#bonnet will be 13 in a week and a half! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mymoonagedaydream · 2 years ago

Text

Summary: You thought that dying of exposure was the worst thing that could happen to you out in the desert. You were wrong.

Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: Language, some very PG 13 smut

Author’s Note: Yes this oneshot was partially inspired by Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood and yes, I'm British so I had to Google what a slugger was. Everyday's a school day folks. It was also partially inspired by that one photo from a movie I've never seen that I used in the banner okthanksbye.

There was nothing coming. Not a single other vehicle had passed since you broke down over two hours ago. The roof of your car was getting pretty unbearably hot now, even through the layers of clothes you were using as a makeshift picnic blanket you could feel it starting to burn your legs. You considered trying to sit inside for a while again, but you had to give up last time because it became like a fucking sauna, and at least up here you were clearly visible to anyone passing.

---

This isn’t how you thought you were going to die. Granted, you’d never actually spent a great deal of time considering it before, but there wasn’t much else to occupy your mind while you slowly baked underneath the midday sun. You looked up and down the road once more, still only able to see a few feet clearly before the rising hot air started to blur and obscure the view. The brown, cracked landscape stretched on and on before bending over the horizon and disappearing out of sight.

You checked your phone once more but, unsurprisingly, service had not magically descended upon you. Glancing over your shoulder at the bonnet, propped open and somehow still smoking, you wondered whether it was a bad idea to be this close to an engine that could probably explode at any second. At least a quick death would be less painful than slowly being cooked alive.

Leaning your head back and squeezing your eyes closed, a new sound caught your attention. Something whirring in the distance. Your head snapped towards it, eyes straining at the horizon, heart jumping when it came into view. A pickup truck.

A sudden burst of energy hit and you scrambled onto your feet, balancing precariously and frantically waving your arms above your head. As it moved closer you started to smile to yourself, overjoyed thinking that you’d soon be somewhere with shade and cold water, somewhere with air conditioning.

Your face dropped, however, when you realised that it wasn’t slowing down. You waved your arms faster. Nothing. You started to jump up and down, shouting as loud as you could.

“Hey! Stop, I need help!”

Your voice cracked as it drew closer. Your arms dropped and you watched, helplessly, as it sped past, too fast for you to even make out the face of the driver. Jumping down to the ground and running into the middle of the road, you screamed after it.

“Fuck you, motherfucker! ”

Bursting with anger, you pathetically kicked a rock, barely managing to muster the energy to move it more than a few feet. That was it, your one chance at rescue, gone. You squatted down, needing to rest but knowing the asphalt would be hot enough to fry an egg. You could feel the sunburn starting to prickle on your arms.

There was nothing else for it now, you’d have to walk. Either you’d come across civilization eventually or you’d just die, both were better options than being found out here as a sun-bleached skeleton in three weeks' time. You grabbed your backpack and all of your remaining water from the car, setting off in the direction you’d been heading before the breakdown. You knew there was nothing for miles in the direction you’d come from, so this was your best bet.

You’d been walking for over an hour when the vague shape of a building appeared on the horizon. You were half-convinced it was a mirage but, once you picked up your pace, the blurred outline started becoming clearer. The rusty old roadside sign eventually came into view and you saw that it was a baseball themed diner called The Slugger’s Dugout . You looked around, there wasn’t a blade of grass in sight. Strange place to play baseball.

You practically ran the final stretch towards it, the taste of dry baked earth caking your throat and tongue as you kicked up clouds of dust. You stopped dead, however, when you reached the edge of the parking lot and noticed that there was just one car sitting outside. The fucking pickup truck. This would be interesting.

You burst through the door and threw yourself at the counter, making the elderly server jump out of her skin and almost drop a pot of steaming coffee.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“I broke down,” your throat was so dry that your words were coming out horse and sticky, “do you have a phone? And water?”

She kicked into gear a lot faster than you’d expected after hearing that. She filled a tall glass with tap water and placed it in front of you, patiently waiting for you to gulp it down before reaching three quarters out of the tip jar and pointing out the payphone on the far wall.

“There’s a card over there for a towing company, they should be able to help you out.”

You thanked her profusely, returning the glass and sliding the change into your palm.

You only then realised that, in all the excitement around finally quenching your thirst, you’d briefly forgotten that the person you now hated most in the world was somewhere inside this building. Was it the elderly server who’d abandoned you on the side of the road? Well, the door said they opened at 8am and she was the only employee here, so either she’d been very late for her shift or there was someone else skulking around.

You gave her a suspicious side-eye while you wandered towards the phone but you instantly felt bad about it. The coins clinked as you dropped them into the slot, the dial tone sounding through the receiver. You pressed in the number from the faded business card taped up on the wall. A lady with a thick accent answered the call and, as you were explaining your situation to her, you spotted someone walk out of the bathroom and take a seat in one of the booths.

He looked like a fucking pickup truck driver. Flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, old blue jeans, dirty brown hair slicked back. You could feel anger rising in your stomach as you watched him begin to eat. You were so distracted giving him daggers that you almost missed the lady on the other end of the phone telling you that they wouldn’t be with you until 7pm.

That was the final straw.

You slammed down the receiver, making the poor server jump once again, and marched over to his table, bracing yourself against the seat opposite him.

“Thanks for the help back there, asshole.”

He looked up from his plate and eyed you calmly, staying silent. That just riled you up even more.

“Seriously? I could’ve fucking died out there, you couldn’t have stopped for just a few minutes? What, were you in a rush to get to the bacon pancakes before they sold out? Were you late for the ignorant cunt convention?”

“No.” There was a clatter as he dropped his fork on the table.

“There was another incredibly good reason then, was there?”

“Yeah, actually, cause the last time I picked up a hitchhiker she started smoking crack in the passenger seat then robbed me.”

“I'm not a fucking hitchhiker. My car broke down, did you not see the tower of smoke?”

“No.”

He was lying, the piece of shit was definitely lying.

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you got yourself into a situation you weren’t prepared for, sweetheart. Play with fire, get burned.”

You sucked your teeth in frustration and began to storm out, but got distracted by something just beside the door. It was a little area designed for kids to take pictures in, with a backdrop of a baseball field and a wooden bat propped up against the wall. The sign above it read:

Take a swing and make a memory at The Slugger’s Dugout!

Well, if they insisted.

You casually picked up the bat and pushed the door open, waltzing over to the lovely shiny pickup truck glinting under the sun.

Batter up.

With one swift movement, you connected the end of the weapon with one of the tail lights, shattering the glass and watching it splinter onto the floor. It was gloriously fucking satisfying. You heard the sound of the door swinging open behind you almost immediately.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You twisted around, pointed the baseball bat at him with a smile and winked. “Play with fire, get burned asshole.”

He started yelling wildly but you tuned out, dragging the bat across the floor as you walked away, preparing yourself for the hour-long trek back to the car.

At least you’d be in a better mood for this one.

---

You could only have been walking for ten minutes when you heard a sputtering engine approaching from behind. You didn’t turn to look, you knew exactly who it would be. Your hand tightened around the weapon you were still holding.

The truck pulled up beside you and the passenger window slid down, but you didn’t break stride, walking straight past it without so much as a sideways glance. Out the corner of your eye you saw it begin to slowly roll forwards, eventually matching your pace and cruising beside you

“Hey, Babe Ruth.” You ignored him. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I should’a helped. Can I give you a ride?”

Well, that wasn’t what you were expecting. You stopped abruptly and turned towards the window, prompting him to slam on the brakes.

“You really shouldn't be driving with a tail light out, y’know. It’s dangerous.”

“You shouldn't be messing with strange men out in the desert.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” a hint of a smirk crept over his mouth, “but there's bigger assholes than me out here.”

“Doubt it.”

You considered for a second. On the one hand, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of accepting his help but, on the other, it’d be pretty fucking stupid to decline when there was still a slim chance you could die out here. The sun was searing hot now, sweat rolling down your forehead and aches starting in all your joints.

With the bat still gripped firmly in your hand, you reluctantly swung the door open and climbed in. The blasting air-con was annoyingly refreshing. A candy wrapper crunched under your foot as you got comfortable, the faint smell of stale cigarettes mixed with cheap aftershave seeping out of the seat beside you. He offered you a bottle of water, which you eagerly accepted, finishing off half of it without taking a breath.

As the truck rolled away, he turned towards you.

“I’m Bucky, by the way.” You nodded. “So where you headed?”

“Let's not small talk.”

“Suit yourself.”

He reached over to the centre console and switched on the radio, turning the volume up offensively loud when he heard whatever generic, god-awful country song was playing. You lost it when he started tapping along on the steering wheel.

“This is worse.”

“You just keep gettin’ burned today, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes. You had to sit through three whole banjo-plucking, pickup-trucking, cousin-fucking slow jams before you saw your poor little car approaching in the distance. It had stopped smoking, at least, but you had no idea if that was a good sign.

Your driver pulled off the road and parked up directly in front of the wreckage, giving it a dubious frown.

“How long did they say for a tow truck?”

“Six hours.”

He burst out laughing and opened his door, climbing out of the car. You sat for a few seconds and watched him approaching the open bonnet, very confused, before following suit and exiting the truck.

“Can I help you?”

“No,” he flashed you a smile, “but I can help you.”

After properly securing the hood, he leaned over the front of the car and started tinkering with god knows what, tutting occasionally. You loitered behind him and watched suspiciously. It looked like he knew what he was doing but you didn’t trust him at all.

"You wanna back off a little? I can feel you breathing down my neck."

“What are you doing?”

“Look, I can stand here and try to explain it or I can try to fix it, your choice.”

"Fine," you slinked backwards, "but if this is some kind of eye for an eye, car for a car revenge plan you've hatched, I will fucking come for you."

"That a promise?"

His unexpectedly flirty tone caught you off guard for a second. You tried to think of a witty retort, but all attempts just seemed to die on your tongue. That had never happened before.

It only occurred to you then that, in your new position standing a few feet behind him, you'd gained a pretty impressive view. You tilted your head slightly. Those blue jeans were really working overtime.

"Everything alright back there?"

You snapped out of your daze. "Yeah, what, why?"

"You haven't insulted me in over a minute, thought you might've fainted or somethin'." He stood up and turned towards you with a smile, wiping his hands down the front of his shirt. "You wanna make yourself useful and try to start her up?"

With a brief scowl in his direction, you climbed into the driver's seat and tried the ignition. A slightly smug smile settled on your face when it sputtered for a few seconds and died.

"Try again."

"Might be time to admit defeat my guy." You turned the key once more, it worked. "Holy shit."

"Not bad, huh?"

You were actually incredibly impressed, but there was no way in hell he was going to find that out.

"That depends, will it last?"

He strolled over and leaned over the open driver's side door, shrugging. "Would help if I knew how far you were going."

"About two hundred more miles."

He laughed. "Not a chance."

"Brilliant."

You didn't care. As long as he'd done enough to get you off this godforsaken stretch of road, that was enough. You jumped out and retrieved your backpack and weapon from his truck, pleased that you’d taken a gamble and accepted his help, but even more pleased that you could now drive away and never have to see him again.

Why did god have to give such great asses to such awful people? What a waste.

"Here," he stopped you before you got back into your car and pulled out his wallet, grabbing a slip of paper and holding it towards you, "stop at this workshop. They'll help you out."

"I don’t have any money."

"Well, maybe just tell 'em that after they’ve fixed it up."

"Alright."

You plucked it from his fingers, climbed in behind the steering wheel and slammed the door, so ready for this shit chapter to be behind you. Asshole only moved out of the way after you revved at him a few times, holding his arms out in annoyance and shouting.

"You're welcome!"

You ignored him and drove off. He'd helped you out but, after the shit he'd pulled earlier, you figured this just made you even. No need for thanks.

---

You pulled into The Slugger's Dugout on your way past, intending to apologise, return the bat and pick up the broken glass you'd left scattered in the parking lot. When you got out of the car, however, you couldn't seem to find a single piece of it. He must’ve beat you to it. That explains why it took him ten fucking minutes to come pick you up.

A car horn blared from the road and you looked up to see the hick truck whiz past, probably too fast to clock the middle finger you stuck up at it.

You pulled the stolen baseball bat out of your car and timidly wandered inside, unsurprised at the hostile look that the poor old dear behind the counter greeted you with.

"Just… returning this."

You placed it back where you found it and gave her an awkward smile. Before you could escape, however, she leaned over the counter looking like she was ready to unleash a verbal thrashing.

"Now you look here, miss. I understand that you were upset, I would be too, but he is a good man and he didn't deserve that."

You winced slightly, trying not to come across too argumentative. "A good man who left me on the side of the road to die?"

"I'm sure he had his reasons."

You nodded, too intimidated by her strict demeanour to argue back anymore. Why was she so much scarier than the broad-chested tower of a man you just spent the last hour laying into?

"Do you know him?"

"Not very well, but he used to come in here every single Sunday with his father. Every week I watched him help that old man out of the car and to a table, watched them talk and laugh together for hours. I don't think I've ever seen someone of his age look so happy," her expression changed, "but I haven't seen the two of them for months now. That was the first time he's ever been here alone, I didn’t like to ask what happened."

You nodded again, figuring both of you could guess exactly what happened. If she was trying to make you feel like a guilty piece of shit then she was doing a cracking job.

Personal tragedy aside, however, he still acted like an ass.

After thanking her again for her help earlier, you headed out. There wasn't much more you needed to know about a guy you were probably never going to see again.

---

The garage you’d been recommended was just over an hour away, there was weak service outside the diner so you managed to scope it out on maps. To your great relief, as you drove, the stretching desert started to gradually give way to actual civilization, a small, dilapidated town springing up around you. It seemed like the kind of place where people were born, lived and died without ever leaving. You dreaded how they’d react to a broke stranger turning up and begging for free help.

Eventually reaching your destination, you pulled up into the forecourt, cringing at the sound your engine made as it powered down. There was no way in hell that any self-respecting mechanic would come near this thing without a hefty down payment. Still, all you could do was try.

You left the rustbucket and wandered through the open shutter, looking around for any signs of life, preferably someone in coveralls who looked easily manipulated. There was only one person inside. You couldn’t believe it.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He spun round, a clang sounding when he dropped whatever complicated tool he was holding onto a nearby table. “Hey, firecracker. I thought you’d ignored some great advice there for a second.”

“And I thought I’d finally got rid of you,” you scanned your eyes around desperately for anyone else who looked vaguely useful, “but hey, at least one of us is happy.”

“It’s just me here, darlin’. The other guys are on lunch.”

“Fantastic.”

He met your unimpressed scowl with a wink as he strolled past. “The shitbox out front?”

“Mhmm.”

You weren’t too sure what was happening here. He already knew you couldn’t pay, and he knew how much work that fucking thing needed, so what was his plan? There was very little you could do to repay any kind of debt to him, and even less that you were actually willing to do. You wondered how easy it would be to just do a runner with the car once it was back in working order.

He opened up the bonnet again but barely even glanced over it before turning back towards you.

“It’s gonna be a few hours at least. There’s a bar just around the corner,” he pointed down the street, “if you wait there I’ll come find you when it’s done.”

“Look, when I said I had no money, I wasn’t exaggerating. Apart from a little gas money I think I’ve got about fifteen dollars to my name right now. A beer would cost me over a third of my net worth.”

You were half-expecting him to slam the hood down and tell you to get lost after that, but he didn’t. He just chuckled and shook his head.

“Start a tab, give ‘em my name. They know I’m good for it.”

“That’s a risky offer.”

“Nah,” he pulled a dirty rag from his back pocket and used it to wipe down his hands, “surely the crazy broad who called me a cunt and busted my tail light can’t also have a drinking problem, right?”

You shrugged.

---

The door to the bar was unexpectedly heavy, almost tugging your shoulder out of its socket when you tried to yank it open. You felt a little embarrassed when you noticed a couple heads turning in the direction of the pathetic stranger wrestling with the slab of wood. Once inside, you apprehensively looked around, forcing down a dry gulp. This place was seedy as hell, maybe Bucky really did want you dead.

His idea worked, though, and you managed to set up a tab without any qualms. He must send ladies in here with that line all the time.

You decided to settle yourself on a stool at the end of the bar, reasoning that it might be marginally safer to stick as close as you could to the only staff member in the building. The hours passed slowly. It was almost five thirty when Bucky eventually trudged through the door and planted himself on the stool beside you.

He pointed to your glass. “What’re you drinking?”

“Just soda water, got a long drive tonight.”

“No you don't,” he hailed the bartender, “two double scotches, no ice.”

“What?”

“That thing ain’t gonna be ready ‘till at least tomorrow, midday.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope. Your suspension is more rust than metal.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep, then?”

He shrugged, picking up one of the glasses that the bartender had deposited in front of you and taking a quick nip. You leaned forward and let your head collapse onto the bar as a wave of hopelessness passed over you.

“Bucky, I am so exhausted. I’ve slept in my car for over a week and I haven’t had a proper shower in twice that.” Your words started to crack as tears welled in your eyes. “I don’t think I can handle this.”

“Woah, hey, don’t cry. It’ll be alright.”

“How? In what fucking world is it going to be alright?”

“Look, you can stay at my place tonight.”

You lifted your head to shoot daggers at him, in disbelief at how he was trying to engineer this situation. “You can’t be serious.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll sleep on the couch, you can take the bed.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Cause then we’d be even, right? Surely a smashed tail light, a fixed-up car and a place to stay balances out leaving you to die in the desert?” You raised an eyebrow in faint agreement. “Plus I can’t handle it when women cry, if this’ll make you stop then it’s worth it.”

You smiled at him, which was a new experience. Grabbing your glass of golden liquid from the bar, you drank it all down in one, immediately regretting your decision when it kicked you in the back of the throat like a pissed off mule. Bucky laughed at you before standing up gesturing for you to follow him out.

The two of you walked in silence for a few minutes before he hesitantly piped up.

“So, you gonna tell me why the hell you’re driving through the desert on your own, or am I still in the doghouse?”

“You’re still in the doghouse.” A prompting look in your direction somehow swayed you a little, you were getting too soft. “It’s really not exciting, I just got kicked out of my apartment. I used to have some family out here but we lost touch, now tracking them down is my only shot at avoiding living in my car full-time.”

“I wondered why there was so much crap piled in the back of that thing.”

“Mhmm, everything I own in the world is in that car. Had to sell most of my stuff for gas money, though.”

“That sucks.”

“Yep.” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, for some reason now experiencing some pangs of curiosity about your host. “How about you?”

“Me? What d’you mean?”

“Well, the lady at that diner said she used to see you with your dad a lot, but that you hadn’t been in for a while.”

“You two were talking about me?”

“She was talking at me, trying to convince me that I was the asshole.”

“I always liked her.” He smirked slightly, but it faded as he carried on. “My dad died a few months back. It was pretty hard, he was a good guy, helped me out a lot. More than I deserved, anyway."

“Go on.”

“Well, I was kind of an idiot a few years back. I let some shitty friends talk me into some stupid ideas and wound up inside for a few months.”

“Shit.”

“It was, I pretty much lost everything. When I got out I was pretty depressed, so all I wanted to do was get high and sleep, but he didn’t let me. He got me the job at the garage and gave me enough money for a couple month’s rent, to be honest I’d probably be dead now without him.”

“He sounds great.” The two of you exchanged warm glances for a second, but you didn’t want to give him any untoward ideas about the evening, so you continued. “It’s nice when people don’t leave others to die.”

“You have to let that go at some point.”

“I really don’t.”

When the two of you reached his apartment, you jumped straight into the shower, triple checking that the ensuite door was firmly locked before doing so. The place wasn’t nearly as dirty or bachelor pad-esque as you’d expected. Yeah, it was half-empty and hardly decorated, but that was to be expected of any man living on his own. At least it didn’t smell like ass.

Bucky was already knocked out on the couch when you came out of the bathroom, his neck folded in half and his feet dangling over the edge. It was his own fault for only buying a two-seater.

You changed into the t-shirt and gym shorts he’d left out for you, just hoping to god they were clean, and jumped into bed. It was far from perfect but, compared to the backseat of your car, it could’ve been a five star hotel. You drifted off almost instantly.

---

You were woken by a few loud raps on the bedroom door. It took you a few seconds of panic to remember where the hell you were, your head falling back into the pillow once you did so.

“What?”

“Are you all covered and stuff?” The low voice came through the wood. “I really need to pee.”

You let out a groggy laugh. “Go ahead.”

Bucky burst into the room and sprinted over to the bathroom, holding onto his junk like a child about to pee their pants. You would’ve laughed even harder at that sight, but you found yourself a little distracted by the fact that he was also shirtless. You only got a brief glance but, fucking hell, he was build like a brick wall. Suddenly you were wide awake.

You could hear him pissing like a firehose through the bathroom door and sighing audibly when he was finished. He wandered back through after a minute and paused at the foot of the bed.

“How’d you sleep?”

You were trying your very best to stay composed under the circumstances. “Mhmm, good, thanks.”

“Were the clothes I left out okay?”

“Yeah, yep, all good.”

“You alright?”

“Fine. Why?”

“You’re acting weird. Did something happen?” He grabbed a fistful of the duvet and tried to yank it out of your grip. “Did you piss the bed?”

“No I didn’t piss the fucking bed, Jesus.”

“What’s up then?”

You sat up, looking from his face, down to his chest, then back up to his face with a confused expression. He quickly cottoned on to what you were getting at.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I made myself a coffee but spilled it down my shirt, and all my clothes are in here.”

He gestured over to the chest of drawers. You weren’t super convinced by that explanation, it sounded like he was making it up on the spot, but you nodded anyway.

“It’s fine.”

“It is?”

“Mhmm.”

“Good.”

His expression changed. Your heart started thudding, the look he was giving you making you start to break out in a sweat, your toes curling under the covers.

Reaching down, he grabbed hold of the duvet again but, this time, he tore it away and dropped it onto the floor with one swift movement. Moving slowly, cautiously, he climbed onto the bed on his knees, making his way forwards and carefully lowering himself down over you.

Well, you certainly hadn’t expected this. Just a few minutes later the two of you were tangled together so closely that you didn’t know where his body stopped and yours began. The skin on his face and hands felt rough as it grazed over yours, the sensation making you gasp each time you felt it, the deep chuckle that sounded right beside your ear in response making your stomach flutter wildly. As he panted, his warm breath spread over the side of your neck, sending an electric tingle all the way down your spine. This felt good, really fucking good. This might’ve been exactly what you needed.

What felt like hours later, he rolled over and landed with a thud on the mattress beside you, both of your chests rapidly rising and falling in unison. Lulling his head in your direction, he gave you a smile.

“Y’know,” he pushed his words out between deep breaths, “you could stay here for a while, if you wanted to. While you figure things out.”

“Was it that good?”

“Hell yeah it was.”

You laughed at his corny ass. “So, what you’re saying is that you’d be willing to give me a place to stay in exchange for sex? Sounds dangerously close to prostitution.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He rolled onto his side, resting his head on his hand so he could look you in the face. “You can stay with or without sex, I just like your company. No point sleeping in a crappy car when there’s a perfectly good bed right here.”

You gave him a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

---

After breakfast, Bucky gave you a ride to the garage in the pickup truck, now complete with a duct tape covered tail light. He said he could finish off the final touches on your car while you waited in the office, apparently the bar wasn’t open this early and there was nothing else to do in town apart from a shitty cafe and a gun range.

The two of you ducked under the half-open shutter and he headed into the back, telling you to wait by your car for a few minutes while he tidied up. The place was pretty small, just one other car being worked on aside from yours. You wondered how Bucky’s dad got him the job here, whether he had an in with the owner or whether he was just that easy a guy to trust. Running your fingers over the tools lined up on the workbench, you thought that maybe you could be happy with a life here, maybe it was exactly what you’d been looking for.

You almost jumped out of your skin when an older, grey-bearded man in coveralls suddenly appeared beside you. He gestured toward the rustbucket.

“This yours?” You nodded politely. “Here.”

He was trying to hand you the keys, eyes glued to the clipboard he was holding.

“Oh, Bucky said it still needed some work.”

He looked confused. “This one? Nah, this was ready to go yesterday. He said you were out of town or something.”

“He said what?”

Grey beard replied but you didn’t hear it, too busy piecing together the events of last night and becoming increasingly more pissed off as you did so. Bucky had lied to you for a quick lay, of course he fucking had. You felt like such an idiot. You snatched the keys and asked the now very puzzled looking man to open the shutter for you, climbing in and firing up the engine as he did so.

Bucky appeared at your window. “What are you doing?”

“Ask your friend over there.”

You gestured over to the other employee, who just shrugged while yanking on the shutter chain, and a wave of realisation washed over Bucky’s face.

“Let me explain.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He banged his hand on the side of the car in frustration, quickly moving round to stand between it and its route to freedom.

You honked the horn. “Move, asshole.”

“Not until you hear me out.”

“Why should I? I don’t fucking know you, I don’t owe you shit.”

“Right.” Moving at a lightning pace, Bucky somehow managed to sprint around the side of the car, yank open your door and pull the keys from the ignition before you could even register what was happening. “Get out.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

With a frustrated sigh, he hurled the keys as hard as he could out onto the forecourt. “What’s your plan now, huh?”

You grunted loudly, narrowed your eyes at him and stepped out, marching straight past him and heading outside. He caught your arm before you reached the keys.

“Just stop for a second.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Tough shit. I’m going to talk and you’re going to fucking listen, alright?” His firm tone shocked you a little, it was enough to make you relent just for a second. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have lied. I just wanted to spend some more time with you.”

“Well you pulled that off, so congrats, but now that you’ve had what you were after I’d like to go.”

“It wasn’t like that, I wanted more than that.” He rubbed his forehead. “I want more than that.”

“I’ve heard it all before, Buck. You barely even know me, just let me leave and we can both move on.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Cause you’re the only fucking thing that hasn’t depressed or bored me since I lost my dad, alright? I know it sounds stupid, but watching you take out my tail light was the first time I’d actually felt alive in months,” he slid his grip on your arm down, taking your hand in his, “and, maybe I’m out of line here, but I think you feel the same.”

You thought back.

Jesus, he was right. That was the first time you’d actually been in a good mood since leaving your apartment. Surely it can’t be healthy to base any kind of relationship on the joy you get from destroying each other’s property and screaming at each other, though? Can it?

In all fairness, he was the only person you’d even met that actually kept you on your toes, and you quite liked that. Usually people just responded to your insults with offence or tears.

“I don’t know. I mean, I guess, but I’m just not sure that-”

Your train of thought derailed completely when his mouth crashed against yours, your words getting swallowed as all of the breath left your lungs at once. You were hesitant at first, but you soon relented, relaxing, wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling against him, which he reciprocated.

He pulled away, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “So that’s how to shut you up.”

“Won’t work every time.”

“Worth a try, though.”

---

353 notes · View notes

john-laurens · 11 months ago

Text

The year and a half that followed Müller's departure from the Tronchin family was determined by his friendship and his life with the young American Francis Kinloch. The then twenty-year-old youth came from a family that emigrated from Scotland to North America during the Stuart reign and was wealthy in Charlestown in Carolina, where Francis' mother and siblings still lived. On the advice of his guardian, the former English governor of Carolina, Thomas Boone, who later became director of the Customhouse in London, he went to Europe at the age of 13 to receive his education there and one day in England to be able to enter government service. For a year and a half he had been living in Geneva, where he soon became popular with everyone through his eager pursuit of perfection, his modesty and amiability. The news that was just then reaching Europe by sea of the beginning of unrest in the English colonies of North America aroused increased interest in Geneva for the Son of the West. Müller got to know him in Bonnet's hospitable house, and the noble couple at Genthod were heartily pleased that the two young men had bonded so quickly and intimately with each other. They were soon treated like sons of the house - "good day, my children, love your parents of Genthod as they love you," wrote Madame Bonnet to them. By the end of 1774, they were already meeting four or five times a week to read together. Tacitus, Montesquieu and Pope initially occupied them. Müller attached particular importance to this acquaintance because he was able to practice the English language. Kinloch undertook real speaking exercises with him. Müller praised his new friend's fiery, sharp mind, his extraordinary curiosity, his natural and engaging politeness that endeared him to men and women. "He is the noblest, kindest and most virtuous youth; even his faults are amiable". Kinloch had explained to him that it would take at least years of observation before he would call an acquaintance a friend; but after a short time he addressed his letters to Müller, "to the beloved of my heart".

From Johannes von Müller, 1752-1809, Volume 1 by Karl Henking

The original text was in German/French and was translated with Google Translate.

Die auf den Austritt Müllers aus dem Hause Tronchin folgenden anderthalb Jahre sind bestimmt durch seine Freundschaft und sein Zusammenleben mit dem jungen Amerikaner Francis Kinloch. Der damals zwanzigjährige Jüngling entstammte einer zur Zeit der Stuartschen Herrschaft aus Schottland nach Nordamerika ausgewanderten Familie, die in Charlestown in Carolina, wo noch die Mutter und Geschwister von Francis lebten, reich begütert war. Er selbst hatte sich auf den Rat seines Vormundes, des früheren englischen Gouverneurs von Carolina, Thomas Boone, der später Direktor des Customhouse in London wurde, schon im Alter von 13 Jahren nach Europa begeben, um dort seine Ausbildung zu erhalten und dereinst in den englischen Staatsdienst eintreten zu können; seit anderthalb Jahren lebte er in Genf, wo er durch sein eifriges Streben nach Vervollkommnung, durch seine Bescheidenheit und Liebenswürdigkeit sich bald allgemein beliebt gemacht hatte; die gerade damals über das Meer nach Europa gelangenden Nachrichten von den beginnenden Unruhen in den englischen Kolonien Nordamerikas erweckten in Genf für den Sohn des Westens ein erhöhtes Interesse. Müller lernte ihn im gastlichen Hause Bonnets kennen, und das edle Ehepaar zu Genthod freute sich herzlich, daß die beiden jungen Männer sich so rasch und innig aneinander schlossen; bald wurden sie wie Söhne des Hauses behandelt -,,bon jour, mes enfans, aimés vos parents de Genthod comme ils vous aiment," schrieb ihnen Madame Bonnet. Schon zu Ende des Jahres 1774 trafen sie sich wöchentlich vier- bis fünfmal zu gemeinsamer Lektüre; Tacitus, Montesquieu und Pope beschäftigten sie zunächst; Müller legte besonderen Wert auf diese Bekanntschaft, weil er sich in der englischen Sprache üben konnte; Kinloch hat regelrechte Sprechübungen mit ihm vorgenommen. Müller rühmt an seinem neuen Freunde den feurigen, scharfsinnigen Geist, die außerordentliche Wißbegier, die natürliche und einnehmende Höflichkeit, die ihn bei Männern und Frauen beliebt mache; er ist der edelste, freundlichste und tugendhafteste Jüngling; selbst seine Fehler sind liebenswürdig". Kinloch hatte ihm zwar erklärt, daß es wenigstens einer jahrelangen Beobachtung brauche, bis er einen Bekannten als Freund bezeichne; aber schon nach kurzer Zeit adressierte er seine Briefe an Müller,,to the beloved of my heart".

#Francis Kinloch #Johannes von Muller #Johannes von Müller #Charles Bonnet #quote

16 notes · View notes

lightholme · 2 years ago

Text

I have experienced mental illness since the age of 13, and have been in the psychiatric system for a decade. In year 8, I spent so much time absent from school that a social worker was called. At 16, I dropped out of A-levels with incapacitating depression and barely left the house for nine months – the empty days stretching out while friends clubbed and kissed. I was put on antidepressants and at 18 decided to move to Russia, alone, in a manic whirlwind, and had the time of my life. At 20, I moved to Oxford and was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I was told I would have it for life. I moved again at 23, and there is now no hospital in north London I have not been treated in.

In the last few years I have observed a transformation in the way we talk about mental health, watched as depression and anxiety went from unspoken things to ubiquitous hashtags. It seems as though every week is now some kind of Mental Health Awareness Week, in which we should wear a specific colour (although this year no one could agree on which: half wore green, half yellow).

In the last few years I have lost count of the times mental illness has been compared to a broken leg. Mental illness is nothing like a broken leg.

In fairness, I have never broken my leg. Maybe having a broken leg does cause you to lash out at friends, undergo a sudden, terrifying shift in politics and personality, or lead to time slipping away like a Dali clock. Maybe a broken leg makes you doubt what you see in the mirror, or makes you high enough to mistake car bonnets for stepping stones (difficult, with a broken leg) and a thousand other things.

Oh, I know how it’s meant. The lack of stigma should be the same as telling people why your limb is in a cast. But you can’t just put someone with a broken leg and an insane person side by side and expect people not to be able to tell the difference, like the Winklevoss twins or, can we be truly honest, Joanna Newsom songs.

In recent years the discussion around mental health has hit the mainstream. I call it the Conversation. The Conversation is dominated by positivity and the memeification of a battle won. It isn’t a bad thing that we are all talking more about mental health; it would be silly to argue otherwise. But this does not mean it is not infuriating to come home from a secure hospital, suicidal, to a bunch of celebrity awareness-raising selfies and thousands of people saying that all you need to do is ask for help – when you’ve been asking for help and not getting it. There is a poster in my local pharmacy that exclaims, “Mental health can be complex – getting help doesn’t have to be!” Each time I see it, I want to scream.

The Conversation tends to focus on depression and anxiety, or post-traumatic stress disorder. It is less comfortable with the mental illnesses deemed more unpalatable – people who act erratically, hallucinate, have violent episodes or interpersonal instability. I don’t want to pretend that this stigma is merely a hurdle to be overcome. Stigma exists from a place of real fear, and a lack of understanding of the behavioural changes that can accompany mental illness. Episodes of illness can be frightening, frustrating, tiring and annoying for both the unwell individual and those around them.

The key isn’t to deny this, but to educate. Instagram slogans do not make it clear what depersonalisation is, for instance, and that it won’t be solved by a picture of someone walking on a beach. It’s good that Lynx deodorant teamed up with the male mental health Campaign Against Living Miserably, but is “Find Your Magic” not the most patronising slogan of all time? I will admit that I am not well. That writing this, right now, I am not well. This will colour the writing. But it is part of why I want to write, because another part of the problem is that we write about it when we are out the other side, better. And I understand: it’s ugly up close; you can see right into the burst vessels of the thing. (Also, on a practical level, it is difficult to write when one is unwell.) But then what we end up with has the substance of secondary sources. When we do see it in its rawness – Sinéad O’Connor releasing a Facebook video in utter despair – who among us does not wince?Amy Winehouse, voice of a goddamn goddess. We’ll allow. Kathy, 54, works at Morrisons. Not so muchThe primary danger used to be glamorising. It was cool to be a bit mad. It meant you were a genius or a creative. It wasn’t just that certain mental illnesses were acceptable, but certain mental illnesses were acceptable in certain types of people: if you had a special skill or talent or architect-set cheekbones. All of this remains true. Sure, Robert Lowell, great poet. Madness excused. Amy Winehouse, voice of a goddamn goddess. We’ll allow. Kathy, 54, works at Morrisons. Not so much. White woman who has recourse to a national newspaper (called Hannah). Perhaps. Black man who comes from a cultural background where mental illness isn’t recognised and whose symptoms might be put down to the racist trope of aggression in people of colour. Nah, mate. | But now there is also a new danger. It is “normalising”. This is meant to be a positive – as in, “What is normal, anyway?!” Which is a fair question, but I don’t think it’s the woman who crept into my inpatient room, stole the newspapers I had, found me in the lounge and ripped them up slowly in front of my eyes. I don’t think it’s me, sitting in a tiny, airless hospital room, carving my name into the wall with a ballpoint pen, with three guards for company, one of whom later tries to add me on Facebook.We should normalise the importance of good mental health and wellbeing, of course. Normalise how important it is to look after oneself – eat well, socialise, exercise – and how beneficial it can and should be to talk and ask for help. But don’t conflate poor mental health with mental illness, even if one can lead to the other. One can have a mental illness and good mental health, and vice versa. Enough awareness has been raised. We – the public, health professionals, politicians – need to make our actions count. Don’t pathologise normal processes such as grief, or the profound sadness of a relationship breakdown, or the stress of moving house. Conversely, don’t tell me it is normal when I go from being the type of person who will offer children piggyback rides up the steepness of north London to glaring at a crying baby on a bus. Or that it is normal to blow thousands of pounds on sporadically moving house without terminating a current lease, or to send friends bizarre, pugilistic texts in the night. The truth is: enough awareness has been raised. We – the public, the health professionals, the politicians – need to make our words and actions count for more. First, the Conversation needs to be more inclusive when it comes to rarer conditions, and to people whose voices are less loud. Second, we need to recognise that posting “stars can’t shine without darkness” on social media might piss someone off in the midst of desperation and that, actually, anxiety can be a normal reaction and is different from general anxiety disorder, a serious condition. That feeling down is not the same as depression. When I am well, I am happy and popular. It is tough to type these words when I feel none of it. And sometimes when I am most well I am… boring. Boring is how I want to be all of the time. This is what I have been working towards, for 12 years now.When friends decades older tell me off for saying that I am old, at 28, what I mean is: I haven’t achieved all the things I could have done without this illness. I should have written a book by now. I should have done so many things! All the time, I feel I am playing catch-up. Always. I worry, and most of the literature tells me, that I will have this problem for life. That it will go on, after the hashtags and the documentaries and the book deals and Princes Harry and William – while the NHS circles closer to the drain. Maybe it’s cute now, in my 20s. But it won’t be cute later, when I am older and wearing tracksuits from 20 years ago and not in an ironic hipster way but because I no longer wash or engage with the world, and it’s like: my God, did you not get yourself together already? When I left appointments and saw the long-term patients, walking around in hospital-issue pyjamas, dead-eyed (the kind of image of the mentally ill that has become anathema to refer to as part of the conversation, but which in some cases is accurate), four emotions rushed in: empathy, sympathy, recognition, terror. It’s one of those things you can’t really talk about with authenticity unless you’ve seen it, not really: the aurora borealis, Prince playing live and the inpatient wards. Maybe my prognosis will look up, maybe I’ll leave it all behind. I’ve noticed a recent thing is for people to declare themselves “proud” of their mental illness. I guess I don’t understand this. It does not define me. It’s not something that, when stable, I feel ashamed of, or that I hide. But I am not proud of it. I’d rather I didn’t have it – so I wasn’t exhausted, so I wasn’t bitter about it – despite the fact that I know some people, in all parts of the world, are infinitely worse off. I want it gone, so that I am not dealing with it all the time, or worrying about others having to deal with it all the time. So I don’t have to read another article, or poster, about how I just need to ask for help. So that when a campaigner on Twitter says, “To anyone feeling ashamed of being depressed: there is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s illness. Like asthma or measles”, I don’t have to grit my teeth and say, actually, I am not OK, and mental illness couldn’t be less like measles. So that when someone else moans about being bored with everyone talking about mental health, and a different campaigner replies, “People with mental illness aren’t bored with it!” I don’t have to say, no, I am: I am bored with this Conversation. Because more than talking about it, I want to get better. I want to live.

4 notes · View notes

testerzero · 2 years ago

Text

Article

In the last few years I have lost count of the times mental illness has been compared to a broken leg. Mental illness is nothing like a broken leg.

0 notes

fdelopera · 2 years ago

Photo

Welcome to the 39th installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 113 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part VII of Chapter 14, “La Lyre d’Apollon” (“Apollo’s Lyre”), and Part I of Chapter 15, "Un Coup de maître de l’amateur de trappes" ("A Masterstroke of the Trapdoor Lover").

This section was first printed on Tuesday, 23 November, 1909.

For anyone following along in David Coward’s translation (the link is to the Kindle edition on Amazon US), the text starts in Chapter 13 with, “'Christine,' said Raoul as he got to his feet, 'you say you love me but it was only a matter of hours after you were free again that you went back to him,” and goes to Chapter 14, “Then she rushed out in a state of near-panic, still pulling and smoothing her fingers as if she thought the ring would somehow mysteriously reappear of its own accord.”

There are some differences between the standard 1st Edition text and the Gaulois text. In this section, these include (highlighted in red above):

1) Chapter XV was printed as Chapter XVI. This numbering error was made in Chapter VII, and was not corrected, so it was propagated throughout the Gaulois publication.

2) Chapter 15 in the Gaulois text is Chapter 14 in the 1st Edition, etc.

3) Compare the Gaulois text:

... vous dites que vous m'aimez et quelques heures à peine s'étaient écoulées depuis que vous aviez recouvé votre liberté, que déjà vous retourniez auprès d'Erik !...

("... you say that you love me and yet scarcely a few hours after you had regained your liberty, you had already returned to Erik!...")

To the 1st Edition:

... vous dites que vous m'aimez, mais quelques heures à peine s'étaient écoulées depuis que vous aviez recouvé votre liberté...

("... you say that you love me, but scarcely a few hours after you had regained your liberty, you had already returned to Erik!...")

4) This passage was added to the 1st Edition, and sadly does not appear in the Gaulois:

Soudain une silhouette bizarre se dressa devant les jeunes gens, leur barrant le chemin :

« Non ! pas par ici ! »

Et la silhouette leur indiqua un autre couloir par lequel ils devaient gagner les coulisses.

Raoul voulait s’arrêter, demander des explications.

« Allez ! allez vite !… commanda cette forme vague, dissimulée dans une sorte de houppelande et coiffée d’un bonnet pointu.

Christine entraînait déjà Raoul, le forçait à courir encore :

« Mais qui est-ce ? Mais qui est-ce, celui-là ? » demandait le jeune homme.

Et Christine répondait :

« C’est Le Persan !…

– Qu’est-ce qu’il fait là…

– On n’en sait rien !… Il est toujours dans l’Opéra !

Translation:

Suddenly, a strange silhouette loomed before the two youths, blocking their path:

"No! Not this way!"

And the silhouette pointed to another corridor by which they must reach the wings.

Raoul wanted to stop, to ask for an explanation.

"Go! Go quickly!..." ordered this shadowy figure, enshrouded in a sort of greatcoat and capped with a pointed hat.

Christine was already dragging Raoul away, forcing him to run again:

"But who is that? Who is that man?" asked the young man.

And Christine replied:

"That is The Persian!..."

"What is he doing here?..."

"No one knows anything!... He is always at the Opera!"

5) Compare the Gaulois text:

C'était Erik. Il avait les yeux de braise dont vous m'avez parlé. J'aurais dû le clouer sur la lyre d'Apollon...

("That was Erik. He had eyes like embers, which you have spoken of. I should have nailed him to Apollo's Lyre...")

To the 1st Edition:

Si vraiment nous avons aperçu Erik j'aurais dû le clouer sur la lyre d'Apollon...

("If that truly was Erik that we saw, I should have nailed him to Apollo's Lyre...")

6) Compare the Gaulois text (this was likely an error on Leroux's part, since earlier, Raoul agreed to be in Christine's dressing room at midnight sharp):

... à minuit et demi ! fit le jeune homme ...

("... at half past midnight!" said the young man ...)

To the 1st Edition:

... à minuit je serai dans votre loge, fit le jeune homme ...

("... at midnight I shall be in your dressing room," said the young man)

7) Compare the Gaulois text:

Jamais ! répondit-elle avec énergie. Je la renverrai à Erik en la déposant dans la loge du fantôme. Il faut qu'Erik puisse rentrer tranquillement chez lui le soir...

("Never!" she replied forcefully. "I shall return it [the key] to Erik by leaving it in the Phantom's box. Erik must be able to return calmly to his house in the evening...")

To the 1st Edition:

Jamais ! répondit-elle avec énergie. Ce serait une trahison !

("Never!" she replied forcefully. "That would be a betrayal!")

8) Minor differences in punctuation.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 23 November, 1909. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.

#phantom of the opera #gaston leroux #le fantôme de l’opéra #le gaulois #phantom translation #15 weeks of phantom

20 notes · View notes

laudanine · 4 years ago

Text

My great grandmother's basement was full of boxes. Not disorganized, mind you, very orderly. Labeled. She would store things, but she didn't want to hoard them: anything of value should be kept and kept safe. If you weren't willing to respect a thing enough to take care of it, than why keep it? (Waste was the only original sin in her house: Grams had buried her sister, her daughter, raised two generations of children, survived the Dust Bowl, and moved across the country. We did not waste things.

There were matched sets of glasses so thin they weighed almost nothing, that she'd gotten free-with-a-fill-up at a gas station. She had wrapped them carefully in old newspaper so that when each of "the boys" (her grandchildren) or "the kids" (assorted great grandchildren) finally moved out she was able to give them a set for their first home.

Lime green cut-glass sundae sets came with four mismatched long spoons taped together in a bundle.

A set of enameled cast iron pots in brown and orange, with wooden grips on the handles so you wouldn't burn yourself. The enamel had been scrapped off the bottom, and when we found them my uncle poked his finger into the pan, measured the worn surface with his nail against his finger, and showed me the quarter of an inch length. "That's how much enamel I've eaten in a lifetime!" Dad laughed.

At four I was given a box of costume jewelry, and black rayon clutch-stlye purses, and near-empty perfume bottles smaller than my thumb with plastic lids, and a bottle of coral nail polish. The nail polish turned my fingernails yellow for two weeks, and no matter how long I soaked them the astringent floral smell never left the perfume bottles. My aunt gave me an old hat box that was almost two feet wide and nearly perfectly round except for the hinge, and it became my costume box. A few years later Grams found a hand-sewn dress, floral, layered, a d complete with a bonnet. I wore holes in that dress playing Pioneer.

We found a box of hand sewn quilts she hadn't yet finished, each one a constellation of fabric scraps that my aunts and uncles could point to and say "That was my Sunday dress, which she sewed," and "Those were my favorite pajamas." The batting for each quilt was a pair of scratchy electric blankets sewn together, the wire cables pulled out carefully after the electronics had blown. I think she sourced blankets from the whole town: any time something broke she could take it and remake it, only better.

When I was fifteen I stopped being embarrassed that my family was poor: I was sent to teenage sleepovers with a pillow and thick handmade quilts, and it turns out that you can share a quilt better than a sleeping bag anyway.

There was a box labeled "Joy," her daughter's name. My aunt said that she and Grams had gone through it when she moved out, and my aunt had taken a painted hand towel. The box was full of craft projects, fabric paint because apparently my grandmother liked to paint little seahorses and flowers onto tablecloths and placemats. A rubber stamp kit with her name spelled out, and the words "from the library of," just above it. The stamp was glued together, the little movable rubber letter had been immobilized for decades, and the rubber was cracking with age.

When Grams died we found a careful stack of CRT monitors in the downstairs closet. This was back when those were worth a little money, not much, and they had the name of one of my uncles taped to the shelf above them. He was a chemist, she must have figured he'd know what to do with them.

Each of the grandkids went into the sciences, and each had an additional science-based hobby. My oldest uncle was a chemist and liked, well, actually chemistry. Jim is a nerd. His younger brother was a chemist as well, but one with a half dozen telescopes. My Aunt went into conservation, and when she visited would roll me out of bed before dawn to go birdwatching. My father was a geologist with a porch covered in little potted plants, crossbred apples and grapefruit trees. Grams was why.

The "big house" was honestly too big at three stories. There were four bedrooms and a bathroom on the main floor, then two more bedrooms and a bathroom above. The upstairs rooms were a little bigger, with slanted ceilings because of the roof-line. The basement had a spare "guest" bedroom, bathroom, a shop with a wooden board that marked the heights of more than my father and his siblings. There was a screened in porch off the basement, where the kids would sleep in the summer when it was too hot.

My dad said the first time he had seen the Wizard of Oz when he was 13 it had been a rerun on the TV and they'd all laughed at the "big reveal" moment in Oz because the TV was, of course, black and white. Dad said when he was 14 and Gramps died he heard the EMTs trying to restart his heart, and it sounded like someone cutting up celery.

A few months after I moved out from my parents house, went to a new city to Community College with no car or money and a live-in boyfriend, my Aunt found a box she'd kept for me. Inside were cups and placemats with hand-painted flowers, a four-piece matched set. A tablecloth with a floral fabric sewn on the hem, unfitted sheets pieced together from bolts of fabric which had been not-quite-large-enough to cover a bed on their own. On each was a tag written in shakey cursive was written my full name, middle and all.

#i was thinking about flea markets and this came out #i don't know man #apparently i stress-write bullshit to stay sane #I used to wonder if Grams would have been ashamed of my stubborn refusal to be a housewife #Thats was what women did and was why I was given tablecloths and hand towels I thought #but now i wonder if after all the child raising and sacrifices and bullshit maybe she'd be proud?#to see one of her kids get to choose notnto do all the things she was forced into doing

5 notes · View notes

anne-lister-adventures · 4 years ago

Text

Tuesday, 11 March 1840

8 25/’’

2 3/4

Fine morning another thorough wash in spite of circumstances – Had piled all portmanteaus against one door and set our table against the other and made a screen of 2 chairs with our clothes just beginning to dress when their curiosity could hold out no longer and they gently opened our folding doors and peeped in at these and the windows till we sat down to breakfast at 8 55/’’ and afterwards at intervals – Reaumur 10 1/4º in our room at 8 50/’’ a.m. – In fact, children or grown people stood looking at us all the time we staid –

Seeing the master of the house among the gazers asked him in – George had brought us some brick-tea to look at – It is (said the Master) in a cake one half archine (i.e. 14 in.[inches]) square = 4/80 – It seemed about 1/2 in.[inch] or more thick – Made up in China – Cheaper than the other tea ∴[therefore] the Cossacks here have lately began to drink it – They boil it up with milk, and salt, and butter – A piece about 2 in.[inches] long and not an in.[inch] broad he said would be enough to make 30 tasses – But they cannot take it now – It is their grand Carême – Encore 7 weeks of Carême and they are not allowed to take milk or butter - ∴[therefore] their fish is cooked with oil –

Chinese brick tea (Image source).

2 Traineaux de Poste à 3 chevaux – A smallish Kibitka-body with merely a seat for the driver – And hay in the bottom on which A-[Ann] and I had one of our mattresses to sit on – Our Courier and George followed in the other Traineau –

Off at 10 10/’’ – We put on our Chalats (Shubes) over our fur cloaks – My Sarepta night-cap under my dark blue cloth waddled Jupp travelling cap, and my fur cloak collar pulled up to my eyes, and over all this my black satin much waddled pink satin lined Moscow bonnet tied tight down – After setting off, tied my pocket handkerchief over the bonnet to keep all tighter and pulled up my Shube collar which came up as high as the top of my head – A sheaf of hay to cover our feet – I had had hardly a peep-hole – But it was no loss – So thick, we could scarce see a dozen yards ahead – My eyes being still tender were still not sufficiently guaranteed from the piercing north wind – (Or wind in our teeth but rather to the left for I have yet to learn whether we went North or South) pulled up the great pelerine of my Shube and throwing it up over my head against the wind, the wind kept it in its place, and I was comfortable afterwards – The wind was very cold and searching yet Gross tells me that at 10 1/2 (on our being gone) Reaumur stood only at -8º and the same at 6 this evening – It is always cold on the river and there seems to be an extra force of wind – Tho’ it is strong enough on the Steppes – I should think the village is not seen at any great distance nor even the church?

At 11 40/’’ (in 1 1/2 hour) alighted at the Palace of the Prince – A comfortable 2 story high wood (board) Russian House in form of

each front having in the centre a 2 story 4 style portico or balcony the top finished in a pediment – And each end ditto ditto ditto – A row of tallish pyramidal poplars all trees I noticed near the house –

8 or 10 steps up to the centre room in which a large green cloth covered billiard table – On the left a goodish dining room right the salon in which we sat, and then a room hung round with Circassian and other guns, pistols (so very handsome) and side arms, and a broad 4 or 5 ft.[feet] wide carpet-covered divan the whole breadth of the room under the 2 windows – 2 armoires with some China and cups and saucers, and a carpeted bench and this, if I mistake not, all the furniture – The salon carpeted – Sofa and large mahogany table in front of it, and chairs &c. 1/2 length picture in oil of the Emperor and Empress over the sofa – Poêle – Print of Temirazoff Governor General of Astrakhan –

The belle soeur of the Prince and her daughter received us at the door – She in a green satin wadded Chalat with red chemise &c. underneath – And handsome high 4 cornered sable rimmed hat, the top full of waddling like the Moscow coachmen’s caps and girdled round with gold brocade – The daughter’s cap not bordered round the face with fur and rather different and she had a light printed cotton or muslin Chelat on – The lady very civil – Could not speak a word even of Russian but of the 4 men servants 2 could speak Russian that with George we got on very well –

The Prince was at his prayers in the little chapel in the garden close behind the house – Prays from 5 to 9 a.m. and from 5 to 9 p.m. every day) – Not obliged by his religion to do so – But does it from inclination – Prays alone – Query – Is he studying? For he seems an intelligent man – According to their religion they should pray 3 times a day – Fast occasionally but then allowed milk and butter – No regular Sunday – But service 3 times a month – Every ten days –

Perhaps it was 1/4 hour before he came – They say here he is 70 – If so, he is one of youngest looking men of his age I have ever seen – Remarkably good countenance – Good teeth – An agreeable good looking stoutish gentlemanly man – His manners easy and prepossessing – Moderately Mogul as to features – Might pass unremarked among Europeans – i.e. not remarked as one of another race –

Prince Serebjab (right) with his brothers.

The lady decidedly the very type of mogul features – Very high broad cheek-bones – Very small eyes &c. complexion very difficult to express – Slightly copperish? The Prince more so – The girl Æt [aetatis] 14 less decidedly of mogul feature – The boy Æt [aetatis] 13 more so than his sister and was he slightly marked with small pox? Perhaps we shall see him again at Astrakhan – He has an older brother studying at Kazan where the Lord is a Mongol who is professor of Mongol – Coffee excellent 2 cups each soon after our arrival – Asked if we would not take something before going away and it was settled we were to dine – Had George all the while as interpreter –

A Mongol Bible that is book of their religion – Their Bible – From Kazan brought for us to look at, on my inquiring about books in Mongol – Partly in Thibetan (the language of Thibet) and partly in Mongol – The latter read from top to bottom – And lines from left to right – The Thibetan in horizontal lines read from right to left – The grand Lamas (he pronounced it Lammās, with an S) the head of their religion – Buddist – Same as in China – And Chinese language same as Mongol, or the Mongols and Chinese understand one another – Mongol books to be bought at Kazan – But not at Astrakhan –

The Prince descended from Tchinghis Khâna (Tchin-ghis Khâ-nah) in the 20th generation – 20 generations since – If George interpreted rightly but either his French or Russian or both serve him badly for he has apparently difficulty very often in understanding what is said as well as in translating it – Asked why his nephew was not called Ghinghis or if there was no one of this name – No! It would be a sin to call anyone after this great man – He was too great to have his name given unworthily –

The Prince quite independent – Pays no tribute to the Emperor, but if called upon furnishes a regiment and defends the frontier – Is Colonel in the Russian Service – Commanded his regiment at Leipzig against Napoleon in 1813 – Wounded by a ball – Did not feel it much at the time – Soon healed and was well – But felt it (began to feel it) 2 years ago and now cannot bear to sit for long together on this account – Lost 1/2 his men at Leipzig – He had some archers there – No archers now – All armed now with gun, pistols, and pike à la Cossaque and clothed the same – He pronounced it Kassak – Find their own horses &c. &c. and the Emperor allowed pay during the campaign – Mongol for quiver = Cōlt-Tchăh and Noonoon = archer Pnash noonoon = archer –

The Prince is very well with the people at the Cavcase but not with the Tartars of Boukharah, or others (It stuck me that Cōlt-Tchăh resembled Xoλxis the ancient name of the Valley of Koutais …..) about 200,000 Calmucks, the Prince a relation of our Prince here, went some time since to China – No news of them – perhaps they are taken as serfs? But I cannot depend upon George –

The Emperor of China has an allowance made to him, and cannot do as he likes – Our Prince here much better off – Independent – Can do as he likes – Never stirs out of the house in winter – always lives in it but travels in summer – His brothers live in tents in summer – His brother for he has but one left – He about an hour from our arrival all ready (arrived at 11 40/’’) and we were off to the church –

The Prince never quitting the house, his belle soeur took charge of us and a nice lively Russian window widow of an employé of the princes and he keeps her – The lady took me by the arm and seated herself by me in the small Traineau, and a larger with A-[Ann] and the widow and George followed – The Lady put her arm round me to hold me safe if there was any little jolt ∴[therefore] I regularly afterwards attached myself to her – Gave her my arm each time afterwards – Covered her gloveless hands (the Prince had a pair of nice light gloves lying on the table in the house) with my cloak, and we were very good speechless friends – The church may be about 1/4 mile from the house and near it and between it and the house the village – Partly Kibitkas partly goodish Russian wood (board) cottages – I could count about 100 Kibitkas (going and returning) – I observed 2 or 3 instances of their being smeared over with mud plaster and one or 2 instances of 2 tents joined by a sort of passage -

As if these luxurious Calmucs wanted more room than their neighbours – In fact they are Russianizing – The Prince has a Russian Cuisinier – One of his people who has served an apprenticeship I suppose to a Russian – And George said he had one who had learnt cooking in Paris served an apprenticeship there (George said) – The church built 15 years ago – The only Buddhist church in Russia – Planned by his brother who was killed at Warsaw – Brick, white plastered over – After the model of a Thibet temple – Looks exactly like Chinese –

The outer line a low brick wall with brick pillars and wood palisading – Right on entering a handsome new building not quite finished for priests to live in and for a clocher or its equivalent – No bells – Call to prays by one of the large and one of the small trumpets, Kengree-ga and Bēw-ě-răh – Left on entering a wooden (board, unpainted) house where the priests now live – The 2 circles on each side 2 tent-temples – With each its altar and appurtenances – Circular open 6 style A-[Ann] says 7 style wing portico on each (like Kazan church at St. P-[Petersburg]) wooden steps, several up to the large square tower, equivalent of clocher –

The main temple. (Image Source)

The ground floor forming a vestibule the great and only entrance into the church and here our Princess left her hat, (the handsome cap before noticed) her black hair parted down the middle of her head and made into one long, case-enclosed braid on each side – The thundering music, the din of drum and trumpet commenced as we reached the steps – Vestibule – Nave – A side aisle of 3 arcades on each side – Over the end of nave a lower square tower to give light – And the apse, the sacrum sacrorum for the altar and its appurtenances –

Khusheutovsky Khurul. Kalmyk temple. Astrakhan, South Russia city on Volga River (Image Source)

The Prince had ordered a grand service (their high mass) for us – 9 priests (left on entering) on one side and 7 on the other on their hams on carpets, and on the same side as the 9 at this end the 2 blowers of the big trumpets – Beginning at the top end (nearest the altar) vis à vis 2 priests with each a curious little bell besides him

Then 2 more priests the one on the right with a little wheat in a little silver cup (about the size of a lotus flower) standing before him – And the one left with a bell that he constantly rang – The head priest – Giving the lead to all the rest – the 2 little dots at the top the bells –

R.2 the chief priest – He and his neighbour next below him had each a pair of big cymbals and the 2d.[2nd] below him and the 2d.2nd from the top on the other side had each a pair of lesser cymbals – Then the 2 bottom men had each a lesser trumpet (with hautboy red) and the 4 on each side above them had each a drum – And the 2 outside R. had each a big trumpet – 8 drums, an 8 in.[inch] long segment of 20 in.[inches] diameter? cylinder called Keng-rēē-găh. 2 big trumpets 5 or 6 ft.[feet] long, Bew-ě-rah 2 little ditto Bish-Kŏor with a red mouth-piece like a hautboy – 2 great cymbals Tzong (Tzong) the hollow parts like little basins 2 lesser ditto Tzêanzin the hollow parts merely like soup plates –

The chief priest rang his bell, muttered a few words (prayers) then struck his cymbals loud and then laid them down ant struck them together on the cushion before him so that the sound was deadened as he did so did the other 3 cymbal men, and all the other instruments played all the time he played – The service lasted 1/2 hour – Besides the 16 + 2 big trumpeters, one man with pointed cap and lappeted in yellow stood at the bottom at a little distance facing the middle of the 2 rows of priests, and 2 other men in yellow with base clean shaved heads stood one on each side – In all 16 + 2 + 3 = 21 priests –

The 18 musicians all in in a sort of robe de chambre like dress silk embroidered – Flowed rich silk – much worn – With pelerine shaped as if in remembrance of the lotus leaf?

Each wore a cap of long flowing 1/2 way down the back black silk tied at the top that is the cap finished tied up in 3 diminishing balls terminated in a little crown like ornament crown of 4 rays –

Reminding me of a flower – Whence also the fleur de lis of the Bourbons – And a Tiara, as it were of 5 petals surrounding the cap – Every cap had the same no.[number] of petals the white lily – the lotus has 5 petals – The dresses painted with lilies, lotuses, marigolds, (geums?), everything has reference to the lotus –

At the annunciation the angel is generally painted with a white lily in his hand – The sticks that struck the drums, curious the shaft like a sceptre (constable’s staff a little sceptre) i.e. both ends top and bottom reminding one of a flower and something else – The symbol of power – The handle like a ceinture tho’ rather disguised winged idol – The head of the church and particularly near the altar hung round with Chinese like drawings of Indian deities – I carefully examined them but found the Budhist deity too much disguised to be traceable to an inexperienced eye – Yet it is at the bottom of all –

The priests here draw – Paint – Do all the pictures – They understand – Our Princess and her nephew equally ignorant of the meaning of pictures – The people not admitted into the church – Stand outside – We were allowed to examine altar little brass images – All – Nothing evident – Little silver cup, (like lotus cups) of wheat and barley and oats mixed – And little cup of ice (eau benite – As if milk and water frozen) – And silver on tinsel flowers – Went into all the 7 tent-chapels 4 in the court and 3 rather larger outside it – An altar in each – The quantities of little brass or nice like Chinese images and pictures – A square pedestal stand on one side of 2 of their altars that the idol ought to be upon and a sort of sceptre in front of 2 of the altars, with a protuberance made to receive something – Inquired – George said a plate to hold the offering – Or what the priests ate – This column and its proper Budhist companion ought to be one on each side of each altar –

At the doors of the 3 tents outside was a cylindrical bundle of reeds one on each side the door – This paganism is a curious remain of Antiquity – The exterior of the church is very Chinese –

The clocher is square and then 4 retiring squares up to the ball on which rests the needle and above that a little ball and crescent and a point springing from middle of crescent I have inadvertently put the black-painted crescent work at the top of the retiring grade instead of the bottom? The cornice under the roof is every where triangular, in diminishing –

A very pretty cornice ‘4 grades square to ball and sceptre and top and crescent and ball – 6 columns’ (2 rows of) in each circular colonnade on returning to the palace our Prince ready to receive us – Gave me a Mongol Grammar printed at Kazan in 1835 and wrote his name in it – He had before given me his name and the names of his 2 brothers and that of the wife (our Princess) of his 2d.[2nd] brother all the brothers equally Princes and Sovereign Princes – Our Prince Cerbedjab de Tumen his tribe Tumen, and calls his village here Tumen, had 50,000 sheep when winter began – Has lost 20,000 – Ten years since such a severe winter – Last year at this time there was grass for the cattle –

Arrzha and liqueur glasses the precursor of dinner – The spirit tasted exactly like good Noyau – 1/2 and 1/2 mare’s and cow’s milk that of today sourish already (in 4 days, fermented and give once distilled yields the common Arrzha that we tasted and that still has sufficiently left of milk derived taste to let one find out its origin – This distilled 3 times and prepared with almonds yields the Arrzha like Noyau – Tchez-gan the Mongol name of Koumis – One may call Arrzha esprit du lait –

Dinner 1st Eesh-Kessen (looking like a Russian shredded reddish cabbage) a plat of shredded mutton – Shredded like on cabbage salad at Sarepta – Very good – Next little beef olives à la Russe with gravy good – Then Sabac fish cutlets like those the other day en route but better cooked – Then blinnys in little rolls 2 in.[inches] long and 2 in.[inches] diameter and several folds – Rather too hard and not hot enough – 2 preserve orange peel in shreds and white currants – Declined Medoc and some other French wine drank a glass made from the grapes of his own garden (4 v.[versts] off) this year – A weak white odd tasted but not disagreeable wine – The water excellent – Tasted dessert of Persian almonds, 2 sorts – Then coffee – Excellent now and in the morning – From Astrakhan but from Moscow or St. P-[Petersburg] then tea – 2 cups each – excellent – The best I have tasted in Russia –

Admired the lady’s cap – The Prince asked how long we should stay at A-[Astrakhan] if long enough would get me a cap made, and send it to me there – Said we should only stay 5 day glad to be handsomely off putting him to so much trouble &c. – He had asked for our name I wrote as under

‘Madame Lister de Shibden Hall dans la Conté de York d’Angleterre, et Mademoiselle Walker de Cliff Hill das la même Conté, rendent mille graces à Monsieur le Prince Cerbedjab, Prince Souverain des Calmoucs de Tumen, - de son hospitalité et de touts ses politesses – Elles desirent pour lui et pour toute sa famille le plus grand bonheur – Mardi. 11 Mars (Nouveau Style) 1840’

George explained and the Prince seemed pleased – I had asked if anyone had sketched his church &c. – Yes! An Officer (a Serjeant said George) chez Colonel Balájaefski at Astrakhan, has sketched the Prince and his people and temple – Much pleased with our day chez le Prince –

Thanked him thro’ George as well as we could – He had ordered a Traineau and pair and a Cossak mounted en courier to take us home because we should by this means go much quicker – True – The wild screams of our Cossack and his whipping on our Courier’s post horses (spite of the driver) and seizing them by the tail and thus urging them on and our driver, too, screaming and delighted at my laughing aloud – That us over the river like magic – At the Prince’s door and at our own at 6 21/’’ in 1 6/’’ hour! Gave the men each a Silver Rouble, and then on their asking for a written assurance that I was satisfied I told the Courier to write thanks and that we had come in 1 6/’’ and I then signed

A Lister de Shibden Hall

Tuesday 11 March 1840

And set aside this my arms – Tea – And we drank Sackville’s health &c. on his 8th birthday – All this over at 8 - Then till now 1 25/’’ wrote all the above of today – A-[Ann] writing by me – Very fine day but bitter cold wind to the left nearly in our faces, going – At our backs in returning and besides abated since morning – the ice often sounded as if the river would not be safe very much longer – Lay down at 2 3/4 a.m. –

[in the side of the page:] Brick Tea

[in the side of the page:] Cerdebjab Prince of Tumen

[in the side of the page:] Grand Lamās

[in the side of the page:] Chinese and Mongol languages nearly the same

[in the side of the page:] Calmuck (Mongol, Buddhist) Temple at Tumen

[in the side of the page:] Buddhist priests’ caps &c.

[in the side of the page:] Tumen from Soroglazinskaya 13 versts

[in the side of the page:] S-[Soroglazinskaya] from Astrakhan . . 90 1/2

Page References: SH:7/ML/E/24/0040 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0041 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0042 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0043

#anne lister code breaker #anne lister #ann walker #moscow to baku 1840

5 notes · View notes

scribbleb-red · 5 years ago

Text

Camisado (Your Emo Andreil AU)

[This started as a Morning AU on Twitter, warning: we're going very 00s]

Andrew and Neil meet in a chat room age 13.

Andrew's handle is @/phantom!attheopera

Neil's is @/isayshotgun

Andrew initially hangs around because he finds it hilarious how Neil roasts people he likes and trolls people he doesn't.

They also both have things in common - starting with but limited to their love of PATD and pretty much all emo music they can get their barely-teenage hands on. Andrew likes it a little heavier than Neil - but they both rave about Brendan Urie, Gerard Way and the Maddens.

They strike up a penpal style relationship - moving first from the chatroom to private messages, then the msn and email.

They confide in each other. Neil moves around a lot because 'my dad's a bad man, he's after me and my mom'.

Andrew tells him about Cass and Drake.

isayshotgun: he shdnt do dat 2 u

phantom!attheopera: i know

isayshotgun: id get u out

phantom!attheopera: how

isayshotgun: im gd w/ knives

phantom!attheopera: maybe you can teach me.

phantom!attheopera: and I'll teach you to spell, honestly.

isayshotgun: *eyeroll*

Neil doesn't come to get Andrew because Aaron happens first.

And then Andrew's in juvie and playing exy and the only way he can stay in touch with Neil is email. He shouldn't even be allowed email, but he's willing to get on his knees to have computer access, access to Neil.

Something about email makes their friendship even deeper.

Actually, Andrew's fairly certain that he's half way in love and that if they were different people they'd have already talked about this. Still, it's because of email that he notices something is wrong with Neil.

His emails, which were long and rambling, have suddenly become short - no less full of feeling and affection, but syntactically different.

He tries to ask about it.

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Subject: what's wrong with you?

Neil is cagey at first but Andrew gets it out of him in the end.

From: isayshotgun

To: phantom!attheopera

Re:Re:Re:Re:Subject: what's wrong with you?

Being shot really sucks. That's all. N

All Andrew wants to do then is cross the country, gather Neil close and keep him safe. They're fifteen now and he'll be leaving juvie next month.

"Can you keep safe until then?" Andrew types.

"U cant save me. We talked about this." Neil's reply is not what he wants to read.

Andrew's released to Tilda. He finds out his brother is hooked on painkillers and his birth mother is an abuser.

phantom!attheopera: she hits him. I need to stop her.

isayshotgun: ... ...

phantom!attheopera: what?

isayshotgun: is that weird? for moms 2 hit u?

phantom!attheopera: your mom hits you too?

isayshotgun: 2 teach me not 2 be stupid.

isayshotgun: keepin me alive

phantom!attheopera: that's not how it works, no one hits you for your own good. that's...

phantom!attheopera: my therapist calls it emotional abuse and controlling behaviours.

Neil ends up sharing a lot more than he was probably initially intending - about the one time a girl kissed him and he couldn't walk properly for a week; about the way his mom pinched him and made him recite their rules back; about how he wasn't allowed to be sick, ever.

phantom!attheopera: one of these days I'll find you and we'll run away together. We'll go anywhere you want. Settle somewhere safe.

isayshotgun: do u think ud like me irl?

phantom!attheopera: well I can't see your spelling if you're talking

isayshotgun: rofl lmao

Andrew tells Neil about Aaron.

phantom!attheopera: he's a total prick

isayshotgun: hv u tried talkin 2 him about smthing easy? like exy?

phantom!attheopera: just because you like stickball

isayshotgun: no i mean maybe u need a bridge 2 talk. common grnd.

phantom!attheopera: ...maybe

Neil is the one who gives him the idea about crashing the car with Tilda in it too. He sends Andrew all the instructions on a floppy disk that he posts to Andrew's therapist. On the front of the disk, Neil has scrawled their usernames. Andrew smiles.

Their relationship is a strange one - they are always there on the other end of the computer to each other, but they've never swapped photos and never heard each other's voices.

When Andrew gets a phone, he asks Neil if he has one and Neil says no, only his mom has a burner.

Still Andrew gives Neil his number and on his birthday, November 4th, he gets a call from a Seattle phonebox.

"Hey," Neil says. Andrew can hear him shivering, the chatter in his teeth.

"Happy Birthday, Drew."

They talk and talk. It's the best birthday Andrew's ever had.

Right up until the gunfire.

Neil vanishes.

There's no emails. No MSN messages. No highly irritating nudges. He's not in any of their usual chatrooms.

Andrew doesn't get another phone call.

Weeks go by. First one then another then another.

Andrew leaves messages. He sends emails. He really really hopes Neil isn't dead.

Aaron and Andrew go to live with Nicky.

They're approached by The Ravens. Andrew turns down the infamous Riko Moriyama and his absurdly pretty Number 2, Kevin Day.

David Wymack shows up. The deal extends to Aaron and Nicky if he wants it. Andrew says yes.

Sometimes Andrew thinks about Neil and tries to make an effort with Aaron, but Aaron is angry and a recovering addict and nothing Andrew says or does is ever enough. He still tries.

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Subject: 9 ways I'm trying to befriend my twin

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Re: Subject: make that 11 ways

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Re:Re:Re: Subject: none of these are working

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Subject: you'd hate him too

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Subject: ok fine, I don't hate him

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Subject: Happy New Year

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Re: Subject: And Happy Birthday I guess

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Subject: I miss you

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Re: Subject: I still miss you

From: phantom!attheopera

To: isayshotgun

Subject: Panic! are play in Columbia next month !!!

From: isayshotgun

To: phantom!attheopera

Re: Subject: Panic! are play in Columbia next month !!!

got u a ticket c u there @ 7pm

Andrew blinks. He stares at his inbox. The 1 new message. Neil's username. Neil is alive. Neil is coming to Columbia. Neil is coming to a Panic! At The Disco gig. He bashes out a hasty message.

phantom!attheopera: Are you serious?

isayshotgun: yeh

The month vanishes under Andrew's feet. He's nervous. He's excited. Nicky is exuberant.

"My cousin has a date!"

"Not a date, Nicky."

Nicky just slides a knowing look his way and when Andrew takes the car keys, tells him to drive safe and stay out of fights. Andrew scoffs.

They haven't been talking much, Neil and Andrew.

But Neil promised that Andrew wouldn't be able to miss him.

Neil was telling the truth. He's standing there, a too-skinny teenager with badly cut hair flopping into his eyes, with a giant sign saying "phantom!attheopera".

Approaching, Andrew sees that Neil is gaunt, there's shadows under his eyes, which are blue as the sky on a clear, cold day.

"You ready to scream your crooked heart out?" Andrew asks.

Neil looks up with a slow smile. It wobbles as if his face is out of practice.

"Hey."

"Hi."

They will - in fact - scream their crooked hearts out that night. They will hold each other upright and throw themselves through the mosh pit, feeling the press of elation and anger and frustration and hope. Neil will trip a stranger who gets too close for Andrew's comfort. Andrew will deliberately spill a drink over a girl who won't stop eyeballing Neil with hearts in her eyes.

"My hero," Neil laughs. His laugh is rusty too.

Andrew wants to hear it again and again. He wants to hear it every fucking day for the rest of his stupid emo life.

When the music fades and the crowds disperse, Andrew and Neil are left in the carpark, sitting on the bonnet of Andrew's car.

He asks Neil where he's going tonight.

Neil shrugs.

He asks Neil if his mom is nearby but he already knows the answer. Mary Hatford is dead.

They don't leave for hours. Neil explains everything that night - who his dad is, what he's running from. Andrew doesn't care.

When they're both cold, they sit in the car and turn the heating up. Andrew offers his hand to Neil and Neil curls their fingers together.

Neil is tired. Neil is so so so tired.

"Come home with me." Andrew says. "Stay."

Neil slumps against the seats, his head tilted so Andrew can see every sharp angle of his face. There's no fight, no bargaining.

Just a sweet, fluttering feeling neither of them know to call hope.

The end.

#morning AU #Andreil #emo #emokids #00s aesthetic #andrew minyard #neil josten #aftg #panic!#at the disco

100 notes · View notes

lockdownuk · 4 years ago

Text

Lockdown Diary Part 2

A personal account during the lockdown in the UK due to the Covid-19 outbreak.

23/03/2020 8:30pm Boris Johnson, UK Prime Minister, gives a live address to the nation to, effectively, put the country on lockdown to stem the spread of the deadly coronavirus strain, Covid-19.

Many of us have been self-isolating for days but this latest development within the UK in reaction to the pandemic feels very serious and very scary. I decided to keep a simple diary and where better but online.

Day 31: I went to Tesco’s at Hampton at @8pm. It was weird. But I made it less weird by buying (amongst all the legit stuff I needed and some stuff for Karen’s mum) more booze. I have, atm about 30 assorted cans and 60 assorted bottles. I’m gonna stop buying booze now until I’m down to the last dozen. I don’t want owt to happen and I leave many behind!

Day 32: More than a calender month! I was rung up by a recruitment agent today about a contract with DHL as a remote support engineer to their aviation section. €400 a day! I’ve applied. Few beers tonight, watching a new Netflix release (Extraction) and catching up with Fog, Ham, Andy and Rog later at 10:30pm - yikes, might be pissed.

Day 33: Typing this on day 34. Dossed around during the day, few beers and another video call with fog, Ham and Rig plus I invited John Monk along. He was his usual self and signed off from the call with a moonie! Later on I had the pleasure of Scottish Louise video calling me! She was pissed, in her shed drinking den at her home with some neighbour called Ronnie and her daughter Ellie. She was her usual outrageous self who imaprted such gems as “Tim, you look old” and “Roger on coke is the only time I’ve taken it up the arse”. Nice.

Day 34: Today I skyped Laurie and ‘met’ Matthew and Nicholas for the first time. It was bloody fantatsic. Janine was there as well.I cannot believe it takes lockdown (plus an idea to get Laurie to add me to his regular Monday skype chat with Dad) that managed to get us doing something that should have happened years ago! It was so great to talk to them all face-to-face. Janine hasn’t changed a bit, Matthew is very quiet with Nicholas being the more gregorious twin. And Laurie is still Laurie. I’m reminded of how much I sort of miss him! It was all so comfortable. I loved it! Tomorrow is Dad’s 85th hence the 3-way chat idea. I hope it comes off!

Day 35: So dad and Laurie and I skyped. It was OK but my video feed was very dark, (still dunno why) and Lauire’s kept freezing. I dropped out so as to leave them to it, my thinking being the extra person takes up bandwidth, with the promise I’d call dad later. Before I could, Rita called me and suggested Dad and I skype, which we did. So, all in all, a good day of comms! And Dad seems his happy usual self - 85 years old! Amazing.

Day 36: I am really struggling to motivate myself this week. Today, I’ve done fuck all of note. That is all.

Day 37: A similar day to yesterday. All I have really managed to do is lay down audio from Pink Floyd (Absolutely Curtains) to a video I shot of a cow on yesterday’s walk. I am having a downer of a week without any good reason why, ld aside. I have worn my new walking boots today (’cos my old ones are leaking, I found out yesterday) and they fucking hurt, despite having tried to wear them in for months, albeit pathetically. Also, a few days ago (Friday 24th April), I got notification from HM Revenue & Customs that I’m getting tax rebate (from 2018-19) of £392. Yay!

Day 38: I received notification today that I’ve got a speeding ticket…last Thursday back from Tesco’s - 87mph somewhere between the A1 and Elton. I am hoping it’s a fixed penalty. I dunno whether it is yet, I just have to send the form off confirming it’s my car and I was driving. I spoke with Lynda from Woodfords asking her to ask for a rent reduction before I sign for another year. Plus, I let her know that I will be Howard and Sue’s eyes as the look at rental properties in Oundle - I do hope they return although it would be a shame for them that their plans have been scuppered (she’s lost her job in Oz due to Covid-19)

Day 39: Today I started another piece of exercise - up and down the stairs 26 times. Not sure why 26 - it was some thing online to do with the London Marathon, I think. It fucking killed. I used 13 clothes pegs for a counting system. I asked Karen to pick up some stuff when she was shopping (burgers, radishes) - Dan dropped them off, He was with Shaggy (driving his van) and going to see Jonah. That pisses me off - they should be social distancing, ffs.

Discoevered, today, that Cornershop, post-Brinful are fucking excellent. listening to the album ‘England is a Garden’ as I type.

Day 40: That 26 times up and down the stairs is fucking hard. I did videos about it today. My legs are aching like fuck right now.

Day 41: Just done Young Sam’s (Sam Clews) quiz. 3rd week running and it’s now become a habit and something I look forward to. Out of all the internet driven socialising I’m undertaking in ld, this is the weirdest - I feel totally detatched from all others taking part but, now, would feel pissed off if I didn’t or couldn’t join in. I got 47/70 this week. My best score and only about 8 off the winning score - most others aren’t doing it on their own!

Today’s walk was a cloudy one - I captured some fine, dramatic pics of the clouds. I am getting into this photography lark, albeit very amateurish. But, when I post any pics online (mostly FB), they seem to be widely appreciated, which is nice.

Day 42: Applied for a remote service delivery job with a firm called TTEC. £60k. Finished watching The Outsider. The creepiest TV show I have seen in years. Really great use of background music.

Day 43: Finished Mindhunter S2 last night. It’s so good but I cannot quite put my finger on why. Today has been a nothing day apart from day 2 of me not typing the letter ‘e’ in any post or comments on FB for a week. It’s hard.

Day 44: Watch Anna last night. A Luc Besson film that starts a kick-ass suprermodel. It’s right down my street. Today I have been lazy af. I need to pick up my online learning again…tomorrow, maybe! I watched Andy Murray Resurfacing. A documentary on Amazon. Fantastic. What a top man he is. Completely human and completely inhuman!

Day 45: Much talk in the news of possible lockdown relaxation. I am off the opinion we should stay the course until we are completely assured of beathing this thing i.e. a working, widely available vaccine. Dad and I Skyped - he is doing well, as usual. So is Rita. They both seem very happy in lockdown! Today has been a glorious day, weather wise. I had my walkk at 10ish this morming and it was very warm. Hottest day of the year so far I reckon.

Day 46: Bank holiday Friday (75th anniversary of VE day). Nice walk. Chat with Karen letting her know about being caught speeding just in case I am banned and need some out of town shopping. Watched second episode of DEVS by Alex Garland. It’s good and intriguing. Now, @7pm, gonna eat and hit the beers and smokes.

Day 47: Typing this at 15:45 on day 48. I had lots of beers and a good old chat with Rog…

Day 48: Today’s daily press conference was eagerly anticipated today with rumours of a relaxation in lockdown. It seems it was a fuss about nothing with no clear instructions - I didn’t watch it but, skimming the BBC news site, I shan’t be doing anything different over the next few weeks, not that I would anyway - furlough and self isolation are the order of the day and I won’t change that until I am sure it’s safe. Meanwhile people, including Danny flaunt the rules, it’s been pointed out to me plus I know he spends time with Jonah and Marc. It really fucks me off. So, the actions of the few mean I will lock myself down for as long, if not longer, as it takes. Attended Sam Clews quiz again. It passes the time. Also, I had half a scotch bonnet chilli with tea tonight (roasted veg, cous cous and sausages). Ridiculously hot!

Day 49: Received the speaker I ordered a few days ago (from eBay). It’s an AudioPro Addon T10. I got it for a very reasonable price from a German shop. As a result, the power lead isn;t three pin and that has seriously fucked me right off!

Meanwhile, I did my 26 stair climb before my daily walk today. It was easier than usual (surprise surprise) and I did 7km - but that was tough! ‘Cos I am on (yet another) free trial of Amazon Prime, I am ramping up watching stuff available. Last night I watched Booksmart - really nice little film with a great soundtrack. I am listening to Dan the Automater as I type. Today I watched half (3 eps) of The Night Manager and the film ‘The Founder’. The former is a superb series, the latter an OK film about Ray Kroc - the supposed founder of McDonald’s. Except he wasn’t; he was the wrong side of ambitious and a cunt.

Day 50: Stripped the 2 pin cable from the speaker I received yesterday and wired up a 3 pin plug and it worked. Win. And it sounds great. Win-win. Went to go shopping in Hampton but the car wouldn’t start. Loss. But it was the battery so I managed to borrow Karen’s jump starter which worked. Win.

Spent £107. Loss. But just under £40 was booze plus £10 for two big pizzas, two sides (dirty fries) and some dips. Win. Didn’t do any online learning - seriously fucking letting myself down. Loss.

Did my usual walking and 26 stair climb. The latter is hard but defo getting easier. Win. Day 51: Sam’s 51st birthday on day 51 - coincidence! Today I received my face mask from Lou - House of Stewart tartan. I’m pleased with it and that I have got a mask now. I managed to get up at a reasonable hour, just left 09:00, and revisit my web design course. Module 1, lesson 5 and I am fucking stuck. Trying to code an online CV with a side nav bar and I cannot get it to fucking work. Grrrrrr. Later, i got into a FB dispute (easily distracted due to the above) with someone over his statement of fact (Tim Martin’s treatment of Whetherspoons’ employees) when he doesn’t know it’s fact. It probably is, but that is not the fucking point. I wish I could leave these sort of spats alone. I am drinking, at 20:45, peppermint tea as I type. Jeez, what’s happened to me?

Day 52: Well, last night took a swift chnage. Rog message me and, to cut a long story short, I hit the beers, also called Foggy later, got trashed. I got up today at gone 1pm. Sam posted on fb that Paul had forgort her birthday yesterday. Oh dear! The 26 stair climb and walking each day is noticeable for how knackered my legs feel all the time, I noticed today!

Day 53: My birthday! Nice comments and banter of FB. Rachael brought round a bottle of whisky; gobsmacked. Karen popped round some beers and sausage rolls. Sam sent a card, as did dad with a £50 cheque. Dan’s ordering me a pizza later.

Chuffed! Day 54: I went to bed late after a lot of beers, huge pizza and chips, a few smokes and a long call with WWJ and video chats with Fog then Rog. Got up around 1pm and dossed with my usual exercises and I made fish pie with a scotch bonnet. Day 55: Late one last night but up early today (11ish). Really fretting about hospital tomorrow. Nervous anyway but the safety aspect, in terms of Covid-19, isn’t helping.

Day 56: Hospital appointment was just for an eye scan so the consultant can review it. I was very surprised to see how few people were wearing face masks! I did two lots of washing today. (After the hospital) I went to Morrsions, Asda (queue too long though), B&M (queue too long though) then Tesco’s. All to buy a baseball cap ‘cos I’m fucked if I’m going to wet my hair each time I go out and want it to look presentable! In Morrsions (no mens’ clothing apart from underwear!) I stocked up of 10 cans of sugarfree apple Caraboa….I was only thinking of this drink just the other day. Yesterday I finished The Night Manager on Amazon. I liked it a lot but, also, expected much, much more from it consdiering the hype. Hugh Laurie has come a long way from comedy sketches with Stephen Fry!

Day 57:Received an email from Sueanne yesterday asking ( as designated spokesperson for everyone) how I am. The most interestring piece of news in a rather uninformative email was that the US has started to open resorts!

Day 58: I am writing this on Day 59. I started a two walk a day regime. The first walk I do is shorter, around 4km. my aim is to be ready for 1,000,000 steps Diabetic UK challenge (throughout July, August and September). I need to do just under 11,000 steps a day. The relaxation in ld rules makes this achievable. On that score, I am allowed to visit a friend’s house, as long as it’s just the two of us, outside, 2m apart. I went round Karen’s last night. I was desperate to have a Happy Hour (I allow myself a midweek beer - today (well, yesterday) is/was Wednesday!) of sorts with another human (rather than a video chat). I was there for about 2 hours, very enjoyable, and then came home. Then I had usual roasted veg with rice and sausages but I couldn’t eat it. I used half a scotch bonnet rather than the usual birdeye chillis. It was too hot, had to sling it! Had a few more beers and, hence, neglected my diary duties!

Day 59: It’s 01:20am. I don’t know why I am still awake and up, but I am. But, also, I am now going to bed. Nothing else to report, really.

Day 60: Half way through 12 weeks furlough. I was discussing this with Dad and Rita earlier - I am expecting that, at the end of 12 weeks, I’ll be laid off. I hope I’m wrong but I reckon it’s well on the cards. Off to have a beer round Karen’s in a sec which will be pleasant. Just a hour or so. It’s fucking windy today so I shall wrap up!

#diary #Tumblr diary #lockdown #COVID19 #lockdownuk

2 notes · View notes