device on the edge of the container and pushes the power button. We're greeted with a burst of static. He fiddles with the tuner until he stumbles upon "Wicked" by Future. 

"Aw yeah!" he says as he turns the volume way up. "Some real music! Anthony, take notes!"

"I'm insulted by the implication that I don't listen to hip-hop."

"You bump 2Pac between Justin Bieber songs?" David says.

"Hell yeah I do!"

"Guacha!" David says. 

Pronounced as if a stressed "ah" sound is added at the end of the English word watch, guacha is a Spanish verb for "look." Informally, though, it means something more like I approve! It's typically complimentary though it often carries a connotation of surprise that can come off as condescending. Against all odds, David basically said to me, I'm impressed. Welcome to the big boys club.

"2Pac is the greatest rapper of all time," Carlos says.

"Well, I don't know about that."

Don't get me wrong. I genuinely do like 2Pac. I grew up in Southern California, after all. But the GOAT? There's no way. He's a compelling figure for many reasons but too many others can rap circles around him.

"Listen to All Eyez On Me," Carlos says.

"Illmatic is better."

"What the fuck is that?"

It's the classic and hugely influential debut album by Nas, in case you're rooming with Carlos and Patrick Star.

"Life's a bitch and then you die!" Ruben sings.

"That's why we get high! 'Cause you never know when you're gonna go!"

"Damn, Ant!" David says. "Who would have thought?" 

It's unclear whether he recognizes "Life's a Bitch", Illmatic's track three stunner, or if he's simply surprised that I made a weed reference. 

"What else are you bumping?" David asks.

"Wu-Tang. Souls of Mischief. Big L—"

"The Based God?" Carlos says. "He fucking sucks!"

"That's Lil B, dumbass."

Dude doesn't know Big L from Lil B and he's never heard Illmatic. And yet here he is, trying to lecture me about hip-hop. Get the fuck out of here.

"Whatever. You're fucking old," Carlos says.

Touché. But I'm trying to keep up. I'm certainly on the Playboi Carti and Lil Uzi Vert bandwagons. "wokeuplikethis*" and "XO Tour Lif3" are great. I have a hard time understanding the appeal of Migos though.

Carlos grabs some bags from the edge of the container. When he turns to dump them into the proper gaylords, I glance at the radio. It's beckoning like a glowing pickup in a video game. I can't resist. Being cool is overrated anyways.

I tune to Live 105.5. "Good For You" by Selena Gomez is playing. 

"Hell yes!" I say.

My coworkers laugh.

"Of course you would listen to this bullshit!" Carlos says.

Bullshit? Ok, I get it. So it's totally cool to want to fuck Selena Gomez. It's totally cool to mime and graphically detail the sexual acts you'd perform on her if given the chance, as a few of the guys did a while back when a Spring Breakers DVD came through the warehouse. Respecting the art she creates, though? Nah. Too much.

"Wanna show you how proud I am to be yours," I sing. "Leave this dress a mess on the floor!"

Two yeas ago one of my favorite music writers, Katherine St. Asaph, wrote some brilliant work inspired by "Good for You". Her Singles Jukebox blurb, in which she rates the song a 9 out of 10, is a masterpiece. And in a review of Revival for Time Magazine, she vividly wrote that the song "makes looking good for her man sound like searing a part of herself dead." Despite such a convincing case for the song's merits, however, I can't bring myself to like "Good For You" all that much. It's boring and rote and I totally prefer "Hands to Myself". In a place like this, though, I'll fucking take it. After all, remaining myself while simultaneously playing "dude" well enough to avoid ostracization by my coworkers is a balance I struggle with every time I step foot into this warehouse, so it feels really good to fill the room with a piece of my world for once while these fuckers are forced to deal with it.

"I just wanna look good for ya, good for ya," I sing. "Uh huh."

"Alright," Carlos says as the song winds down. "It's over." 

He tunes the radio back to hip-hop just as Anna screams "Break!"

"Fuck," Carlos says as he turns off the device. ***

As usual, I beat the entire crew back to the dock. I hop into the container, turn on the radio and adjust the station.

"Reck a less bee hayve YA ah!" the radio pronounces.

Zayn Malick! Totally over One Direction, rhyming.

"Turn that shit up!" Donald says as the guys finally find their way back to roll-off. "This is my jam!"

"Let's start a boy band, Donald!" I say.

"I'm down!" 

David laughs. Carlos shakes his head.

"I'm seeing the pain, seeing the pleasure," Donald sings. He's not kidding; he genuinely seems to like this song. "Nobody but you, 'body but me, 'body but us, bodies together!"

While I'm thrilled to have a temporary companion in poptimism, I must point out that this song sucks. I wish I could play "Little Black Dress" instead. I wonder what the guys would think of that particular track, which pits a traditional dude's reverence for classic rock against his hatred of boy bands.

"That's your last one," Carlos says as "Pillowtalk" gives way to a commercial. 

He tunes back to the hip-hop station. "Hold On, We're Going Home" is playing and I have to stifle a laugh. Be careful what you wish for, I think to myself.

Carlos can't stand Drake. He's told me as much. He's a fucking pussy were his exact words. Of course, he'd be loath to admit that now, when control of the radio is at stake. I decide to stoke the fire.

"'Cause you're a good girl and you know it!'" I sing.

"Why do you like literally the worst shit?" Carlos says.

"I can change the station if you prefer," I say as I reach for the radio.

"Leave it!" he says.

"Yes, daddy!"

As soon as he turns his back, I tune back to pop. Mass groaning ensues as Shawn Mendes goes on about stitches. Carlos, however, is silent. He's standing still as a statue, staring me down.

***

If the warehouse gave out game balls at the end of each shift, Carlos would have more than the rest of roll-off combined. This is despite the fact that the dude is hardly physically intimidating. Indeed, the contrast between his tough guy persona and his tiny 5"2' frame is a gift that keeps on giving. One time, in an exercise designed to lighten the mood after a slog of a safety meeting, management made the entire staff of the warehouse line up on the floor of the line, single-file, tallest on the right and shortest on the left. There were approximately 30 people in the building and only a single woman was standing to the left of Carlos. It took the roll-off team hours to get all the laughter out of our system.

Carlos isn't particularly funny or clever either. While his insults come fast and furiously, they tend to be the predictable nonsense you would expect from someone that still considers "gay" a burn in the year of our Lord 2017. It's the same sort of mockery I've been dealing with my whole life. The words themselves don't really bother me.

But Carlos will wear you down through sheer attrition. His short fuse, gangbanger ethics and the fact that he values his pride over his job give him a willingness to escalate that's difficult to compete with. I once witnessed him empty an entire can of shaving cream onto the face of poor old man Kenneth. He also once swung a bag of hard toys, with all his might, at Donald after the two got into a heated argument. Then there was the time he was in a bad mood and discreetly coated some furniture with that aerosol "snow" stuff—the kind that people use on their windows as a Christmas decoration—in the hopes that some naive rube would ruin their clothes.

So I'm not sure what Naive Rube was thinking in perpetuating this tug-of-war over a stupid radio. Perhaps I felt like I deserved a fucking break. Roll-off already has a radio, after all. Sure, Anna controls the station. But everyone seems fine enough, usually, with the soul and R&B she prefers.

In any case, I'm not in the mood for Carlos' shit today.

***

I place a box of books at the edge of the container, right in front of Carlos.

"Are you just gong to stand there?" I ask.

"Give back the radio, you fucking pussy!" Carlos says. "Nobody wants to hear this pop shit!"

I know, dumbass. That's why this is so much fun.

"Give it back!" he repeats. He swipes for the radio but I grab it and place it out of his reach.

Carlos slices a bag of clothes with his pocketknife.

"I'm going to fuck you up!" he says. "Stupid little bitch! I'm going to fuck you up!"

"Cool story, bro."

"Are you really not gong to give it back?"

I laugh. Look, this entire thing is petty as fuck but the dude's entitlement really is something else.

"Give it back simply because you told me to? I'll pass but thanks."

"I'm going to give you one last chance," he says.

"Oh noes! Make sure you play some Justin Bieber at my funeral."

Carlos is fucking seething. He pulls the still-as-a-statue move again in an attempt to intimidate but roll-off simply functions around him. Nobody else seems to care much about the radio war and that's fine by me. When Carlos finally realizes that his protest isn't going to work, he grabs the box of books and gets back to business. Apollo for the win!

As an alternative kid with a preference for dark clothing and bulky accessories, the sun has long been the bane of my existence. This is especially true as I age, as one of the ways I temper insecurities about my ever-expanding waistline is by burying myself in layers. Today, however, the sun is an unlikely ally in my ongoing struggle against Carlos. It's 100 degrees out, see, and when it's this hot outside the container becomes almost unbearable, the metal walls stubbornly retaining the heat in a way that feels like you're working in a giant oven.

Pushing donations from inside the container is typically a two-person task but nobody else is up for it today. And the emptier it becomes, the safer I seem to be getting from Carlos' antagonism as I place the radio further and further from his reach. For a glorious hour I have the device all to myself. Ariana Grande! Lady Gaga! Hailee Steinfeld! Rihanna! I'm singing along, dancing like a maniac, and feeling pretty damn good. Then I hear a loud crash. 

I turn around. Carlos is standing at the foot of the container, a crate of dishes in front of him.

I've seen this before. God forbid there's glass around when Carlos is angry because he'll start chucking it, his aim loose enough for probable deniability but accurate enough to make life hell. 

He grabs a plate and throws it my way. It shatters near my feet. 

"Calm the fuck down!" I say. 

"Give me the radio."

"Come and get it.

Carlos hops into the container. Fuck. Here we go.

Of course, he's not grabbing anything without going through me first. It's too damn empty in here. I step towards him to obstruct his path. We meet in the middle of the container. Our faces are inches apart.

One, Mississippi. Two, Mississippi. Three, Mississippi. Four, Mississippi. Five, Mississippi. Six—

"Fuck this gay ass music," he finally says. Then he turns and walks away. *** A short time later we finish unloading the container. Two hours remain in the workshift but supervisor Stella tells us that we won't be getting more trucks until tomorrow. She assigns the guys to other tasks in the building while I stay behind on the dock to tidy up.

For good measure, I empty the batteries from the radio and throw them in a bin designated for hazardous materials. Then I smash the radio on the floor, throw the pieces in the electronics gaylord, then pull it inside the warehouse.

Give me my damn game ball.

[kanershuffle]

Master list of Sidney Crosby and Patrick Kane moments 

Your typical rivals-turned-friends trope but canon.

Where it all started - 2009

Hockey’s Finest - Patrick Kane 

“Obviously going into training camp, you have a lot to prove — you’re a first overall pick. You know, you look at the number one picks lately, guys like Ovechkin, Crosby, just players like that who’ve taken the torch and played right away. There’s pressure for me to play right away, and I played right away last year, obviously had a pretty good year, and won rookie of the year which was another unbelievable experience.”

Anyone up for rewatching the 2010 Canada vs USA gold medal game in Vancouver?

That awesome moment when Patrick chased Sidney on a breakaway, and back-checked him, preventing a dangerous scoring chance for Canada when USA were down 2-1 during the third period. 

(Source: Alex Livesey/Getty Images North America)

Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amhUphOzf9o

You can see them shake hands after the game by clicking here.    

Chicago Blackhawks Bromance

During Cabbiepresents, Patrick was one of the Hawks’ players asked whether Mario Lemieux and Sidney’s relationship was considered as a bromance:

Patrick looked so disturbed, he was like straight up “no.”

I agree with him, this is so scary like look at this mess:

Warning: Cursed Image ahead

(Who thought this photoshoot was a good idea asdfghj)

2014 is when we really started to get 8788 content

Sidney empathises with his boyfriend and consoles Patrick after USA lost 1-0 to Canada in the semifinals of the Olympic men's hockey tournament. (x)

I’m pretty sure the Americans are tired of getting defeated by the Canadians of all teams by now who keep getting in their way from achieving the American dream. Post-match angry-s-ex in the hotel room, anyone? 

Thank you Pens TV for this moment right here, there are fewer things more iconic:

Look at them clasping hands like old buddies, so happy to see each other. Their smiles: beaming ✨. Kaner’s like ohshit my crush is coming, gotta act cool.  

Let me quote mgkloveworld who put it quite eloquently: “Behold: the gif. Sid doesn’t just look at anyone like that. The respect just drips of the page. Look at Kaner’s bashful smile. Look at Sid’s. My cheeks hurt just looking at this. The GRIP. Sid’s ass. This gif has a lot to give. There’s potential here. My imagination ran with it. I’ve been a doomed shipper ever since.”

I’m grateful and all, but Pens TV y’all were a little selfish for not showing us the whole of it. 

Sticking with Patrick Kane

Sidney sought out Kaner's stickhandling coach in the summers because, in his words, "Patrick Kane has more room than anybody on the ice."

You watch Kane play and you know Crosby is right. Kane gets more room than other people. They're not in his grill the way they are with other players. Crosby told me he just wanted to see if Kane's guy could make him a better stick-handler.

It's pretty impressive when Crosby goes to someone else's coach because he wants to stick-handle like Patrick Kane. When the greatest offensive player in the game wants to be like you, that tells you something.

2014/2015 season

Sidney Crosby, Penguins heap praise on Marian Hossa, Patrick Kane (Feb 14, 2015) Yes, this happened on Valentine’s Day, so happy Valentine’s Day, Patrick, you get bae validation!

‘Fleury and Crosby are probably hoping for the same from Patrick Kane, whose 63 points gave him the NHL scoring lead entering play Saturday. Talk of Kane winning his first scoring title has heated up, and Crosby (winner of two Art Ross Trophies), didn’t dismiss the idea.

“He’s got all the tools. He’s proven that he’s consistent and produces,” Crosby said. “Yeah, he’s definitely a guy that could (win the scoring title).”

“Most times there’s a player like him there’s going to be guys close to him but he always finds a way to kind of find that open ice. That’s just hockey sense and his awareness,” Crosby said. “It’s pretty tough to teach that. I think that’s just an ability that he has.”’  

Here’s the interview where Sidney talks about him: https://youtu.be/cOhuemPYv64

2015/16 season is when some friendly competition arose between them

It all began with Kaner’s tremendous point-streak. Sidney held the longest streak by an active player (25 games, 2010-11 season), and Kaner was on pace to surpass it.

What did Sidney have to say about Patrick Kane’s point streak? 

Crosby knows difficulty of what Kane can accomplish (Dec 11th, 2015)

‘Sidney Crosby would not be surprised if Chicago Blackhawks forward Patrick Kane matches his 25-game point streak from 2010 against the Winnipeg Jets on Friday.

When comparing Kane's streak to his, Crosby said he realizes how difficult it is to string that many consistent performances together.

"It's impressive no matter what the game's like, to be honest with you," Crosby said. "The consistency you need to have to be able to do that, it's really tough. You need some bounces along the way, but to be that consistent game after game, it's not easy. Everybody knows when they're playing against them, that's the guy they want to shut down. So for him to be able to continue to produce, yeah, that's really impressive."

Crosby's streak was nearly broken at 23 games, with the Penguins trailing the Ottawa Senators 3-0 late in the third period on Dec. 26, 2010. He kept it intact when he scored Pittsburgh's lone goal with 3:22 remaining.

Winning is always the primary objective, Crosby said. His goal didn't make the loss to Ottawa any easier, but he also said any player who has put the effort into building a lengthy streak never wants to see it end.

"I think it's in the back of your mind. I think that once it gets up there, I think everyone's aware of it," Crosby said. "So you're trying to find a way to keep that streak going, but when you're playing that well, I think you're just confident in your game. You know that the points are going to come when they're coming like that. That's just how it works."’

It’s great they both have been in similar positions and can understand what the other is going through. Sidney had high expectations and Patrick met them, beating him by a game to take the title of active-player with the longest point-streak (26 games, 2015/16 season). Can we talk about how Pat’s current second longest point-streak is 20 games, and Sid’s is 19 games, yet another one game difference, coincidence? I think maybe (not).

The rivalry didn’t end there. While Patrick was on a dominating run, leading the league in points, a near confirmed candidate projected to win the Hart Trophy by January, Sidney was also gaining momentum in the second-half of the season when Patrick started to slow down a bit. That had Patrick sweating a little or as he likes to joke:

Sidney Crosby is simply playing on another level (June 1st, 2016)

This entire article is Patrick defending Sid’s honour against the haters, and basically raving about how amazing Sid was in the playoffs. Here are some highlights:

“I texted Pat Brisson one time and was like, 'Tell Sid to slow down here, I'd like to win a [scoring] title here myself.' He was just on fire," said Kane, chuckling.

“As a fan, it's fun to watch.”

Um, Patrick how about you get Sidney’s number and tell him yourself next time. Also can we get the recording of the phone interview Patrick did, I want to hear him rave all about Sidney.

NHL Awards 2016

(Source)

Obviously, Patrick ends up winning the Hart Trophy (and the Ted Lindsay and the Art Ross) deservingly so, and doesn’t forget to mention “Sid” in his speech, and boy does Sidney look engrossed during it.

“Gotta congratulate Jamie and Sid on a tremendous year, especially Sid with the cup. You guys are two of my favourite players in the game, I love watching you guys on TV every night.” 

https://youtu.be/c8tlO9lqiZ0

Patrick already started to refer to Sidney as “Sid” while in the past he would mostly go with “Crosby.” Now here’s the best part, when Sidney called Patrick by his nickname “Kaner” while addressing the media. Sidney doesn’t really use nicknames readily so this was sort of momentous.

“…just being in the conversation was nice but was kind of expecting Kaner to get it.”

Watch the whole thing here.

Kaner later recalls the amazing night and how nervous he was,

The Entertainer (Oct 13th, 2016)

"Those other two guys were also deserving," Kane went on. "Jamie Benn, how can you argue against him? He had another great year. Crosby, what he did toward the end of the season just to get his team in a position to win the Cup was terrific. He told our agent, Pat Brisson, before we went to Vegas that he would have been surprised if I hadn't won it. Which was nice."

They’re like two dudes who have crush on each other and clearly respect one another but are too shy to actually say it in person so they just send messages through their mutual buddy.

Moving onto 2017

Patrick was named one of the 100 Greatest NHL Players along with Sidney (Jonathan Toews, Duncan Keith, Jaromír Jágr, and Alex Ovechkin as the only active players in the list). Ugh, the legendary behaviour that was exhibited.

(Source)

ASG 2017 gave us some occasions where they’re present in the same vicinity:

Tyler Seguin and Patrick having a chat with Sidney standing right behind them having his own conversation: 

https://hockeyeurs.tumblr.com/post/156524678921/tyler-and-patrick-having-a-little-chat-jan-28

Sidney’s talking to Brent Burns and Patrick is walking over and kind of gives the camera and Sidney a side-look. (Thanks, anon!) As I’ve said, Kaner, it’s okay no need to be shy, approach your man ;)

https://youtu.be/c5i_ljgO81k?t=75

Finally comes an actual moment,

NHL Stars reflect on Crosby scoring his 1,000th point (Feb 16, 2017)

Patrick’s part starts at 1:02

2017/18 Season

Patrick was rooting for the Penguins to win a third cup.

Patrick Kane all in on Penguins three-peat as Stanley Cup champs (March 2, 2018)

‘The Hawks forward, a veteran of three Stanley Cup championships, said he likes the Penguins to win their third straight Cup this season, citing their trade-deadline acquisition of third-line center Derick Brassard as one of the reasons.

“It’s hard to go against Pittsburgh,” Kane said. “They haven’t been beaten in the playoffs the last couple of years, and they look like they’re poised to make another run. They made a big move there at the deadline. I’d probably pick them.”’

2018 Blackhawks convention: Goal Scorers 

Patrick uses Sidney as an example while talking about players he likes to watch, specially ones who go to the hard areas, 

“You look at guys like Crosby who’s always around the net. He has great eye-hand coordination. He can tip pucks, he can bat pucks out of the air.”  

Watch here: https://youtu.be/A3YoEcLCS5s?t=384

When critics made bold claims that Jonny is no longer the player he used to be, Kaner had full faith in him, and agreed with the comparisons made between Jonny and Sidney during their slump. He said, “I think that it’s very similar. I remember Crosby had that bad one-half of the season and he came back in the second half and almost won the scoring race. That’s the same thing with Jon. I would never count him out. He’ll find a way to get back.” (Sep 15, 2018)

Kaner probably still wakes up in cold-sweat at the thought of Sid catching up to him in the title scoring race that one time in 2015/16 season, hahaha.

(PS: When Jonny battled through concussion, he exchanged texts with Sidney to seek his guidance back in 2012. I thought that was cute.) 

Onto the present

Now comes the 2019 NHL All Star Game where the Central Division competed with the Metropolitan Division in the final. They shook hands at the end of the game after the Metropolitan Division All-Star team won. You can watch them bump shoulders in a friendly way as they move on.

(Source)

Spittin’ Chiclets Interview Sidney Crosby in Halifax, Nova Scotia (Aug 13, 2019)

Sidney’s Golden Goal was compared to Kaner’s 2010 Stanley Cup OT goal. 

Ryan Whitney: “It was like Kane’s cup goal! It was similar.”

Paul Bissonnette: “Yes, it was very similar.”

Ryan: “On the ice, weird angle.”

Sidney: “Yeah...yeah.”

Funny how both goals were OT game winning goals scored during a major tournament final in 2010, and both times no one was really sure whether the puck had gone in or not (soulmates 🙂).

Auston Matthews VS Patrick Kane (10th November, 2019)

It’s always entertaining when the Toronto Maple Leafs face the Chicago Blackhawks. And when Patrick Kane and Auston Matthews traded goals and celebration, it definitely created a lot of headlines and buzz. They showed the highlights to some of the NHL players, and everyone had something to say, even Sidney.

Kaner’s bashful, “Really.”

Followed by Sidney’s, “I don’t think I’d even think to do that personally.” Yes, Sid, you’re a Good Boy™️. My sister was like he should do that hand-to-ear celly against the Flyers and see what happens.

Hey, it’s 2020

Patrick and Sidney have been named part of the NHL Team of the Decade, and here’s Patrick’s thoughts on the subject:

(01/25/2020)

Interviewer: “You along with Sidney Crosby and Alex Ovechkin were named as the forwards for the first team, all-decade team in the national hockey league. What is an honour like that mean for you considering all the accolades that you’ve had throughout your career?”   

Kaner: “I mean it’s special, you look at those two guys, they had unbelievable decades, unbelievable careers up to this date. And I think it’d be a pretty fun line to play on [smiles]. It’s a great honour, and I think it speaks volumes of what we accomplished in Chicago—five conference finals and three Stanley Cups. It’s been an amazing run, amazing decade. Great Honour.”

Watch the interview here.

Maybe they should give this line an opportunity, like they’re seriously depriving us the content of watching the greatest players of our generation play together. I just want to watch Sidney Crosby and Patrick Kane pass to each other. Is that too much to ask? Can you imagine the plays with both their visions combined?! Magical. Sidney’s the perfect match for Patrick’s intellect (soulmates). Maybe Kaner’d finally get a line-mate who’s not ten steps behind him.

Belfry Hockey

(x)

Kaner has already talked about being with Mat Barzal, Nathan Mackinnon, John Tavares, and Auston Matthews at the Belfry camp, so I think it’s safe to assume that there’s a possibility Kaner and Sid have trained together at some point. Lemme dream. 

2021 off to great start with a 8788 mention (like not even a moment 😭 praying for better times 🤲)

“I’m not sure anybody in the league has more backhand goals than Sidney Crosby. I know Kaner’s watching; he thinks he’s got a few,” Patrick Sharp, WSH vs PIT (1/17/2021)

Thank you Sharpy for sharing this tidbit, your services are much appreciated. You guys know whenever Kaner and Sidney are mentioned together I have to report back. I’m not saying that after getting thrashed two games in a row Pens won because Kaner was watching but that’s exactly what I’m saying.

“Hey, Sid ~ just wanna congratulate you on 1,000 games”

Kaner congratulating Sid on his 1,000th game. Fun fact, Kaner is the only American, also non-teammate of Sidney’s (wink wink) in the tribute video played for Sidney in the Paints Arena. Also, we gotta appreciate Kaner’s consistency; he also took part in the tribute video for Sidney’s 1,000th point 😆

(Click here for the longer version of Kaner’s congratulations to Sid).

Hopefully Sid will return the favour when Kaner gets his silver stick. 

Hey, 2021 isn’t over yet, and neither are the 8788 moments.

“Hi, I’m Sidney Crosby and I’m passing the phone to Showtime.” 

Never thought I’d be blessed to hear the words “showtime’ come out of Sidney’s mouth when referring to Kaner, like who do I need to thank for this sequence. Ovi to Sid to Kaner, now I need them on a line together, like just one game, pls. It will be so legendary. The greatest players of our generation, come on, how has this not happened already?!

Also, it’s so funny and on point for Sidney and Ovi not to understand the assignment. They’re just using nicknames 😭Kaner’s very hip now y’all, he understands.

Wow, this list is somehow still ongoing in the year 2022:

Kaner mentioning Sid while addressing rumours of him signing to a team other than the Blackhawks:

“I said last year, there’s very few players that end up playing their whole career with one team, right?” Kane said. “You see guys like (Sidney) Crosby and (Evgeni) Malkin or (Alex) Ovechkin, they’ll probably finish their careers with the one team. But you see a lot of players now, they’re kind of moving all over the place.” (9/22/22)

Of course Sid, his bf, is the first one to come to Kaner’s mind.

It's 2023!

This is a small mention, but apparently Kaner, Sidney and Malkin are some of the very few players who still wear ear guards! Kaner: "Crosby wears them. Malkin, too. I think it probably has to do with the time we came into the League and what the game was like back then. I actually had mine out, took that hit and they put them back in and just kept them in." (04/04/2023)

[thirstinmore-blog]

Best Albums of 2018

BEST ALBUMS 2018

20. Noname: Room 25

19. Jeremih & Ty Dolla $ign: Mih-Ty

18. Tierra Whack: Whack World

17. Parks Burton: Pare

16. Oneohtrix Point Never: Age Of

15. Angelique Kidjo: Remain in Light

14. Shannon Shaw: Shannon in Nashville

13. Curren$y & Freddie Gibbs: Fetti

12. Ariana Grande: Sweetener

11. Vince Staples: FM!

10. DJ Koze: Knock Knock

9. Mariah Carey: Caution

8. Courtney Barnett: Tell Me How You Really Feel

7. The Carters: Everything is Love

6. Snail Mail: Lush

5. Shannon & the Clams: Onion

4. Teyana Taylor: K.T.S.E.

3. Kacey Musgraves: Golden Hour

2. Blood Orange: Negro Swan

1. Dirty Projectors: Lamp Lit Prose

(Spotify playlist)

(Capsule reviews of Top 10 below) 

10. DJ Koze: Knock Knock.  The music writing trope of “a sounds like b + c” is as lazy as it is played, but sometimes you hear a record and those type of comparisons spring to mind, like when I first heard Saint Pepsi’s Hit Vibes and instantly thought of J Dilla making a disco record.  That was also my response to Knock Knock, which sounds like the Avalanches making a more patient update of Since I Left You for 2018 ears.  The record is long and lush, and draws from roughly nine billion different aesthetics, but its particular mélange still manages to sound fresh.  As with SILY, the album is best experienced as a complete piece of music (though several tracks, such as “Lord Knows” and “Scratch That” would sound great in a mix or DJ set).  Knock Knock takes the listener through ambling pathways that wrap around and revisit each other, like an evening stroll through the spacious Joshua Tree National Park depicted on its cover.  It’s nearly a two-hour journey, but it’s well worth the price of admission.

9. Mariah Carey: Caution.  Mariah got a dirty mouth and I’m here for it.  As mother, a twice-divorcée, a woman nearing 50, her work and her image are all her own; if she wants to include the word “fuck” in a bunch of songs on her new album (“GTFO,” “With You,” “The Distance”), then who the fuck are we to tell her no?   It’s a refreshing twist from someone whose public persona is often so curated, but I’m burying the lede.  The real story here is that Caution is a batch of excellent R&B songs from one of the genre’s all-time greats.  It’s not overwrought – by contrast, the album’s sultry blue cover art is indicative of the moods within.  The Ty Dolla $ign-featuring “The Distance” is laid extremely deep in the cut, assisted by some subtle production from Poo Bear, Lido and—holy shit, Skrillex?  Yup, and like Mariah herself, everyone involved uses an even hand and measured patience to let each song breathe.  

A personal highlight for me is “A No No,” which flips the Lil Kim/Lil Cease classic “Crush On You” on its head.  Here, where Biggie intones “he’s a slut, he’s a hoe, he’s a freak/got a different girl every day of the week,” there is no irony intended.  She gauges her suitors’ intent and responds simply: “that’s a no-no.”  In fact, the word “no” accounts for easily half the song’s lyrics, but it’s still a blast on subsequent listens.  But don’t get it twisted – highlights abound herein, from aforementioned singles “GTFO” and “The Distance” to the thoughtful, expansive, Dev Hynes-helmed “Giving Me Life,” which begins as a downtempo club hit and morphs into a surrealist dream.  Mariah Carey is one of the artists who’s been in my life the longest – I’m so happy she’s still killing it.

8. Courtney Barnett: Tell Me How You Really Feel.  Courtney Barnett is what I was raised to believe an indie rock star should be: an unassuming, smart slacker with regular clothes and the ability to unleash earthbound poetry and atmosphere-puncturing solos with equal aplomb.  That effortless cool permeates every facet of her work, from her casual half-singing style to her loose but proficient playing, a mighty guitar god in the body of a humble 31-year-old.  (That she recorded a collaborative record with renowned cool guy Kurt Vile should surprise no-one.)  But what’s really striking about Barnett’s work is her wryly observant lyrics; whether she’s describing the banalities of urban life (“City Looks Pretty”) or eviscerating toxic masculinity (“Nameless, Faceless”), her keen eye and incisive wit pervade every line.  Tell Me is the sound of a strong artist getting stronger.

7. The Carters: Everything is Love.  I often say that as I get older, my favorite elements of songwriting are editing and restraint.  That’s why I tend to hate double albums and love EPs.  I just believe that most double albums would be better if distilled down to one really strong record.  EPs, on the other hand, leave the listener wanting more.  Such is the case with Everything is Love, which reads like a Beyonce trap record with a number of guest verses from Jay. Regardless of speculation on who did the lion’s share of the writing on the record, both are in top form.  Bey’s signature vocal virtuosity is on display as ever, but the real delight is in her capable delivery as a rapper.  She glides effortlessly through triplets like “Poppin, I’m poppin, my bitches are poppin, we go to the dealer and cop it all.”  Big Sean could never.  Meanwhile, Jay turns in a few of my favorite bars of the year (and also a very slick Drake diss) on “Boss:”

“You not a boss, you got a boss. N*ggas gettin’ jerked, that shit hurts, I take it personaly.  N*ggas’d rather work for the man than to work for me.  Just so they can pretend they on my level, that shit is irkin’ to me.  Pride always goeth before the fall, almost certainly.  It’s disturbing what I gross.  Survey says: you not even close.  Everybody’s bosses till the time to pay for the office, till them invoices separate the men from the boys. Over here we measure success by how many people successful next to you.  Here, we say you broke if everybody is broke except for you. BAWSE.”

I don’t know if they intend to release more records as The Carters, but Everything is Love is a fun, successful experiment.

6. Snail Mail: Lush.  There’s no reason for a debut LP to be this good.  The record, from solo project-turnt-band of 19-year-old Lindsay Jordan is focused, clever, and sophisticated.  Every component of these songs appears exactly as it should.  Jordan’s songwriting is clean and incisive (“I hope whoever it is holds their breath around you/’cause I know I did,” she sings on album standout “Heat Wave”).  The arrangements are smartly simple; seldom do they deviate from the four-person rock lineup, so the embellishments that are included (the French horn on “Deep Sea,” the layered keys on “Speaking Terms”) really leap out.  The playing throughout is lovely, with Jordan’s beautiful guitar technique front and center (the finger-picking on “Let’s Find an Out” is a particular delight). Everything in its right place – only where Radiohead’s inward gaze can be mopey and self-indulgent, the core strength of Lush is its efficiency.  There’s no filler here – just the exact amount of support that each piece requires.  The drumming feels especially strong in this regard – there’s an economic directness in Ray Brown’s playing that prioritizes the backbeat over everything, including his ego. The fills that he does include are modest and workmanlike.

It’s right that the record would be released by Matador, because these songs are drenched in the influences of the 90s slacker rock of Yo La Tengo, Sonic Youth, Sleater-Kinney and Sebadoh.  And as with each of those bands, Snail Mail’s songs are buoyed by excellent lyrics.  Jordan doesn’t just sound wise beyond her years, she actually seems to have lived more in her 19 years than many folks twice her age.  There’s a subtext of sobriety in some of the songs (“It just feels like the same party every weekend, doesn’t it?” on “Pristine,” or “I’m so tired of moving on/spending every weekend so far gone” on “Heat Wave”).  Perhaps the self-reflection that’s required in recovery has helped to distill her worldview.  

And look, I don’t mean to be patronizing here – this album would be a major achievement from any person of any age.  But to hear an artistic vision this crystal clear and laser-focused from a 19-year-old is something truly special.  I can’t wait to hear what she does next.

5. Shannon & the Clams: Onion.  Upon first listen, Onion struck me as the best record the Clams have released to date.  Now, admittedly, I’m a sucker for keyboards, and the inclusion of organist Will Sprott is pure Patrick-bait.  But beyond my own tastes, the organ both fills out and anchors the Clams’ garage doo-wop sound.  There’s a welcome succinctness to Onion: the songwriting is tight, the guitar playing is melodic and utilitarian, and the vocal performances from both Cody and Shannon are more technically refined than in any of their previous outings.  One wonders if Shannon’s work on her own solo album (the very good, Dan Auerbach-produced Shannon in Nashville, which also came out this year) pushed her to improve her technique.  And don’t get it fucked up – this is still a Clams record.  It’s still shaggy and loud and rambunctious – but they’ve worked hard to reign in their wildest tendencies.  Some might say that it’s layered, just like-- *an oversized cane hooks around my throat and drags me offstage* ….Well…..let’s just say it’s good.

4. Teyana Taylor: KTSE.  Of all the seven-song mini-albums Kanye produced in Wyoming this year, KTSE is both the best and the least talked-about.  She arrives seemingly out of the blue, a fully-formed artist who knows her strengths exactly.  She has bars when she feels like spitting them, a beautiful husky alto when she feels like crooning, and a profound connection to multiple styles of club music that’s borne of her history as a dancer.  It’s become a bit trendy to nod to vogue & ballroom culture in the last few years, but while Drake’s Big Freedia feature on “Nice for What” feels a little forced, Taylor can walk it like she talks it.  A dancer by trade, her comfort in the ballroom is palpable. 

Ye keeps it simple, remaining comfortably in his wheelhouse and flipping excellent soul samples such as Billy Stewart’s “I Do Love You” (which he repurposes into a nostalgic 4/4 slapper on “Hold On”) and The Stylistics’ “Because I Love You, Girl” (which he expands into a melancholy mediation on the horn section of the original).  It’s a welcome return to form.

3. Kacey Musgraves: Golden Hour.  In her SNL performance earlier this year, Kacey Musgraves appeared as a flat-ironed, longhair disco queen.  As she slayed Golden Hour’s catchy lead single “High Horse,” I was reminded of Dolly Parton.  I’ve been spending a lot of time with Dolly’s mid-70s and early-80s catalogue this past year, having purchased vinyl copies of All I Can Do, New Harvest…First Gathering, and Dolly, Dolly, Dolly.  Parton is one of those artists whose discographies are so gigantic as to seem practically impenetrable, so I’ve been trying to hear as much as I can.  Dolly, Dolly, Dolly is an especially interesting entry: released in 1980, it was her 23rd album, and it represents a pretty clear swing for crossover success.  A handful of the tracks are straight-up disco, and these are what Musgraves called to mind.  I was thrilled – Dolly’s disco experiments were widely panned, but I think there’s a lot of good there, maybe Golden Hour would be an attempt to vindicate Parton’s vision?

Unfortunately or not, I was incorrect.  In total, Golden Hour bears more resemblance to Dolly’s friend & frequent collaborator Emmylou Harris (Kacey’s hair should’ve tipped me off, SMH).  It’s a beautiful, understated, and thoughtful set of songs that could fit as well on a folk radio station as a country one.  Like Harris, Musgraves has an innate sense of how to let a great song be great, hanging back in both arrangement and vocal performance.  She’s emotive when she needs to be (“Rainbow”), and contemplative as needed (“Golden Hour”), always letting her writing breathe.  Also, she has the confidence to bury the lead single so deep on Side B that you almost forget it’s there (and are thrilled when it is).  As a person who prefers the full album experience to that of a shuffled playlist, this is one of my very favorite tricks.

Quite simply: great songs + great arrangements = a surprising list-topper for me.

2. Blood Orange: Negro Swan.  For years, the roles of sexuality and gender in black identity have been foci of Dev Hynes’ work as Blood Orange.  He spent time with drag queens and sex workers while writing his debut album Coastal Grooves, and has often cited transgender icon Octavia St. Laurent as one of his primary influences.  But while these interests have colored his previous albums, on Negro Swan they’re the bedrock.  In a press release preceding the album, Hynes described the album as “an exploration into my own and many types of black depression, an honest look at the corners of black existence, and the ongoing anxieties of queer/people of color.  A reach back into childhood and modern traumas, and the things we do to get through it all.  The underlying thread through each piece on the album is the idea of hope, and the lights we can try to turn on within ourselves with a hopefully positive outcome of helping others out of their darkness.”

These ideas are fundamental to the songwriting, and they’re reinforced by snippets of conversations with Janet Mock and Kai the Black Angel (who adorns the cover in a durag and angel wings) peppered throughout the album’s 49 minutes.  On “Family,” Mock defines community as “the spaces where you don’t have to shrink yourself, where you don’t have to pretend or to perform, you can fully show up and be vulnerable in silence, completely empty, and that’s completely enough.”  That search for community, the desire to be seen and loved and supported as your whole self informs each of these beautiful songs.  Already a competent producer, Hynes continues to grow, selecting beautiful flourishes like the jangly, perfectly out-of-tune guitar on “Charcoal Baby” or the soft, echoing snare drum on “Dagenham Dream” to characterize the thematic content of each piece.  Negro Swan is a powerful and complete work of art.  It sounds like he’s finally found some answers to the questions he’s been asking. 

1. Dirty Projectors: Lamp Lit Prose.  On Lamp Lit Prose, David Longstreth appears to be having more fun making music than he has in years, probably because almost 100% of his band has turned over (kudos to longtime bassist Nat Baldwin, whose playing tethers him to his own beginnings).  Beyond the new Projectors themselves, Longstreth spent the months during the writing of the album making new friends in the LA music scene, and bringing them around the studio to record various parts.  Members of Haim contribute to album standout “That’s a Lifestyle,” Syd (of The Internet) anchors the refrain in “Right Now,” and Fleet Foxes’ Robin Pecknold and Vampire Weekend alumnus Rostam Batmanglij stack harmonies onto the swirling ballad “You’re The One.”

I see LLP as the second half of a diptych begun by the self-titled Dirty Projectors, released last year.  While that record wallowed in the pain of a broken relationship with former Projector Amber Coffman, LLP reveals a healed and newly in love protagonist.  Both records feature David Longstreth at his most vocally competent: he’s now able to truly execute the melismatic R&B runs he lovingly wrote and charmingly attempted in his earliest work, his diaphragm now supports his every leap and bound, and his croon is sweeter than ever before.  But furthermore, both albums expand on ideas that have popped up throughout his illustrious and impressive body of work.  Whether he’s reviving the Rise Above era blasts of noisy guitars on “Zombie Conqueror” or revisiting the orchestral ambitions of The Getty Address on the stunningly soulful “I Wanna Feel It All,” Longstreth sounds like a worker with a complete toolbox and a detailed blueprint.  He’s been working at honing his craft for years.

I saw the Projectors in June, at a time when only “Break-Thru” and “That’s a Lifestyle” had leaked.  I didn’t know what to expect, being among the seemingly small minority of fans who liked their previous record.  But their set was staggering.  Flanked by his group of mostly-new faces, Longstreth was bouncing all over the place, proudly showcasing each instrumentalist & vocalist (seemingly everyone had at least one moment in the spotlight), visibly excited about playing with this group of people.  And that makes sense: LLP is Longstreth relishing the fundamental glee of musical collaboration.  The joy is positively bubbling over in tracks like “Right Now,” “I Feel Energy,” and “I Found it in You.”  To see him play these songs live is to wonder if he’s talking about the act of musicmaking itself when he sings: “Ask now, I’m in love for the first time ever.”

[lisatelramor]

Holiday Season

I'm weirdly enamored with the idea of Saguru baking. This is the second fic I've written with him baking... Felt like doing a holiday fic this year, so Merry Christmas if you celebrate it, happy Holiday Season if you don't, and may the new year bring better news than so much of this one.

Saguru surveyed the ingredients laid out on the counter, flour and sugar and eggs and a pound of butter all waiting to be made into something. Mum’s family recipe box with its dented corners and stiff hinges was open next to it. Ordinarily he would take what recipe he needed and shove it back into its cupboard, but there was an art to holiday baking, a process. Gran had always had a very specific order of baking her Christmastime goodies in order of what ingredients were used, whether there was a refrigeration period or not, and how long each batch needed in the oven. Mum tended to toss Gran’s careful methodology out the window and start whatever took her fancy at the moment, but Saguru had always preferred a more scientific—or at least methodical—approach to baking. It made the process go smoother and quicker and optimized resources.

He gathered what he needed to prep the mince palmiers first, turned back toward the recipe with a package of puff pastry in one hand and a jar of mince in the other and found Kuroba Kaito sitting at the kitchen table like he had been there the whole time. Saguru very carefully did not drop his ingredients, but set them on the counter with an extra bit of carefulness as he processed this addition to his environment.

“What,” Saguru asked, “are you doing in London?”

“You’re baking? I didn’t know you baked,” Kuroba said, sounding exhausted.

“It’s the holidays,” Saguru said. “Kuroba, why are you in my kitchen?”

“You see it was a bit of an accident and now I’m here and have time and hey, you live in London, so hi.” He gave a lazy salute, resting his chin on folded arms. He looked awfully content considering he was trespassing.

“You accidentally ended up in another country.”

“There were...” Kuroba waved a hand. “Extenuating circumstances involving keeping track of a weird kid and following up on a rumor and, well, here I am. You would not believe how expensive holiday plane tickets are.”

“I believe.” The real question was why Kuroba wasn’t taking a plane back to Japan already. Knowing Kuroba, he wouldn’t answer any questions directly though, and if Saguru even implied that it might have something to do with Kid, his insinuations would be deflected. It should probably alarm him more to have his classmate show up halfway around the world in Saguru’s kitchen, but it was just the sort of unexpected thing Kuroba would pull. Saguru gave a mental shrug and turned back to his baking. “Well, you’re just in time for holiday baking.”

“I can’t believe you bake.”

“It’s tradition,” Saguru said primly. “Gran started it, and Mum would be here for it, but her job has been a bit more hectic than usual lately. I thought I’d get a head start so no one would complain come Christmas that Gran’s ginger biscuits were missing.”

“What’s your mom do?” Kuroba asked. Saguru could feel his eyes following the motions as Saguru rolled out his puff pastry and opened the jar of mincemeat.

“She’s a psychologist.” Kuroba hummed like this explained things. Saguru spread mince along the pastry dough. “That’s how my parents met, actually. A criminal psychology talk at a Japanese university. Mum was studying abroad for a year in her undergrad and Otou-san was there as a secondary speaker on statistics of mental illness intersecting with violent crimes in Japan. That was long before he was a police commissioner of course.” Saguru rolled the dough, wrapped it, and put it in the freezer before grabbing a pot and the butter to start the florentines. “They talked after and got into a big row over drinks about whether criminal behaviors were nature or nurture. It must have been a good debate because Mum finished out her degree in Japan and married him within the year.”

“Huh.” Kuroba blinked sleepily at him. Butter, cream, sugar, and honey in a pot, chop the fruit as it heated, stand by with the flour and almonds. “Then they had you?”

“Eventually. After Mum got her doctorate and Otou-san got a promotion. They had rather different ideas about raising a child though. They’re divorced now, of course, but I was born and raised until elementary school in Japan.” Ordinarily Saguru didn’t talk about himself. He focused on cases he solved instead of his personal life, and that was as it should be. But with Kuroba in his kitchen and infiltrating his Christmas tradition, it felt fitting to give Kuroba a bit of background to go with everything. Kuroba knew Saguru the detective, but he never really interacted with Saguru the person. ...Saguru’s fault. He tended to see Kuroba-as-Kid rather than Kuroba-as-person as well.

“Why’d they divorce?” Kuroba asked. For all that he looked tired, he also looked interested.

“Cultural and career differences.” Mum wanted more than society wanted for her, and in the end she’d missed home. It had been an amicable split all things considered. “I visited Otou-san in the summer.” Ingredients combined, Saguru prepared several trays to pop in the oven. “How did your parents meet?”

“Oyaji met Kaa-san in Paris, saved her from a sticky situation, and swept her off her feet.”

“Hmm. Sounds exciting.” And lacking in details. It probably involved Kid. Clean a bit before the next bit. New bowl for the ginger biscuit dough, pop out one batch of florentines to cool and put in the next tray, repeat until done and pull out the palmier to slice.

“You’re actually good at this,” Kuroba commented as Saguru swapped florentines for sugar-spice dusted palmier rounds in the oven.

“Baking’s a science,” Saguru said with a nod to the kitchen scale. “Apply the proper ratios and required heat, get the desired result. Simple chemistry.” He nicked one of the cooler florentines, enjoying its buttery flavor. “And it is its own reward.”

“I can get behind that.” Kuroba gave himself a shake and stood. “Mind if I help?”

“Eat the results or help bake?” Saguru asked rhetorically. He held out the recipe card for ginger biscuits. “Start measuring the dry ingredients. I’m sure you can manage that.”

“I’ve baked before, Hakuba, I’m not going to ruin your cookies.”

Saguru pretended he didn’t notice another florentine go missing. It was surprisingly easy to work with Kuroba in the kitchen. He was quick to figure out what Saguru would need next and didn’t end up in Saguru’s way unlike the time Saguru tried baking with his aunt.

In no time the ginger dough was in refrigerator and Kuroba was measuring out flour for the shortbread dough. “Is it always so... streamlined?” Kuroba asked, waving his free hand at the neat stacks of finished baked goods and how Saguru had a bit of counter space set aside for each necessary step for each recipe.

“Hardly. Mum has the tendency to grab whatever recipe she finds first and make each one in succession. It goes faster this way though.”

“Huh. I haven’t baked since Aoko roped me into making a Christmas cake a few years ago,” Kuroba said. “That was...an experience.” He was very precise in his weight measurements, which Saguru could appreciate. He could picture Kuroba measuring chemicals for his flash bombs or smoke grenades with an equally intent expression, getting each ratio on the dot. “Baking’s not something that happens much.”

Saguru took the flour from him, blending it with sugar and butter mixture. “If it weren’t for the holiday tradition, I doubt it would happen much for me either.” Mum made him a birthday cake every year, but store bought biscuits were simpler to get ahold of with their busy lives than to take the time to bake anything by hand. Traditions were different though. Those demanded observation, all the more so since his grandmother had passed on. A way to keep her memory alive so to speak. “What do you do for holidays?”

“For Christmas?” Kuroba asked. “Not really something I celebrate unless Aoko wants to.”

“In general then.” Saguru turned out the dough and held out a hand for the rolling pin. Kuroba passed it to him without him needing to ask.

“We don’t really have traditions.” There was something flat in Kuroba’s tone, just missing the nonchalance he was going for. “We used to maybe, but those kind of stopped happening after my dad died.”

“Oh.” Saguru finished rolling dough to a stilted silence. It had almost been companionable until he’d bungled that up. Saguru almost wished Kuroba would fall into their usual mode of bickering and needling each other instead of this silence, but Kuroba just stood to the side, face in a neutral-pleasant mask and eyes tired. Saguru needed to fix this somehow.

The bag of pastry cutters had the usual Christmas shapes of stars and trees and deer and men, but there were other shapes in there too, meant for other holidays, and...yes, they did still have it. Saguru dropped a pastry cutter into Kuroba’s hands.

“A... four-leaf clover?” Kuroba said, turning it over.

“I thought you might appreciate the pun,” Saguru said. And it was Kid’s mark as well, a sideways nod of acknowledgement that at least in one way there was a family tradition of sorts. “It was meant for St. Patrick’s Day I believe, but it works well enough now on these too.”

“Because clovers scream Christmas,” Kuroba snarked. He accepted the cutter though, making a few shapes in the dough. Saguru chose stars and trees for the shortbread. The ginger biscuits could be men and reindeer.

They shared bits of dough scraps as they baked, a surprisingly companionable silence. Kuroba was still, as tired as when he had arrived, but more peaceful and less harried. He rolled a bit of dough into a ball and ate it, staring at nothing and his mind somewhere far away. It was rare to see an introspective Kuroba, as rare as a quiet Kuroba. Kuroba was energy and madcap chaos. Bright colors and flashing cards drawing the eye, always filling a room with his presence and impossible to ignore.

“Following a lead, hmm?” Saguru asked.

“If you’re trying to get me to confess to something...” Kuroba said, glancing at Saguru from the corner of his eye.

“At the moment, no. It’s poor timing though.”

Kuroba shrugged. “As good a time as any. No classwork to worry about coming due until January. Bit more than a week away leaves plenty of time.”

“Was your lead successful?”

There was the slightest slump to Kuroba’s shoulders, body hunching in on itself as if Kuroba was too tired to completely control his response. Saguru got another shrug. “What do you think?”

Right. That would be a touchy subject then. He cast about for something that wouldn’t ruin the somewhat comfortable atmosphere. “I went to see a magic show last week,” Saguru said.

“Yeah?” Kuroba stopped squishing cookie dough between his fingers to listen, head tilted to one side. “I thought you detective types hated magic shows.”

“It’s a lot harder to get caught up in them when you’re well aware that there’s a logical explanation for everything you’re seeing,” Saguru corrected. “That doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate a show.” He ignored the subtle eye roll from Kuroba. “At any rate, I was in the area for a case and had free time after it... I might have been feeling a bit nostalgic for Japan at the time.” He’d only gone to Kuroba’s school for half a year before transferring back to London, but it surprised him sometimes how much he missed it. Sometimes he wondered if he should just finish out high school there, but he knew he’d miss London too. There wasn’t a quick fix when your life took up time on different sides of the world. He checked the biscuits, found they needed a bit longer. “The magician was nowhere near as good as you. Your classroom antics were on par with his best illusions.”

“Of course, I’m one of the best magicians out there,” Kuroba said.

It wasn’t empty bragging any more than Saguru calling himself a good detective was. They’d both put effort and time into building up their skills in their chosen professions. “If you’re ever on stage one day, I would like to see what you perform.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“You can take it as one,” Saguru said. “I can’t exactly turn off my observations.” He took the biscuits from the oven and slid the parchment paper off onto wire racks to cool. When he turned back around, Kuroba had a grin on par to some of the ones Saguru had seen Kid sporting at heists. “What?”

“Just thinking about ways I could short circuit your brain into just enjoying the show instead of picking it apart.”

Saguru raised an eyebrow. “And I just said that trying to understand doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the show. Besides, what goes through your mind when you see a new trick? Surely you’re trying to figure out how they did it too.”

“Usually I’m mostly ‘dang, that was really cool’ and I think about how they did it after the show is over.” Kuroba brought out the ginger biscuit dough and armed himself with the rolling pin.

“After, during,” Saguru said with a dismissive wave. “It amounts to the same thing; trying to understand the mystery of how it worked.”

“Killjoy,” Kuroba said.

“Realist,” Saguru countered.

“You’ll have to come back to Japan sometime for that show.”

Saguru smiled. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

The rest of the baking went quickly and progressed into decorating shortbread and ginger biscuits with Gran’s icing recipe dyed in jewel-bright colors. Kuroba took an inordinate amount of pleasure in making the ones he decorated as bright as possible. He was artistic as was to be expected, and they came out pleasing to the eye. Saguru’s were less bright, but more uniform. ‘Boring,’ if Kuroba’s opinion counted. Saguru looked at them and saw ‘traditional.’

By the time Mum finally arrived home from work, he and Kuroba had decorated cookies spread across the whole kitchen table and were making a bit of a mess out of decorating the Christmas cake as Saguru found that using a pastry bag was a bit harder than he remembered last doing it at twelve with Gran’s hands guiding his through the motions—the cake was usually Mum’s touch. Kuroba had taken over and the mess Saguru made was quickly becoming something a bit more elegant.

They both looked up when Mum walked into the room. “Wow. Looks like someone was busy,” she said. “How on earth did you manage to get all the holiday baking done in one afternoon?”

“It’s not that hard to do, Mum, Gran always managed.”

“Your grandmother could have forced time to bend for all I know. She was certainly stubborn enough.” Mum gave Saguru a quick hug before turning to Kuroba. “Hullo, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

In a blink Kuroba was all charm, masks Saguru hadn’t even realized were gone back in place. With a flick of his wrist, Kuroba offered Saguru’s mother a flower. “Kuroba Kaito—or Kaito Kuroba since this is England.” He spoke with slightly accented English; Kuroba must have been practicing his language skills lately since the last time Saguru heard him use English, it hadn’t been anywhere near as smoothly. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Mum took the flower with a smile and both eyebrows disappearing into her bangs. “Well aren’t you the charmer. Saguru, you didn’t mention you were having a friend over.”

“Kuroba ran into some trouble with his flight home to Japan,” Saguru said, “and since I happened to live in London, it made more sense to stay the night here than in a hotel. He’ll be taking the guest room.” There was a flash of surprise on Kuroba’s face. Surely he didn’t think Saguru would toss him out? On Christmas Eve no less?

“A friend from Japan even,” Mum said, eyebrows creeping higher. “Well, whatever the circumstances, we’re glad to have you. Mind if I help finish up the cake? Can’t have you boys doing everything.”

Kuroba surrendered the frosting. “Go right ahead.”

“Lovely. I’ll finish this up and we can have a slice for breakfast in the morning.”

“Isn’t that a little...sweet?” Kuroba asked. He watched how her hands worked, making practiced dollops of frosting to create a snowy landscape out of Saguru’s messy work and Kuroba’s more careful waves.

“I was thinking a bit more on the alcohol content,” Saguru said.

“The point of holidays are to live a little,” Mum said pragmatically. “Why not have dessert to start the day? Or we could have some of your biscuits. Very nice decorating by the way. Bright. I can tell Saguru didn’t mix the colors this year.” She gave Kuroba a grin and a wink and started sculpting tiny snowmen.

“Boozy cake,” Kuroba said, eying the cake with new appreciation. “That’s a tradition I could get behind. Sounds a lot more fun than strawberry cream cake or a cake roll.”

“It’s funny how two of the traditional desserts require taking as much candied fruit and nuts as you can stuff into a confection and dousing it in copious amounts of alcohol,” Saguru said drily. “For the record, it’s peach brandy, and no, we don’t make it strong enough to get drunk off a slice of it.”

“Dang, a missed opportunity,” Kuroba deadpanned.

Mum laughed. “I like this one, Saguru, you’ll have to invite him back.”

“Of course.” He...wouldn’t mind Kuroba returning. This had been nice.

“Don’t worry about the last of the dishes,” Mum said with a nod at the few Saguru hadn’t cleaned up as he went. “I can do them. Go relax since you did all this work.” Said the woman who worked a ten hour day today, Saguru thought, but Mum did like frosting the cake and he knew the power of small, mindless tasks to unwind after a long day. “And Kuroba, you’re welcome here as long as you need to stay, ok?”

“Thanks.”

Saguru meant to leave Kuroba at the guest room, let him get the rest he clearly needs, but instead found himself lingering awkwardly in the doorway after pointing out where Kuroba could find things he might need.

Kuroba looked back at him, not seeming to feel that same awkwardness or uncertainty of what, exactly, they were—friends? Rivals? Acquaintances? He looked like he was trying to will Saguru’s motives from him by power of his gaze alone, and wasn’t that something of a role reversal.

Saguru cleared his throat. “You...probably could use some rest. I’ll just be—”

“Hakuba,” Kuroba said, cutting him off. “Why did you go back to London?”

Saguru blinked, startled. “Why?”

“You went through the trouble of transferring schools and getting into the police and everything,” Kuroba said. “Seems like a lot of effort just to chase Kid for a few months.”

There were no emotions slipping past Kuroba’s masks now, whatever relaxed state of mind he had had was lost when Mum arrived. When Saguru was in Japan, his life had been taken up by Nakamori’s loud, vicious enthusiasm as he chased Kid in the evenings and days spent in class observing Kuroba laughing, Kuroba flirting with Aoko, Kuroba avoiding Koizumi, Kuroba hiding the depth of his brilliance in flashy smiles and flashy tricks. He’d seen Kuroba joyful, jealous, angry, and nervous. He’d seen Kid triumphant and gloating and seen him pale with fear and regret. There was a phone call on a Paris morning and a lone glove hidden at the scene of a crime. Most people thought arrogance was Saguru’s biggest flaw as a detective, but Saguru knew it was too much empathy. He avoided most serial crime, worked murders because it was generally easier to have sympathy for the victim than the killer, and Kid had always been careful not to harm the officers that chased him, tried to keep property damage to a minimum, and almost always returned what he took. He might not know what Kid was trying to accomplish, but he knew it was something Kid felt deeply in enough to make a target of himself even if it sometimes terrified him. He knew Kuroba enough to say he was not a bad person.

Saguru looked away. “I never intended to stay in Japan,” he said, an honest answer if not a complete one. “And I had obligations here to fulfil.”

“Like baking holiday cookies.”

A tiny smile crossed his face without him meaning to. “Yes, like holiday baking.”

“Hmm,” Kuroba hummed like he didn’t believe that was all but he wasn’t going to push it. “Would you really invite me back?”

“Yes,” Saguru said. There was no hesitation in that at least. “I don’t mind you being here.”

“Don’t mind,” Kuroba parroted, sarcastic and slow. “Ringing endorsement that you want me here.”

Saguru rolled his eyes. “Fine. I enjoyed baking with you and would enjoy doing something similar again should the occasion arise.”

The mask split into a smile—a real one so far as Saguru could tell. “Cool. Thanks for the room. I am going to go pass out now.”

There was an awkward pause before Saguru realized he was still standing in the doorway. He stepped back. “Goodnight, Kuroba.”

“Night, Hakuba.” Kuroba waved and shut the door.

Saguru wandered back down to Mum.

“Not spending time with your friend?” she asked. She was working her way through dishes now, the cake fully frosted with little details added on with nonpareils and gel icing. Two smiling snowmen surrounded by flowers made of snow.

“I believe he’s tired.”

“Hmm.” The soothing clink of dishes and the hiss of water from the faucet. Familiar background noises in a kitchen filled with Kuroba’s unfamiliarly-bright frosted biscuits. “Are the clovers a pun on his name?” Mum asked, a nod to the unconventional shape for the season.

“I thought it might amuse him.”

“He seems nice enough, though I don’t think he trusts me.” She kept washing dishes, not giving Saguru and facial cues to draw from. “He’s very good at hiding what he’s feeling, isn’t he? If I hadn’t glanced around the corner before I entered the room, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Yes. He is good at that.” Saguru sat at the table. Mum rinsed the last dish, setting it on the drain board and wiped her hands dry.

“So one of your Japanese classmates just happens to be in London.”

“A pleasant surprise.”

“I think you mentioned a Kuroba before.”

“I may have.”

Mum planted her hands on her hips. “Saguru...”

Saguru rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t press for details. He showed up and I wasn’t going to turn him away.”

“It would be a bit rude at Christmas,” Mum said and he wasn’t sure if it was straight sincerity or subtle sarcasm. She sighed. “Well, he is welcome, whatever his reasons. And he’s welcome at the family party tomorrow as well if he sticks around.”

“Thank you.”

Mum patted his cheek affectionately. “Now, I can’t believe you didn’t leave any baking for me!”

Saguru huffed. “If I didn’t the baking, you’d still be baking by Christmas.”

“A bit of midnight baking never hurt anyone.”

“Last year you were at it at three in the morning.”

“Saguru, if you say I have poor time management skills again...”

Saguru gave her his best innocent look. It wouldn’t have fooled him, let alone his mother. The hand on his cheek became a light swat to the back of his head and he ducked with it, laughing. They talked about their day until it was time for bed, snitching biscuits to munch on without guilt. Holidays were for indulging.

There was no light on in Kuroba’s room showing in the crack under the door when Saguru passed the guest room. He said a quiet goodnight in its direction all the same.

*

In the morning, Saguru couldn’t say he was surprised to find the guest room empty. Everything was neatly folded back in place as if no one had ever been there, except for a used towel where Kuroba must have made use of the shower. Downstairs there were a handful of biscuits missing and a tiny, presumptuous sliver taken from the Christmas cake that had been filled in with icing to the point where it was almost unnoticeable. On the counter was a note on the nice stationary they had stashed in the guest room’s desk and another one of Kuroba’s pretty paper roses.

Hakuba,

Thanks for letting me spend the night and crash your baking. You’re not so bad after all. Sorry to up and leave without saying goodbye, but I had a plane to catch early in the morning. Funnily, Christmas Day tickets cost a lot less than Christmas Eve. Tell your mom thanks for me as well, and that that cake is good—very alcoholic and different, but good. I looked Christmas cakes up on my phone and wow, didn’t know aged cakes were a thing. Anyway, if I’m ever in London again let’s meet up. And if you’re in Japan and ever need somewhere to sleep that isn’t your home, I have a guest room too.

Merry Christmas!

It was signed with a little clover doodle. It felt like he should be comparing handwriting with Kid’s heist notes. On the back was a post script, written in cramped Japanese that Saguru had to squint at to read.

Check in the electric kettle. This is still not a confession.

Saguru checked the kettle.

There was a gemstone there, a sapphire set in delicate golden filigree. It wasn’t anything Saguru had heard reported stolen, and was willing to bet he would hear about in the next few days.

Really, now, Kuroba wasn’t even trying to pretend at all. A tiny irrational part of him felt a bit warm at the thought that he had a bit of Kuroba’s trust. Saguru pocketed the gem and scribbled out the message in Japanese on the back. It might take Mum a bit longer to read, but she was still fluent in Japanese.

Not a bit too soon, it seemed because Mum slouched into the kitchen, in full disarray as she always was before her first cup of tea. “No Kuroba?” she asked, blinking around the room sleepily.

Saguru held up the note. “It seemed he had a plane to catch.”

“Ah. I’d have sent him off with something if I knew.”

Saguru would wait until she noticed the missing sliver of cake to pass along Kuroba’s message.

“Happy Christmas,” Mum said on her way to fill up the electric kettle—if Mum had been the one to wake up first.... It was just like Kuroba to have luck in his favor.

“Happy Christmas.”

Perhaps, Saguru thought giving the note in his hand one last glance, he would have to have another trip to Japan before his usual one in the summer. Just to visit.

It couldn’t hurt to check in on what Kid was doing either.

Saguru smiled and tucked the note away.