#centaur!william

[heytherecentaurs]

Burrow's End is an absolute masterpiece.

In the span of ten episodes Aabria and Co. weave an exciting and emotional adventure story about a family of sentient stoats. It delivers huge laughs, interesting societal criticism, remarkably emotional and well-acted scenes and concludes with a series of epilogue scenes that feel appropriate for each character, some heartfelt and subdued and others bigger than life and all the funnier for it.

Siobhan and Izzy play the perfect pair of siblings. They fight and argue but they also love each other. Jaysohn (Siobhan) looks up to Lila (Izzy) and believes she's the smartest stoat in the world (and by the end she probably is) and Lila hypes up her little brother's athletic skills. They both fully embodied these kids and I could watch them do fun stuff for more episodes. Give me a version of Saved by the Bell with them. Stoat by the Bell.

Brennan and Rashawn, playing sisters, also knock it outta the park, showing a more mature sibling dynamic. Brennan portrays Tula as the quintessential overtired single mother of excitable kids, and Rashawn as younger sister Viola straddles a very interesting line of being intimidating to outsiders but very much more naive and looking to her older sister when she starts a family.

Jasper as Thorn, a guy everyone just lets be a cult leader because he really wanted to, is fantastic. His is a difficult role as the only non-blood relative. Jasper plays Thorn with such real humanity of a guy in over his head and letting his ambition wife call the shots, but also one who agrees with her goal, really loves her and has moments of real menace. He has some very funny scenes, his big speech is perfect, and I just enjoy him.

Erika is wonderful. They play the epitome of generational trauma as many have said but as much trauma as Ava has, she is also loving and willing to learn. The fact Erika took this adversarial role is incredible. The tense dramatic scene primarily between Ava, Tula and Viola is amazing. They act their asses off and make hard choices that I imagine are difficult even for such an experienced player.

Aabria's DMing always feels fun. She doesn't get bogged down in the rules. She knows them. She plays by them. But as a master, she knows how and when to break them too. Her seasons on Dimension 20 have all had a tenseness, a particular edge to them that can give me anxiety during dramatic scenes between two characters. It always feel like one of her NPCs may say something devastating and the tension between characters reaches really thrilling heights. This is present in other seasons, but I don't think anyone does it as well as she does. The first season of hers to have battle maps, Aabria really swung for the fences and gave us some of the wildest maps to date.

Shout out to Carlos Luna's voice acting. He did an incredible job. And shout out to the whole crew who have put together one of the best seasons of D20. They keep finding ways to build on what's come before and they should be commended for it.

Dimension 20 is most successful when the concept is very streamlined. They don't do huge 100 episode campaigns capable of handling huge winding complex narrative, but short focused D&D stories, which is why many of the Side Quests have been so fantastic. They embody this philosophy most clearly, but it's apparent in the most beloved Intrepid Heroes seasons as well—John Hughes/High Fantasy, Game of Thrones/Candyland, Retrofuturism, Film Noir but in a Brain... Burrow's End fits this perfectly. It's streamlined concept paired with great storytellers and great chemistry sets it up to be a smash hit before it begins. And goddamn does it deliver.

Thanks Stupendous Stoats!

[diioonysus]

roman & greek gods + art

[wyldestyle]

What a sleepy murdertiger

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

William Adolphe Bouguereau (French, 1825-1905) Battle of the Centaurs and the Lapiths, 1852 Virginia Museum of Fine Arts

[mythical-art]

The Abduction of Deianira by William Hamilton (watercolour)

[uwmspeccoll]

It's Fine Press Friday!

Veteran letterpress printer and fine press publisher Richard Bigus founded Labyrinth Editions in 1977 in Torrance, California. He learned his craft under the tutelage of noted California poet and printer William Everson and printer and educator Jack Stauffacher at Cowell College, University of California, Santa Cruz. In 1980, Bigus designed, printed, and bound this exquisite edition of Everson's anthology of pacifist poetry, Eastward the Armies, in an edition of 250 copies illustrated with linocuts by California artist Tom Killion, another student of Jack Stauffacher, and signed by the poet and artist.

Bigus handset the type in 18-pt. Centaur, with Arrighi italics and Castellar initials and titling. Other text was set in 12-pt. Centaur and Arrighi italics. The illustrations are printed directly from Killion's linoleum blocks. The book is quarter-bound with leather-thong side stitch in linen and decorative paper marbled by Bigus over boards. Of the 250 copies, ours is one of 50 printed on handmade Japanese Hosho Professional and Suzuki papers. Our copy is another donation from the estate of our late friend, art professor, painter, collector, letterpress printer, and book artist Dennis Bayuzick.

View other posts on books by Richard Bigus.

View other posts on books illustrated by Tom Killion.

View other posts on works by William Everson.

View other books from the collection of Dennis Bayuzick.

View more Fine Press Friday Posts.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

They heard his voice lift in a kender trailsong.

Your one true love's a sailing ship

That anchors at our pier.

We lift her sails, we man her decks,

We scrub the portholes clear;

And yes, our lighthouse shines for her,

And yes, our shores are warm;

We steer her into harbor –

Any port in a storm.

The sailors stand upon the docks,

The sailors stand in line,

As thirsty as a dwarf for gold

Or centaurs for cheap wine.

For all the sailors love her,

And flock to where she's moored,

Each man hoping that he might

Go down, all hands on board.

"DragonLance Chronicles: Dragons of Autumn Twilight" - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

[nupaintings]

[hadrian6]

Dying Centaur. 1869. William Rimmer American 1816-1879. plaster. http://hadrian6.tumblr.com

[heytherecentaurs]

"Nothing scares me more than your mother. Literally nothing. And I've seen some shit."

I love Jasper

[dnschmidt]

New Short Story: William and the Clockwork Devil

In this clockpunk portal fantasy, a young man named William finds himself transported to another world. This strange place seems like the Middle Ages, but the villagers are threatened by mechanical monsters and centaur highwaymen.

A masked doctor explains that poison has driven the kingdom mad, and William is the only remaining knight. Is the doctor trustworthy, or has he been struck with the madness, too? William must choose between pretending he's brave enough to battle an invincible clockwork dragon, or letting the masked doctor "cure" him with medieval brain surgery.

Available for Kindle for just 99 cents.

[angelo-chuck-wagon]

Sometimes! Sometimes I imagine you as a centaur and woh nelly! Then I got a buckin' bronco in my pants!

Anyway, you coulda cum find me after posin' with that guy. I mean... yea, looks like a red headed me, but he ain't me!

My William,

I done painted a portrait of ya. Angelo told me not to make it a centaur like I wanted, but I’m still really lovin’ this! A gift for ya, sos you can think of me when ya see it in your fancy manor house.

@neo-of-sporin

[hayleythecannibal]

Twisted Minds incorrect Quotes (this will be out of pocket)

Hannibal: Are you a painting? Y/N: What-? Hannibal: Because I want to pin you to a wall. Will: OH GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY YOU WANTED TO HANG THEM OR SOMETHING-

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

Y/N: Will, I’m afraid. Will: Just stay close to Hannibal. Y/N: That's why I’m afraid.

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

Y/N: Hi, sorry I’m late. I was doing a couple of things and got distracted. Hannibal: I’m “a couple of things”. Will: I’m “got distracted”.

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

Y/N: I like your top, Will! Hannibal: I have a name, you know. Will: sighs Why. Why are you like this.

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

Hannibal: So, what is Y/N to you? Alana: The reason I wake up every morning. Hannibal: …That’s adorable. Y/N earlier that morning, barging into Alana′s room, smacking pans together: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP!!!

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

Jack: Who do we know that has handcuffs? Y/N: Well Will, Hannibal and I- Will: elbows Y/N Y/N: …wouldn't know. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: Everytime I hear someone talking about updog, I’m torn between not wanting to fall for it and wanting to help them complete their joke.

Will: Okay, but what is updog? Hannibal: Updog is a long sausage in a bun, often served with ketchup, mustard, onions, and/or relish. Jack: Not, that’s a hot dog. An updog is when a new version or patch of an application is released. Alana: No, that's an update. You’re thinking of the fourth largest city in Sweden. Abigail: Surely, that’s Uppsala, where’s updog is the giant spider in Harry Potter. Y/N: That’s Aragog. Updog is a symbol conventionally used for an arbitrarily small number in analysis proofs. Jack: You’re thinking of epsilon. Updog is an upward-moving air current. Hannibal: No, that’s an updraft. An updog is the modern version of a henway. Will: What’s a henway?? Y/N: Oh, about five pounds.

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

Y/N: Dumbest scar stories, go! Will: I burned my tongue once drinking tea. Hannibal: I dropped a hair dryer on my leg once and burned it. Jack: I have a piece of graphite in my leg for accidentally stabbing myself with a pencil in the first grade. Alana: I was taking a cup of noodles out of the microwave and spilled it on my hand and I got a really bad burn. Abigail: Abigail: I have emotional scars. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: Who the fuck added me to a fucking group chat? Will: >:O language Hannibal: Yeah watch your fucking language Jack: OKAY WHO TAUGHT HANNIBAL THE FUCK WORD? Alana: 'The fuck word'. Abigail: Are you stupid? You guys use the f word all the time Hannibal: Oh my god they censored it Alana: Say fuck, Abigail. Hannibal: Do it, Abigail. Say fuck. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: We need to distract these guys Will: Leave it to me Will: Centaurs have six limbs and are therefore insects. Discuss. Hannibal, Jack, and Alana: Immediately begin arguing Abigail, watching in horror: Oh this. I don’t like this. I don't like this at all ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: WHY. why did you give Hannibal a KNIFE?! Will: I’m sorry. They said they felt unsafe. Y/N: Now I feel unsafe! Will: I’m sorry. Will: ... would you like a knife? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N, holding a python: Guys I impulsively bought a snake, what do I name him Will: You did WHAT– Hannibal: William Snakepeare ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N: I love you guys, you're the best thing that's happened to me. Will: We're the best thing that's ever happened to you? Y/N: Yes! Hannibal: I'm starting to feel a little sorry for you. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AND THAT CONCLUDES ME DYING AS I MAKE THIS......NOW I HAVE TO GO WRITE CHAPTER 12.

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

William Adolphe Bouguereau (French, 1825-1905) Female Study, ca.1858 Virginia Museum of Fine Arts

[theinfernaldesiremachine]

I want to know more about the guy who threw three tons of type into the Thames, please! Thank you!!

So first, thank you for this ask. I love talking about this guy, and you gave me an excuse to fact-check all of the absurd things I’ve learned about him over the past year or so and, as a result, learn even more absurd things about him. But oh man, where to start. So those tags were about a guy named Thomas James Cobden-Sanderson (often written about as T. J. Cobden-Sanderson, TJCS here for efficiency). He was an absolutely fascinating dude – quit like three or four different career paths before actually becoming a lawyer and just fucking hating it. He was hanging out with his buddy William Morris (yes, THAT William Morris*) lamenting his lack of satisfying work when Morris’s wife Jane (yes THAT Jane Morris**) suggested he try his hand at bookbinding. (Side note (there are going to be so many side notes): TJCS is the one who coined the name “Arts and Crafts” for the decorative arts movement that Morris basically founded, and TJCS was hugely influential in that circle as well.) He started a bookbinding apprenticeship and just kind of blew everyone away. He was crazy good at it much faster than he should have been, and he founded the Doves Bindery (named after the nearby pub, not the bird) with capital from his wife.

(The biggest side note: TJCS was a hard core Wife Guy, and Annie Cobden-Sanderson was insanely cool in her own right. She was a famous suffragette, was arrested and imprisoned for demonstrating in the lobby of parliament, and was an evangelist for vegetarianism. This whole post could be about her, actually. TJCS thought she was so cool that he took her name – he was T. J. Sanderson, she was Annie Cobden, and when they married, they both took the name Cobden-Sanderson. She went to the U.S. in the early 20th century to teach the suffragettes there what she had learned protesting in England, so I feel like she is in part responsible for my right to vote. Love her.)

Okay, but back to TJCS. Our very talented, very egotistical, very tempestuous little dude was Not Satisfied binding whatever books came in the door because he had big feelings about what the Ideal Book should be. To that end, he teamed up with printer and engraver Emery Walker, William Morris’s former partner at the Kelmscott Press (yes, THAT Kelmscott Press***) to found the Doves Press so that he could create the most beautiful books by printing only the most beautiful words. TJCS was the “visionary and fanatic” (his words) and Walker was the technician. TJCS commissioned a new typeface to be used exclusively by the Doves Press. It was based on some of the most beautiful typography ever created – the capitals based on Nicholas Jensen’s 15th century roman that’s still considered one of the standards of perfection in type design (if you’ve ever used Centaur or read a book set in it, that’s kind of the contemporary version of Jensen’s roman). The Doves Press was unexpectedly successful and it along with Kelmscott Press laid the foundation for what would be the fine press movement of the 20th century. The Doves Bindery now only bound Doves Press books, and if you have a local library or museum that has examples in their collection, it’s well worth the trip to go look at these books.

(The opening of Genesis from The Doves Bible, widely regarded as one of the most perfect books ever printed, image from Jonkers Rare Books.)

Of course, “tempestuous” and “egotistical” are not a great recipe for long and healthy partnerships, even when coupled with “very talented,” and TJCS and Walker had a mega falling out. TJCS was a perfectionist the level of which it is hard to overstate. Walker was… not. He was a printer. You printed your pages, and that was that; sometimes there were going to be errors. Also, he liked to make money. The Doves Type was widely regarded as the most beautiful typeface in existence, and there were lots of folks willing to pay to use it in their own printing pursuits like advertising and other commercial work. I’m sure you can imagine how well this went over with TJCS. After what seemed like endless fighting, a mutual friend, Sydney Cockerell****, suggested a compromise: TJCS would get exclusive use of the Doves Type for the rest of his life, but Emery Walker would own it and could do whatever he wanted with it once TJCS died. Walker figured this was the best he was going to get and agreed. TJCS agreed at the time, but as he got older, he got even more tempestuous and obsessive, and this is where the river comes in. Dude grabbed all of the matrices and punches (the stuff you would need to make more of the Doves Type) and literally threw it into the Thames. Fine, now the only Doves Type that exists is what’s in active use by the Doves Press. That was not good enough for our good friend and Weird Little Guy TJCS. No, in addition to throwing the matrices and punches into the river, he ALSO threw every last piece of type in the workshop into the river. This is fucking hilarious because it’s not like a print shop just has a few copies of the alphabet laying around. A working press (even a small one) like the Doves Press had literally more than a ton of type in the workshop. TJCS was so petty and so determined that only HE would ever get to use this type that he made almost TWO HUNDRED trips to Hammersmith Bridge to dump type in the river.

And the story doesn’t even end there! And I’m typing this alone on my couch instead of trying to retell the abridged version over drinks with friends, so guess what? You get the rest of the story too! The Doves Type is still to this day considered one of the most beautiful typefaces ever created, and I get to introduce you to another single-minded, obsessive little guy who REALLY REALLY wanted to create the most accurate digital facsimile possible of the Doves Type. His name is Robert Green, and at first he was just looking at the texts printed by the Doves Press and trying to recreate it from the printed pages themselves. He did a pretty good job. In his quest, read everything he could about TJCS and the Doves Press, including TJCS’s diaries. I’m not sure anyone before Green really took literally TJCS’s declaration that the type had been “dedicated & consecrated” to the river but Green sure did. He even figured out that TJCS’s bridge of choice must have been Hammersmith. And then he started digging around. Almost a hundred years after TJCS donated it to the Thames, Green found a piece of the Doves Type in the mud under Hammersmith Bridge. With help from Port of London Authority divers, more than one hundred and fifty pieces of the Doves Type were recovered, and Green was able to revise his facsimile based on actual specimens.

The absolutely insane consequence of this is that YOU, dear friend, can buy your own license to the Doves Type and use it for whatever unhinged purpose you can dream up. Whether your interests align with TJCS and you also want to create the Ideal Book, or you feel like typesetting your favorite shitpost, one of the most beautiful typefaces ever cut is at your disposal.

Feels a little silly to put the footnotes under the cut given how long this got, but we're running solely on vibes now, so here we go.

*Founding member of the Arts and Crafts movement, iconic designer, you definitely know who William Morris is. Or at least you've seen his wallpaper.

**Similarly, textile artist, muse and model for the painters of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and Arts and Crafts movement, you know who Jane Morris is.

***If you know Kelmscott press, it's likely because you know The Kelmscott Chaucer. It is widely considered one of the most beautiful books ever printed, and it's likely that you've seen images of its pages if your interests run bookish at all (and I kind of assume they do if you've managed to read this far).

****Okay, so I footnoted Sydney Cockerell mostly to talk about his younger brother, Douglas. You probably don't know who Douglas Cockerell was, but I think you should! The fine binding tradition in England is an incredibly vibrant community of artists, and many of them can trace their education directly to TJCS through his apprentice Douglas Cockerell. Cockerell quickly became a giant in the craft and trained a generation of bookbinders himself, notably Bernard Middleton, another deeply talented binder and teacher who taught many, including Dominic Riley, from whom I have been lucky enough to take classes.

[mediumgayitalian]

previous chapter

———

“Take the exit here.”

“How come?” Nico asks, dutifully putting on his blinker and merging into the right lane. “We’re not even at half tank.”

Will clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s, uh, not for gas.”

A pause.

“Oh, Solace, you’re fucking kidding me.”

“I’m sorry!”

Nico throws his hands up, ignoring Will’s screech of both hands on the wheel, I value my life! “There is no possible way you have to piss already. You had half a slushie!”

“...Well.”

“William Andrew Solace, I swear to God.”

“I got distracted!” Will cries, eyes big and round as he pouts. “The Abstract Iron Centaur is a monument, okay, I forgot what the point of the rest stop was for.”

Nico groans. “I’m not sure you should be allowed to go to medical school. You’re going to forget a scalpel in someone’s lungs, or something.”

Immediately, he knows this is the wrong thing to say. The sheepish grin vanishes off Will’s face, replaced with something despairing, before it’s hastily shoved back on.

The winding road finally gives way to the advertised rest stop, partially obscured by a Welcome to Georgia sign with a modernist-style image of a peach that annoys him for no reason. We’re glad Georgia’s on your mind. (False. Georgia is never on his mind, except for how Will can’t say Georgia without slipping into his accent and Nico has to take that golden opportunity to mock him. And then die.)

“Right,” Will says finally. He forces a laugh. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then gets out of the car without so much as a word.

Nico watches him go. 

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “Shit.”

He waits in the car as long as he physically can, which is anything between thirty seconds and four business days. A glance at his watch informs him it’s closer to two minutes. 

He kicks a stone across the parking lot, debating the implications of searching for his friend. It hasn’t really been that long, so he’s not sure it’s socially appropriate, and then he wonders when the hell he started caring about being socially appropriate. They are friends, after all, because in a group icebreaker question about siblings in seventh grade, Nico had growled none, on the account that she was killed by a drunk driver when I was ten and Will had laughed, brightly and morbidly, and said hey, my brothers were murdered, too! Twinsies! and killed the vibe rather brilliantly for literally everybody else in the room. 

He gives into his impulse eventually, striding onto the surprisingly soft grass and looking, halfheartedly, around the spacious grounds (he’d decided searching the bathroom would be a touch too far). His mission gets sidetracked, however, because the heat is less oppressive under the shade of tall, weeping willows, and there’s a small breeze, and he is struggling to shove his various musings into the Repression Box where they belong. 

Will, starts one of said musings, has been acting weird as shit long before he showed up at his house in the middle of the night.

It had started around January? If he had to guess. But Will is always kind of weird in the winter, so he hadn’t thought much of it, just offered to break into his house more often so he didn’t feel too suffocated. The usual. But the strangeness had persisted through the spring – the sudden drops in mood, the hair-triggers to clam him up. Both of which are usually a Nico thing. Will, more often, just shoves all his negative emotions down to the bottom of his soul until he gets one half-mark wrong on a test and sobs himself sick about being useless while Nico stands guard outside the bathroom door, agonised, unsure how to help. And then the two of them never talk about it again. 

Over the last few months, things have been a little less balanced. 

“Hey.”

Nico jumps. Will stands slightly, shoulders still hunched slightly, but definitely less cagey than earlier. He holds out a cup of coffee Nico recognises as from a vending machine.

“Hi,” Nico says softly, smiling tentatively. He takes the coffee. It’s black, and too hot, just how he likes it.

“You are going to stain your teeth,” Will observes, as he always does.

“Bite me,” Nico responds, following the script.

A genuine smile pulls at his face.

“You ready to get back on the road?”

“Yep.”

They fall into step in their hike back to the Jeep – Nico hiked farther than he meant to. Will’s flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed dirt of the trail is a familiar sound, and it eases some of his own tension, putting a bit more prep in his step. When he glances quickly over, Will is breathing normally, shoulders slack, much calmer expression on his face.

“You should let me drive,” he says as they approach. “You’ve been behind the wheel since practically dawn; maybe you should take a nap or something.”

Nico shakes his head, waving a dismissive arm. Frowning slightly, Will acquiesces, climbing back into the passenger side.

“I’ve had two coffees and half a slushie,” he explains, resting his hand on the back of Will’s seat. He cranes his neck behind him, careful of the family walking an unleashed dog as he pulls out. “I’m good forever.”

“Caffeine doesn’t work on you,” Will points out.

Nico pauses. 

“...True.”

He hadn’t realise Will had noticed, actually. Although he supposes it’s not too surprising – Will has known him a long time, Will is observant, and Will generally enjoys lecturing people about anything he can get away with, up to and including their general health and safety. Nico, in all his bad choices, is a favourite target of his. He can probably recite his solo midnight speed driving from memory.

“It’s just –” Will stops, waiting until Nico’s safely merged back on the highway before continuing. “It’s three and a half hours ‘till we get to Atlanta, Neeks, and it’s already three-thirty. We’ll have to stop again for food, probably, at one point, and we’ll have to stop for food, soon, and who knows what the traffic will be like –”

Carefully passing the person going sixty in front of him, finally breaking into open road, Nico takes half an eye off the road and digs through the centre console.

“– I mean, if it’s bumper to bumper, then what? It’ll be rush hour soon, shit, I shoulda planned for that, shit, do we have a jerrycan? We should have a jerrycan, remind me to get a jerrycan for the trunk –”

Finally catching sight of the CD he’s looking for (and barely managing to swerve and avoid a massive pothole that would have for sure cut their trip short, but he managed, so take that, Reckless Driving Lecture Will that lives in his brain, who’s God now), he hands it to Will. Still actively stressing about literally nothing, he opens it, polishing the disc on habit and sliding it into the slot without so much as pausing. 

Nico smirks. 

Yeah, maybe he knows his friend, too.

“– I mean, just blankets and a first aid kit is not enough. Really, we should have some provisions in there. Oh, and rope, ‘cause what if we get stranded in the mountains –”

The radio clicks as it reads the disc, then, suddenly and without warning, the stereo rumbles with heavy bass and pounding beat.

Will cuts himself off. “Hey, is this –”

Nico smirks wider. He chances another look away from the road, just in time to watch a magnificent smile break across Will’s face, wide and a little crooked, showing all his molars – a real one, the one he gets when he’s caught off-guard, the one that makes his hands fluttery.

“You’re playing In The Zone!” he exclaims, laughing delightedly. “Without complaining!”

Bingo, Nico thinks. 

“Technically, I didn’t play shit.” He gestures at the empty CD case in Will’s hand. “You’re just like a hermit crab. I hand you things, you hold them.”

“Shut up.” But there’s no bite to the command, smile still stretching wide. If Nico looks, he can see the tiny snag of his barely crooked front tooth, but he doesn’t look, because he doesn’t care about that, obviously. He has his eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel, fully focused.

Obviously. 

They do get into disgusting traffic. Will is distressed about it, up until someone cuts them off so closely they both nearly actually and genuinely die, and he is immediately lit up in a rage so incandescent Nico wonders if he will ever be able to look away from straining biceps and a clenched jaw ever again. More distantly, he wonders if and I hope you get three consecutive aneurysms and your family leaves you to fucking rot in a hospital bed, you leprous shitdick will be on loop in his head for the rest of time. He kind of wants to put it on a shirt. Will’s linguistic talents should be studied. 

“Stop thinking about it,” Will demands, socking him (hard! What the shit!) in the shoulder. His face resembles, quite exactly, the shade of the setting sun. “Purge it from your memory.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Nico responds, smirking.

“I wasn’t –” A pause. Nico bites back a snort. “Cutting people off is just so rude.”

“Oh, of course.”

“I mean! I mean.”

“Indeed.”

“If it was – an ambulance, or something, I would understand, but he cut us off just to get immediately stuck in the same traffic! I don’t understand the point!”

“Truly the behaviour of a leprous shitdick,” Nico agrees. His grin starts to genuinely hurt his face, but he ignores it in favour of snickering.

Will sinks into his seat, pulling his hoodie over his eyes. His ears, as usual, stick out a little, and they’re red, too. Nico nobly resists the urge to flick them. 

“I hate you.”

“I think you’re quite attached to me, actually. After all, I’m not a –”

“If I hear the word leprous come from your mouth one more fucking time, di Angelo, I’ll give you leprosy. For real. I’ll find it.”

Will probably could find a vial of pure leprosy somewhere, actually, so Nico shuts up. (He’s seen Will’s weird vial collection. Most of it is just, like, various bacteria, he’s pretty sure, but Will is kind of morbid and Nico knows his sense of humour is garbage because Nico’s sense of humour is garbage, and there is a reason they’re friends, and if Nico found a vial of leprosy somewhere he would keep it, too. Can leprosy be vialed? Who knows. Will, probably.)

Once he’s sure Nico is not going to tease him anymore about his temper tantrum, or at least for the moment, he turns back to his book. Every so often, he looks up, observes the three miles per hour they’re crawling, and sighs, loudly and lengthy to himself, muttering something about railway systems and zoning laws and government incompetence. Nico doesn’t ask. He was free from the jail that was history and geography lessons last month. He is determined to learn absolutely nothing for the next six months, at least. 

“I’m paying for the motel or hotel or inn et cetera,” Will says, randomly. 

“No,” Nico replies, easily. 

Will reaches out, calmly, and pinches him on the thigh. Nico does not yelp indignantly because he is a Man, and can handle Will’s weirdly pointy fingers.

“You paid for gas.”

“Yep.”

“And you have car payments.”

“Mhm.”

“And you bought Dunkin’s.”

“True.”

“Nico,” Will says exasperatedly, “this whole damn trip was my idea. Let me pay for shit.”

“I enjoy wasting my father’s money,” Nico counters, and Will pauses, considering. “Come on, commie. I know the idea of spending a banker’s money on stupid shit pleases you.”

He knows he’s starting to win, because Will sighs in a very particular way that Nico has identified as why am I letting this dumbass get away with this again, says, “Spending money is capitalist, Nico,” and turns, begrudgingly, back to his book.

Poorly hidden behind the pages, he’s smiling.

Nico tallies his victory.

The traffic finally eases by around eight o’clock. Victorious, surely, except that they’re still quite a ways from Atlanta. He considers getting off at one of the various exits promising shelter, and in fact decides he is going to, but for some reason, his hand never drifts to his blinker. Never turns the wheel slightly to merge, never eases off the gas. He keeps going, an going, and going, music playing softly, stars beginning to shine through the darkening sky.

Beside him, Will lets out tiny puffs as he exhales, even and sluggish.

“You are a grandmother,” he whispers fondly, shaking his head. In the quiet of the road, interrupted only by the whipping whipping winds – he should have pulled the roof back up when they were stuck, shit – and odd flash of headlights of a passing car, he lets himself soften, sighing back against his seat and easing up slightly on the gas.

Will glows, faintly, in the moonlight.

It’s funny, ‘cause he’s a sun child. Nico has teased him about it for years, in fact; his hair, his bright blue eyes, his stubborn clinging to his aesthetic of wannabe surfer boy. The gold ring he wears on his thumb, the sun pendant that rests on his heart. Swathed in yellows and blues and golds, all the time, with a sprinkling of bright green and neon orange just to remind everyone that yes, he is red green colourblind, and no, that will not stop him from making fashion choices. 

But the silver suits him. It softens him, instead of washing him out, reminding Nico that the sun shines white. The low light casts gentle shadows on his face, too, drawing attention to his strong brow and straight nose. 

Forcing his eyes back on the road, where they should have been the whole time, Jesus, he notices the giant green Downtown Atlanta sign, and follows its arrows. The first exit he sees, he turns, getting lost three times before he finds the hotel that was advertised.

Pulling into the largely empty parking lot, he shuts off the car, then turns to Will, screwing up his face. He has to wake him up, at some point. Obviously. Unfortunately he cannot simply melt into the shadows and reappear in a hotel room. As awesome as that would be, with his luck, he’d pop into an occupied one, and that’d be a whole host of problems. 

Deciding he’ll actually get them a room first, he heads inside, speaking quietly with the desk host.

“Single or double?” they ask pleasantly, voice similarly lowered for the hour.

“Uh,” Nico says, “double?”

The host pauses, eyebrows flicking up at his hesitation. “...Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Nico flushes. He adds, belatedly, “Please.”

Eyebrow raised in amusement, the host reaches into a drawer and pulls out two sleek key cards, tucking them into a little envelope thing and handing them over. “Room 409,” they say, nodding towards the elevator. 

“Thanks,” Nico responds, and walks out the door. He realises, as he exits, how much of a general failure he is at communicating with people who are not Will, and considers climbing through the window of his sixth floor room out of sheer embarrassment. The realization that he does not have the skill to drag Will up there with him is the only thing that stops him.

“Sunshine,” he murmurs, once he’s gathered their bags and some of the red has faded from his face, “we’re here.”

Will hums a little, voice gravelly. Nico’s lip quirk up.

“Where?”

“Somewhere to sleep.”

“‘M sleepin’ jus’ fine.”

His accent is so, so heavy with sleep, and it’s just – God, he wishes Wil hadn’t trained himself out of it. In Nico’s professional opinion, Will should talk like that all the time.

Authenticity, and all that.

“C’mon, Will.”

After another minute of coaxing – which Nico indulges purely because he knows for a fact Solace will have no memory of it in the morning, in any other circumstance he’d poke him awake – Will uncurls enough to stagger to his feet, stumbling as he gets out of the vehicle. For his own safety, Nico wraps an arm around his narrow hips, guiding him up to the room. 

“Mnhgh,” he mumbles, the second the heavy door closes behind them. He walks two steps to the nearest bed, face plants in the middle of it, and starts snoring, feet hanging off the end, one flip-flip still stubbornly clinging to his foot.

“Dork,” Nico murmurs. He gets ready like a normal person, tugging on a sleep shirt – might be an old one of Will’s, actually, because Nico certainly never bought a Shania Twain concert t-shirt – and wrapping up in the wonderfully plush blankets. “Goodnight, Will.”

He gets a snore in response. He burrows deeper into the covers, smiling, drifting off to the sound of his best friend’s rhythmic breathing.

———

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