#david with a metronome

[amberinn]

Did this though still

[portrait-paintings]

Ronald David Laing (1927 - 1989) - Psychiatrist

Artist: Victoria Crowe (Scottish, born 1945)

Date: 1984

Medium: Oil on hardboard over acrylic underpainting

Collection: National Galleries of Scotland, Edinburg, Scotland

Description

This man is deep in thought. A crystal, an icon, a metronome and a woman's picture sit on a shelf behind him. Laing was a psychiatrist, turned psychoanalyst, who wrote a study on sanity and madness in 1960 called The Divided Self. The book became cult reading, its author, a cult figure. Laing experimented with psychedelic drugs, spent a year in a Sri Lankan Buddhist monastery and campaigned to create compassionate environments for the mentally ill in the West.

[pinkmoondoll9shihtzu]

my discipline regimes have Been fruitful so far. It's a month since I started , well, 4.5 weeks, I wanted to start as soon as 2025 began but I had to wait til January 5th cus i was sick.

almost every day i have completed everything on my list Which is reading, meditating, yoga or walking (Sometimes both), guitar practice, and ableton Or drawing (Occasionally both but thats rare. Usually i choose ableton)

playing guitar every day for a month not missing a single day is helping a lot. Now i can do minor & major scales to the metronome pretty much perfect without even having to look at my hands Lol For me that's good OK!!!! Before I would have to watch what i'm doinf but my muscle memory is SM better

i made 4 songs so far 2 of them are more complete but none of them have vocals yet I want to work on that next.. I will probably just release singles beofre i try to release another EP again because i feel like people just want singles these days haha... They dont want to wait so long for new music

Meditating is going rly good Im so glad David Lynch Sama convinced me to go Deep with it for real for real Like this is what i've always wanted to do But i was scared. It's scary. To meditate. For some reason. Until it's not

I kinda miss weed although i dont actually miss weed but i miss having something to take the edge off Because i feel really crazy

Like i cant stop wishing i could die its really constant lately! IDK man

IDK why i do anything :) Why i do these things- Discipline and stuff. I genuinely do not know. It feels ultimately pointless. BUt like there's nothing else! There's nothing else.

I think i'm really losing it but i'm proud of myself I'm Proud for being regimented and committed and doing evverything I can to be responsible and stay grounded even though I have the seething urge to totally destroy myself 24/7. I Swear I am like the most "OK" version of Me i have ever been like i am the most high functioning SICKO i ever known I Guess my ego desires can live, with that

Just do tasks do tasks do tasks, Do your tasks, be a person, do your tasks, tasks tasks tasks, Maid, Robot, Tasks, Clear-head, head too clear, too much edge, do tasks, do tasks, do tasks, Yay

[mii-qrs]

BFDI Characters

8-Ball 9-Ball A A duck Amber Amethyst Ammolite Anchor Announcer Anvil Apple Aquamarine Avocado Axinite Baby Balloony Bally Banana Apple Barf Bag Basketball Battery BBQ Sauce BeiBei Bell Benitoite Billy Bob Joe Birthday Cake Black Hole Blender Blocky Bomby Bone Book Boombox Boom Mic Bottle Bracelety Bubble Burrito Bugs Buttslide Man Cake Cake's Dad Camera Cave Drawing Naily Cereal Box Clapboard Carrot Cakes Check-It Eyebrows Cheeseburger Cheese Orb Cherry Jr. Chips Chompy Christmas Tree Chrysoberyl Clock Cloudy Coiny Conch Shell Coral Cord Clip Credit Card CRT Cube Polyhedron Cube Roller Cubey Cursed Announcer with Body David Davidworm Deadly Diamond Diamond (ABCDEFG) Dioptase Discy Divide Operator Dodecahedron Polyhedron Donut Dora Dragon Drear-Top Eggy Eight Eighth Note Electric Guitar Emerald Eraser Evidence Bag Evil Leafy Exploding David Fanny Fake Firey Feldspar Fifteen Firey Firey Jr. Fire Monster Firey Speaker Box Firey Speaker Box's Clone Fish Monster Five Flower Flower Speaker Box Fluorite Foldy Football Player Four Fourteen Fries Frog Frozen Yogurt Fry Garnet Gaty Gelatin Glass Glue Gold Golf Ball Gramophone Grandfather Clock Grassy Gratitude Hello Kevin Hematite Hexagon Speaker Box Hot Sauce Ice Cube Icosahedron Polyhedron Income Tax Return Document Infinity lolite Ivory Jade Jasper JingJing Juice Box Johnson Jordan Kabab Kitchen Sink Kornerupine Lapis Lazuill Leafy Leafy's Family Leek Lego Brick Lewis Lightbulb Lightning Lithium Liy Lollipop Loser Lottery Speaker Box Malachite Marble Marble Bottle Marker Match Member Metronome Milkshake Minus Operator Mocha Mouth Naily Needle Nickel Nickel (Inanimate Insanity) Nine Nonagon Polygon Nonexisty N Variable O Obsidian Octagon Polygon Octahedron Polyhedron One One-Half Fraction One-Quarter Fraction One-Third Fraction Onigiri Opal Pastel Feather PDA Pearl Pen Pencil Peridot Phi Irrational Pie Pi Irrational Pillow Pin Plus Operator Poo Popcorn Portable Music Player Popsicle Price Tag Profily Puffball Puffball Speaker Box Pumpkin Puppet Purple Face Purple Girl with Wind Hair and Angry Eyes Purple Round Speaker Pyrite Quadrilateral Polygon Quartz Radio Announcer Raisin Ramen Noodles Rectangle Polygon Remote Robot Butlers Robot Flower Roboty Rocky Rose Rubber Spatula Ruby Rusty Coin Salt Lamp Sam Sam (Salmon Fiveyears) Sapphire Saw Scared/Dumb Scissors Selfie Dog Seven Shampoo Shirty Shopping Cart Side-View X Six Skull Sling Shot Singing Narrator Slivery Snare Drum Snowball Spike Ball Speaker Box Spongy Spray Can Square Polygon Square Root Operator Stapy Steamy Strudel Super Fan Taco Tape Teabag Teardrop Ten Tent Tennis Ball Tennis Ball Speaker Box Tetrahedron Polyhedron Times Operator Thirteen Three Three-Quarters Fraction Topaz Touch-Tone Tree Triangle Polygon Triangle Speaker Box Tune Turquoise TV Two Undecagon Polygon USB Vacuum VHSy Variscite Vomit Waffle Water Bottle Winner Woody X Yellow Face Yellow Facey Yellow Watermelon Your Mom Your Name Y Variable Zero Z Variable

[soul-meister]

poly!lost boys x gn!marching band!reader : the lost boys : headcannons

note: i hope you enjoy these headcannons by a band nerd and i won't take any criticism if it includes marko

-let's start off with the bane of my existence, band camp:

-these boys--minus dwayne--don't understand that you're not going to leave your house, unless it's for dinner, after a day at band camp

-marko and paul want to drag you out to the boardwalk but that's a big no for you; one, you're really tired after being on you're feet for eight(8)+ hours, and two, you refuse to be around any loud noises after having a metronome and various instruments blasting in your ears for hours

-david does understand you're tired but doesn't understand that if you go to the cave with them and you will probably fall asleep there, meaning you'll be late the next day and that's just a really embarrassing situation to go through

-dwyane is the only one that's truly okay with staying in after band camp for about three weeks straight. like, y'all can read, cuddle, watch tv, listen to music. it's enough for him

-after the first week of staying in with you every night, marko and paul set up this every-other-day schedule where they'll stay in with you one night, and hang out around the boardwalk the next together as to not get bored

-if you like to get ready for band camp the night before--like packing your lunch or filling up your water bottle--david or dwyane will make sure it's done before leaving, and if it's not, they'll do it for you cause you're most likely asleep

-during marching season and the school year in general, the boys will wait for you to fall asleep before hunting

-there's a little something about marching band uniforms that really make a person's attractiveness go up another level and the boys see that

-after forcing you into the clothing the night you got it, they'll compliment you, call you beautiful/handsome, check out your ass

-guard uniforms are a different story, cause the uniform--not you--can either look beautiful or hideous, no inbetween

-if your uniform is just plain ugly, someone is laughing: david's smirking while trying to hold back an actual smile, there's definitely a look of amusement in dwyane's eyes as his lips quirk up at the corners, marko is at first trying to hide his smile behind his fist but quickly goes into critiquing it, paul is just out right laughing at you

-like with the marching band uniforms, they're checking you out, no matter how ugly it is; they got worried with how tight it is that you might flash someone so you had to explain you're wearing a unitard underneath

-if you're in guard, marko is helping out with your hair and makeup when possible and he probably gets it done faster than the other guard people

-marko also helps adjust your bibs if they're too long, maybe even zip you up or put on your gauntlets/shako for you. again, will help you put up your hair if it needs to go under your shako

-all in all, marko is a band mom that carries around safety pins for anyone that needs them... i could see dwyane, and maybe the other two, as prop dads

-the boys do get frustrated when it comes to after school practices because you have to stay late, and then when to do finish, you have to eat dinner, do your homework, take a shower/bath

-overall, you don't spend much time with them those days so if you have an off day from practice, forget spending time with your family or friends

-though, if you don't drive to school, they'll be glad to pick you up from practice, especially since that's not something they could do on a regular day... they also enjoy all the stares they get from your peers

-they'll also help you finish up your homework if it's due the next day and you're too tired to deal with it at the moment. and if david notices that your forcing yourself to stay awake to finish your assignments, david will use his mind manipulation to put you to sleepsounds like he's killing you

-during football games, the boys will at first be sat in your section with till they're kicked out by someone so they'll sit near you...then come back later in the game

-david and dwyane will definitely have to stop marko and paul from distracting you during stand tunes, especially if you're a drum major

-if you do front/back pit, there's not much to distract you from so paul and marko will talk your head off during the game

-if you're in color guard, it can go either of the two ways above: if you perform with the band during stand tunes, they're definitely watching and cheering you on from the side

-if there's anyone talking loudly during the band's on field performance, they might just become the boys' next meal

-also, they're not paying for those football tickets. you probably have to beg them to pay for tickets at band competitions cause that's where bands get most of their money

-and as much as i would love to say that the boys see all of your performances, they don't. they can't, especially if you're a smaller band or usually just perform during the day

-even if you did perform at night, probably a bigger band, they might not make it in time because competitions usually seem to happen at least an hour away from your school for some reason

-they'll still try to make it in time, even if it means breaking a fewmore than a few road laws...they probably enjoy terrorizing people to and from competitions

-if you have a solo, paul and marko will be the loudest to applaud once you finish, and sometimes they get carried away so david has to smack them upside the head to shut them up

-marko and paul have definitely tried to sneak on to the bus with you on the way back from a competition even though that means leaving their bikes behind? the band mom's obviously noticed, like with everything, and kicked the boys off

-they cannot stand those late night bus drives home because they just want you in their arms so they can congratulate you on your performance and if you got any trophies

-they'll be so proud for whatever trophies your band won, whether it be third place in a singular caption or grand champion overall

-you tell them all the band gossip, whether it be someone took a shit on the bus or two people were caught fucking in the band closet

-if your band does nationals, then how far it is from santa carla decides their mood when you tell them cause it could be a reasonable distance and you won't have to stay at a hotel or it could be a couple of hours away and you will have to stay at a hotel

-and if you do have to stay in a hotel, you'll have to deal with a few jealous vampires cause you'll be staying in a room with other people that's not them. so it's probably not the best idea to tell them who you're rooming with or you'll end up down a few band members

-if you have to take band class to do marching band--minus guard--then they're showing up to all of your concerts

-and if you show interest in joining winter percussion/guard, they're gonna definitely try to dissuade you from doing it because it'll again take your time after school away from them

extra : if they were humans/in high school (band) with you

-paul gives of alto sax vibes, and if your marching band has a guitar or drumset position, he's definitely trying out for that. would do winter percussion. did all-county freshmen year cause he didn't have to go to school those days, then realizes he has to play all day, doesn't continue

-david would probably start off as a baritone his first year then switch to drum line, going from bass(sophomore) to tenor(junior). senior year, he'd be drum major. might do winter percussion. does all-county and all-district, tries for all-state but doesn't make it, and this happens each year

-dwyane is definitely a tenor sax player who switches to bari sax his junior, maybe senior, year. is probably in jazz band. all-county and all-district for regular and jazz band

-marko totally starts out on clarinet in middle school and once he reaches high school, he starts branching off to try different woodwind instruments. he's probably taking multiple band classes his senior year so he can play various instruments(favorite is probably oboe). wouldn't be surprised if marko did winter guard. does all-county--because he gets out of school, but unlike paul, he actually enjoys it--all-district, and probably could do all-state if he practiced more

[rhianwen24601]

I like to pretend that I don't care what happens with Season 3 of Good Omens, but it's obviously been on my mind, because my brain has been spitting out absurd scenarios.

In a recent silly half awake speculation, David Tennant and Michael Sheen both noped out of season 3, so Aziraphale was recast as Jon Hamm in a white wig, and Crowley was recast as Jon Hamm in a red wig.

*White haired and redheaded Jon Hamms frantically making out*

Regular Gabriel Jon Hamm: Hey, guys, hope I'm not interrupting anything...?

Ginger Hamm: Nope, nothing at all!

White Haired Hamm: I have no idea what you're talking about! I don't even know this man!

*Beelzebub, also played by Jon Hamm, hurries in*

Beelzehamm: The Megatron is coming, we have to go!

White Haired Hamm: Oh no! Not the Metronome!

Metsy (also played by Jon Hamm): Hahahahaha, it is I, the Megaman! I hate love and happiness and it is my life's mission to make everyone addicted to coffee!

Ginger Hamm: Quick, everyone! To the Bentley!

*the Bentley - also played by Jon Hamm - rolls up, and Jon Hamm, Jon Hamm, Jon Hamm, and Jon Hamm ride Jon Hamm off into the night, pursued by Jon Hamm*

[mspigman]

Valle Lozano - Ghost on the Ceiling

I'm finally back with a new Valle Lozano story!

Ghost on the Ceiling

David Hughes could not believe he found himself outside the bounds of Valle Lozano. He always believed that it was impossible to escape. You were born there and you died there. His entire family going back generations had resided there, even after that goddamned insufferable blizzard that the town blamed everything on. It was one hundred years ago, why couldn’t anyone move on? It never made any sense to him. David lived his entire life with just one goal: getting the hell out. He hated Valle Lozano. Hated the run down stores, the withered, stranded houses, and he hated the little, insignificant people that walked through life as little more than the walking undead. There wasn’t a person in that town who wasn’t born with a sunken, wrinkled appearance etched onto their faces giving the illusion they had already given up on themselves.

Most of all, David hated the ghosts. When he was a young boy the stories of Valle Lozano’s ghosts terrified him. He felt he couldn’t pass any house without seeing the apparition of one of the town’s folklores. It didn’t help that every fall part of the season festivities was to go around with other local boys his age and sneak into the abandoned places and scare each other by pretending they were ghosts of the town’s past. As he got older, he ceased believing in the folklore or the spirits that were said to reside in Valle Lozano. As far as he was concerned, it was just another way the townspeople kept themselves miserable. That is until he saw one for himself - the apparition of his own ancestor.

He had been in high school, working at his family’s convenience store, counting down the time until he could go home. Time, he felt, that always seemed to move infinitely more slowly in this town. Sometimes, he even believed that in Valle Lozano time wasn’t just lethargic, but stopped altogether, until it even ended up going backward. When he finally was able to begin closing for the night he was struck by a peculiar notion that he was being watched. He looked up from the register, thinking that perhaps there was a last-minute customer. But he was all alone. He tried ignoring the feeling that someone was staring at him, but he recognized that his body was ready to bolt through the door. The air seemed to get significantly cooler, but he attributed that to his heightened anxiety and nervousness. When he finished counting the till, he closed it with a firm push. He realized then that while he was finishing up he never allowed himself to look up from his work. He had never been so engrossed in it before. 

With no other alternative, he looked up, and in the dim light, he saw a figure-like shadow on the ceiling. It seemed to be swinging from the high wood beams, almost like a dance - swaying back and forth, back and forth. He knew immediately what it was. It was the ghost of one of his generational grandmothers, Gemma Solaris. He had heard the story of her death, and how she had ended her life at a mature age right here in the store. He also knew of the rumors of her affair with the richest man in town, Martin Octavio, despite the fact they were both married. 

David remembered being frozen in place, almost hypnotized by the way the figure moved. It somehow reminded him of a metronome keeping rhythm. David would later swear on his life that as he stared, he began to hear clicking as it moved, paced like the beating of a heart, or the deliberate, sedate hands of a clock. But as quickly as it appeared it vanished. David’s heart rate slowly steadied, the clicking ended, and he left the store.

As he went home, he found that he did not feel fear, but dread. It was strange to him, but seeing the ghost of Gemma only affirmed one thing: He would leave this town forever. He did not want to end up like her. He did not want to live and end his life in that store, never leaving its walls even after so many generations had passed. Seeing her shadow felt as if she was telling him he was in the midst of a curse. Doomed to sway just like her across the ceiling, rocking back and forth, and hearing that clicking of the tempo until the end of time. 

From that moment on David never again set foot in that convenience store. He found other odd jobs in town without forming attachments to nothing and to no one. Except for Erica. When he met her it was the first time in his life that he felt a spark. It was as if he had finally discovered what it meant to be alive. And for three years, he believed he was happy and in love. But then on that late afternoon, as she was sitting beside him with a glass of wine, he looked over at her and was reminded of the Gemma’s ghost. And he heard it again. The metronome. Click. Click. Click. 

He realized then that in the time they had been together, he had become complacent. He continued to stare at her and realized that the time had come to leave for good. Or he’d spend his life in the same spot on the sofa, with the infernal clicking ringing in his ears.  

He broke up with her then and there and drove. He had no idea what else to do. He wanted to drive to the ends of the earth. Until he found a place where time didn’t loiter to the point that it seemed to go backward, everything frozen in the past, but where time ceased to exist altogether. Somewhere where he wouldn’t need to worry about hearing any sound ever again. But he knew that was an impossible task. Still, he continued driving. He did not know how long or how far he drove. Finally, one morning at dawn, he abruptly decided to pull over. He sat in his car and realized the farther he drove the more the sound in his mind increased. He looked out of the window and saw that the sun was beginning to set. David felt as if time, in order to catch up with him, had rushed towards him all at once, and now it was bursting through in an overwhelmingly fast pace.

 Not knowing what else to do, and with nowhere else to go, he drove and found himself back on Main Street. It was still early sunset, though if it was the same sunset or the beginning sunset of another day, he did not know. But it comforted him all the same. He was back in the place where time stood still. He knew how it worked here. It was strange, all he had ever wanted was to get away, but he never realized that life outside would bombard his senses. The noise dulled. It was then that David realized that it never fully ceased and what he was hearing was not like the clicking of a metronome at all but the anxious beating of his own heart. It dawned on him that this meant he would never escape the sound. And that what he believed when he the shadow dance across the ceiling was true: he was in the midst of a curse. 

With this revelation he walked into the library. He did not know what had led him to the place where Erica worked, except for that he felt he wanted to see her. He saw she was not at her desk. He believed that to be odd but it did not take long to spot her. She was at the newspaper archives, intently browsing various collections. David noticed that for the first time in a long time, his heart was still. It took him aback, as he remembered the clicking that occurred the afternoon he broke up with her. He wondered why everything was so quiet now. Perhaps it had never been her fault to begin with. He started walking over to her, but saw she was showing someone a collection. It was a tall, almost lanky man with dark curly hair. David thought he looked familiar but he had no idea why. The man looked up from the newspaper and caught his eye. And that’s when it struck David. 

Throughout his life, because of the affair Gemma Solis had had with Martin Octavio, he was aware of Octavio's past. He knew of their secret love letters, that Martin’s daughter fell in love with a farmer’s son. The whole story. There wasn’t a person in town in these one hundred years who wasn’t intimately aware of the details. But no family quite as intimately intertwined with the goings on as his. What people didn’t know was that aside from letters, they sent each other artifacts of their lives. She would send him sweets,  penny candy, he would send pressed flowers and cards. And during the time that he began searching for his daughter Ines he would send Gemma photographs. Heaven knows why he did. David had sometimes heard it was Martin being driven mad by guilt. He wanted to spread his daughter’s image any way he could. But the only person he had was Gemma. At a certain pont, he also began looking for her lover. His name was Fernando. 

David stared at the tall man, who stared back, and felt as if he was staring into one of those yellow photographs tucked away in his childhood home’s basement. He was the spitting image of Fernando. David could not help but feel incredibly bitter. The sounds were beginning to rise up again. It was like coming face to face with another ghost. Only this time, it was more than just an appariation on the ceiling. It was a moving entity. David was beginning to feel like no matter how hard he tried he would never escape the grating clicks of his nervous heart. Nor would he ever cease to see ghosts roaming about - whether their living or dead.

[dustedmagazine]

Ryan Davis & the Roadhouse Band — Sing Dancing on the Edge (Sophomore Lounge)

Ryan Davis is an intricate wordsmith, backed by a crack band of country-fried weirdos who pull a second shift as the Krautish puzzle palace oddities of Equipment Pointed Ankh. Here on his first album under his own name (he recorded in the previous decade as the much beloved State Champion), Davis dives deep into rustic psychedelia, spinning out home-cooked surrealities to rickety Casio beats and stretching mournful twanging absurdist poetry to epic length. Lately named to Pitchfork’s 37 best rock albums, Sing Dancing is really a country album, though in the skewed, knotty way of David Berman.

In the live setting, Davis seems to be betting hard on his shorter, more conventionally shaped material, the yelping, gulping, yodeling, burnt romantic “Learn 2 Re-Luv” and the graceful reprise “Bluebirds Revisited,” and indeed both are startling, thought provoking pieces of work. But if you want to get right to the heart of what makes this album amazing, head for the ten-minute epic head-trip “Flashes of Orange.” Like the other cuts, it dredges the depths of emotional experience, the blackest, bleariest dead of night vision (“there’s a black space between the back of my head and the back of my face”). It’s so dark, indeed, that Davis hallucinates color in it, “knocks of red,” “flashes of orange.”  The cut seethes with emotive pedal steel, one of music’s most reliable indicators of angst, but it also rears up into something like rock triumph in the climactic chorus “I have these dreams we’re hitting the road again/But i always wake when the engine roars.”

That’s the song where Davis and his mates open up the throttle musically, but if I had to pick a favorite for lyrics, it would be “Junk Drawer Heart.” Here’s him catching the female protagonist in a life drawn sketch: “Her daddy was a hypnotist/Her mother was a metronome/Her mortal coil is not so much a curse/As it is a stepping stone.” The junk drawer becomes a capacious metaphor for memory and identity, with bits of treasure mixed in with useless junk. “She knows there’s something of use deep down/In a rare coin corner of her junk drawer heart,” sings Ryan nailing the mixed bag that human beings are in a couplet.

The band is excellent and even more so live where Davis trades in ricky-tick drum machines for a full kit, and the songs so rich with musical and lyrical ideas that it takes a while to bring them into focus. Spend the time, though, and this album is a universe, harsh and shadowy but shot through with beauty.

Jennifer Kelly

[carolina-thiell]

Layer by Layer · Chapter 3: “Double Vision” · Deacon Kay x Claire (OFC, implied wife).

Character: David “Deacon” Kay Pairing: Deacon Kay x Claire (OFC, implied wife) Format: Multi-Chapter Fic Word Count: ~2.1k (Chapter 3) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Tension, Medical Drama Warnings: Concussion symptoms, memory lapses, emotional distress, family fear, hospital scenes, implied trauma Status: Part 3 of 5

The glow of oncoming headlights bounced across the windshield in irregular flashes, and every time it did, Claire flinched.

“Too bright,” she muttered eyes half-closed and face turned toward the passenger window like that might help.

Deacon reached up without a word, adjusted the rearview mirror to cut the reflection and thumbed the dashboard dimmer until the interior panel lights sank into a soft orange haze. He turned the volume dial down too; not off, just barely audible. A whisper of sound, like white noise with a heartbeat.

Claire’s breath fogged faintly against the glass.

“I’m fine,” she said for the fourth time in three minutes.

Deacon kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose in his lap, fingers tapping against his thigh in measured beats.

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m not dead.”

“Not the scale we’re using.”

Claire exhaled a weak scoff. “You’re making it a whole thing.”

Deacon didn’t answer and he changed lanes cleanly, signal ticking like a metronome in the silence. In the backseat, Jules finally spoke; a whisper, dry and edged with something afraid.

“She doesn’t remember the song.”

Claire blinked. “What?”

Jules leaned forward slightly, voice tight. “The cow song; you told me, and then a minute later, you asked again like it never happened.”

Claire looked down at her hands in her lap, she didn’t say anything. Deacon’s fingers tightened just once on the wheel.

“We’re going to the ER,” he said, calm. No room for debate.

Claire let her head drop back against the window, eyes closed now not in sleep but surrender.

The ER parking lot buzzed with overhead sodium lights, casting the asphalt in a sickly yellow glow. Deacon pulled into the drop-off zone, threw the truck into park and unbuckled. He opened Claire’s door before she could even reach for the handle.

“Come on,” he said softly.

Claire didn’t move. She sat still, arms limp, shoulders hunched like she could fold herself smaller than the pain.

“I don’t want to go in there.”

“I know.”

“It’s gonna be cold and fluorescent. And they’re gonna ask me a thousand questions I don’t remember the answers to.”

Deacon crouched beside her, eye level again.

“You don’t want to be here and I don’t want to be here. But we have to be here.”

Claire blinked slowly and uneven and gave a small nod, more like a tip of the head. He helped her down, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist as they moved toward the sliding glass doors. Jules followed behind, arms folded tight across her chest. Inside, it was everything Claire had predicted: cold, fluorescent and humming with quiet dread. The walls were beige and the smell of disinfectant clawed at the nose.

A nurse behind the front desk looked up, then quickly gestured toward a wheelchair.

“Head trauma?” she asked briskly.

“Concussion symptoms, possible double vision, memory lapses,” Deacon said, all in one clipped breath.

The nurse was already on her feet, handing over a clipboard with one hand, summoning triage with the other. Claire grumbled weakly as Deacon guided her into the chair.

“Hey,” the nurse said gently, crouching down. “Can you handle a little light? If not, I’ve got sunglasses for you.”

Claire nodded. Moments later, she was wearing a pair of too-big hospital-issued shades, curled awkwardly in the hard plastic of a waiting room chair while Deacon filled out the intake form.

Jules sat across the room, swinging her legs, still wearing the red rental skates. She looked completely out of place, like a kid in the wrong scene of a movie. A triage nurse called Claire’s name within three minutes; fast-tracked. Head trauma always got priority.

The exam room was quiet, except for the steady hum of fluorescent lighting overhead and the occasional beep of the monitor across from Claire’s head. She sat on the padded table, hospital sunglasses perched lopsided on her nose. Her boots were untied, one lace dangled off the side like a frayed ribbon.

Deacon stood beside her at first, arms crossed; then sat slowly in the corner chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped like he was waiting for a verdict.

The doctor was young, tired-eyed, but efficient. He’d introduced himself in a blur of vowels that neither of them retained.

“Concussion, mild to moderate,” he said finally, tapping her chart. “No sign of hematoma, which is good. But she’s definitely showing standard symptoms: photophobia, verbal disorientation, memory fog.”

Claire made a face. “Fog like I’m a Victorian ghost.”

Deacon glanced at her.

The doctor smiled briefly. “You’re going to feel weird for a few days, maybe longer.” He turned to Deacon, more serious now. “You’ll want to wake her up every few hours tonight. Make sure she’s responsive, just verbal confirmation is fine. If she gets worse: vomiting, confusion, difficulty walking, you bring her back immediately.”

Deacon nodded once, sharp and controlled.

The doctor turned back to Claire. “No screens, no reading and no stairs unless someone’s with you. Just rest.”

Claire nodded along, eyes still half-hidden behind the lenses. Her mouth pulled into a flat line; she looked exhausted.

 “So basically, I’m a burden.”

It came out soft and bitter. The doctor didn’t respond but Deacon did.

“No, you’re injured.”

Claire huffed. “Same difference.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees again and his voice low but sure.

“You didn’t ask to get hurt. You don’t get to apologize for it.”

Claire didn’t answer, she just tilted her face slightly toward him in surrender.

The truck’s cabin was dim, the ER’s sodium lights fading behind them as Deacon merged back onto the road. Claire leaned her head against the window, one arm tucked across her stomach. Her sunglasses were back in place, though the lenses were crooked again. Her lips were chapped, her color was worse.

Beside her, Jules sat unnaturally straight, her arms tucked in, her hands buried in the sleeves of her hoodie. No one said anything for the first two minutes; Claire spoke dryly, quiet and too casual to be real.

“He said no stairs,” she murmured, voice ghosting into the glass. “Guess you’ll have to carry me again like a tragic Victorian bride.”

Jules snorted not quite a laugh but it punched through the silence, unexpected and too big for the moment. Then she started to cry: real, silent, ugly crying; shoulders trembling. Face twisted like she was trying to hold it in and failing, because there was no space left inside to hold anything anymore.

Deacon glanced in the rearview, then blinked and pulled into a strip mall parking lot without a word. He put the truck in park, reached down and switched off the headlights. Then he turned all the way around in his seat, elbow hooked over the headrest, body twisted toward Jules.

She tried to wipe her face with her sleeve, frantic and ashamed.

“Sorry...” she started.

“Don’t,” Deacon cut in.

He waited for her to look at him.

“You did everything right.”

Jules blinked hard and her lip trembled.

“I didn’t catch her,” she whispered. “I didn’t even see her fall...”

“And you stayed calm; you called me and kept her talking. You didn’t lose it.”

“She was bleeding.”

“And now she’s not alone.”

Jules nodded; a shaky, tear-soaked nod.

Deacon reached one hand back toward her, palm open and there, if she wanted it. After a beat, she reached forward and gripped it tight.

Previous chapter.

[24worldnewsnet]

Best-selling author Frederick Forsyth, known for thriller novels including The Day Of The Jackal, has died at the age of 86, his agent has said."We mourn the passing of one of the world's greatest thriller writers," Jonathan Lloyd said in a statement.Forsyth published more than 25 books, also including The Odessa File and The Dogs of War, and sold 75 million books around the world, he said.His publisher Bill Scott-Kerr said: "Still read by millions across the world, Freddie's thrillers define the genre and are still the benchmark to which contemporary writers aspire. He leaves behind a peerless legacy which will continue to excite and entertain for years to come."Born in Kent in 1938, Forsyth joined the RAF at the age of 18 before becoming a war correspondent for the BBC and Reuters. He revealed in 2015 he also worked for British intelligence agency MI6 for more than 20 years.Many of his fictional plots drew on his real-life experiences around the world.He made his name with his first novel, 1971's The Day Of The Jackal, which he wrote when he was out of work."[I was] skint, in debt, no flat, no car, no nothing and I just thought, 'How do I get myself out of this hole?' And I came up with probably the zaniest solution - write a novel," he said.It is a gripping tale, set in 1963, about an Englishman hired to assassinate the French president at the time, Charles de Gaulle.The Day Of The Jackal was turned into a 1973 film starring Edward Fox as the Jackal, and then became a TV drama starring Eddie Redmayne last year. Forsyth died on Monday after a brief illness, a statement said."We mourn the passing of one of the world's greatest thriller writers," Mr Lloyd said."Only a few weeks ago I sat with him as we watched a new and moving documentary of his life - In My Own Words, to be released later this year on BBC One – and was reminded of an extraordinary life, well lived."After serving as one of the youngest ever RAF pilots, he turned to journalism, using his gift for languages in German, French and Russian to become a foreign correspondent in Biafra."Appalled at what he saw and using his experience during a stint as a Secret service agent, he wrote his first and perhaps most famous novel, The Day Of The Jackal, and instantly became a global bestselling author."Michael Caine persuaded Forsyth to allow a film version of 1984 novel The Fourth ProtocolMr Scott-Kerr said working with Forsyth had been "one of the great pleasures of my professional life"."The flow of brilliant plots and ideas aside, he was the most professional writer an editor could hope for," he said."His journalistic background brought a rigour and a metronomic efficiency to his working practice and his nose for and understanding of a great story kept his novels both thrillingly contemporary and fresh. It was a joy and an education to watch him at work."Singer Elaine Paige, a friend of Forsyth, said she felt "total sadness" at the news of his death. "His academic knowledge of places, palaces and geography was bar none," she wrote on X. "He'll be much missed for so many reasons." English composer Andrew Lloyd Webber, who worked with Forsyth on Love Never Dies, the follow-up to Phantom of the Opera, said: "He really understood the romance and thrills which make the Phantom such an alluring character."Thank you Frederick, for creating stories which will live on for generations in your honour." And Conservative MP Sir David Davis said his "great friend" was a "terrific man" and a "fabulous wordsmith". "He was a great believer in the old values - he believed in honour and patriotism and courage and directness and straightforwardness and [was] a big defender of our armed forces," he told Sky News.Forsyth followed The Day Of The Jackal with The Odessa File in 1972, which was adapted for the big screen in a film starring Jon Voight two years later.The author had written a follow-up, Revenge of Odessa, with fellow thriller writer Tony Kent, which will be published this August.His other best-selling works included 1984

[deepartnature]

NYC, Allegheny College, Boston, Vermont, Montreal…

The Clash, 1979 - The Palladium, NYC

The Clash, 1979 - The Palladium, NYC Astor Piazzolla, 1988 - Flynn Theater Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, The Incredible String Band, 1968 - Cleveland, OH Pina Bausch, 1984 - Café Müller, The Rite of Spring, Blaubart - Brooklyn Academy of Music, NYC Sun Ra and his Arkestra, 1988 - Hunt’s Fela Kuti, 1988 - Montreal, The Spectrum Bob Marley and the Wailers, 1979 - Memorial Auditorium Talking Heads, 1982 - UVM Athletics Kamasi Washington, 2018 - Flynn Theater Bruce Springsteen, 1972 - Boston, Symphony Hall

Pina Bausch - Café Müller, 1985

Lucinda Williams, 2004 - Shelburne Farms John Prine, 1972 - Boston, Symphony Hall Romeo Void, 1982 - Hunt’s Talking Heads, 1979 - UVM Athletics Philip Glass, 1982 - Memorial Auditorium Pina Bausch, 1986 - Place des Arts/Montreal Fred Frith, 1988 - Flynn Space Gillian Welch, 2004 - Winooski, Higher Ground Kate and Anna McGarrigle, 1984 - Hunt’s The Band, 1975 - Champlain Valley Exposition

Rolling Thunder Revue, 1975

David Johansen, 1978 - UVM Athletics Public Enemy, 1990 - Memorial Auditorium Steve Goodman, 1973 - Cambridge, Club Passim Procol Harum, 1971 - SummerStage in Central Park, NYC New Order, 1984 - Montreal, The Spectrum Bonnie Raitt, 1972 - Cambridge, Harvard Square Theatre The Clash, 1979 - Montreal, Place des Arts Rolling Thunder Revue, 1975 - UVM Athletics Philip Glass, 1985 - Flynn Theater Kronos Quartet, 1988 - Flynn Theater

The Roches, 1968, 1984 - Allegheny College/Hunt’s

Peter Tosh, 1981 - Memorial Auditorium Keith Jarrett, 1977 - Shelburne Farm Elvis Costello the Attractions, 1979 - UVM Athletics The Roches, 1968, 1984 - Allegheny College/Hunt’s Meredith Monk, 1988 - Flynn Theater John Lincoln Wright, 1974 - Palmer St, Cambridge Bob Dylan + The Band, 1973 - Boston, North Station Al Kooper, 1969 - SummerStage in Central Park, NYC The Doors, 1967 - Forest Hills Stadium, NYC Doc Watson, 1967 - Carnegie Hall, NYC

Al Kooper, 1969 - SummerStage in Central Park, NYC

Pere Ubu, 1989 - Club Metronome Grateful Dead, 1972 - Madison Square Garde, NYC Simon & Garfunkel, 1968 - Forest Hills Stadium, NYC Dave Mason, 1970 - Allegheny College King Sunny Adé, 1984 - Montreal/The Spectrum Pete Seeger, 1968 - SummerStage in Central Park, NYC Bruce Springsteen, 1974 - Boston, Cambridge Richard Thompson, 1989 - Hunt’s Rosanne Cash, 2006 - Flynn Theater The Young Rascals, 1967 - Forest Hills Stadium, NYC

Bonnie Raitt, 1972 - Cambridge, Harvard Square Theatre

NYC: The Drifters, The Crystals, The Fifth Dimension, Gary Puckett and The Union Gap, Judy Collins, The Allman Brothers Band, James Cotton, Beacon Street Union, Sam and Dave, The Only Ones (CBGB), etc. Allegheny College: Tim Hardin, Grateful Dead (1 - 1973), New Riders Of The Purple Sage, The Youngbloods, etc. Boston: The Band (1- 1973), Redbone (Club Passim), Maria Muldaur (Club Passim), J. Geils Band, David Bromberg, Bonnie Raitt (1 - 1974), Bruce Springsteen (2 - 1973-1975), etc. Vermont: Keith Jarrett (1 - 1978), Talking Heads (1 - 1982), Steve Reich, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Sly & Robbie, Black Uhuru, Meredith Monk (1 - 2008), Philip Glass (1 - 1989), Laurie Anderson (2: 1986, 2009), Birdsongs of the Mesozoic (2 - 1988, 1990), The Fleshtones, Afrika Bambaataa, Michael Nyman, George Clinton, , Habib Koite, etc. Montreal: The Clash (1984), The Undertones

[sammarketer]

The Fiercest Competitors in Cricket: Top 10 Most Aggressive Players

Cricket is a sport that has witnessed numerous players who bring not just talent but also a fiery passion to the field. These cricketers are renowned for their aggressive style, both in their play and their attitude, leaving an everlasting impression on the game. Below, we delve into the top 10 most aggressive cricketers in the world, highlighting who is the most aggressive player in cricket through their relentless spirit and sheer determination.

1. Virender Sehwag (India)

Virender Sehwag’s approach to cricket was nothing short of revolutionary. Known for his ability to attack from the very first ball, Sehwag’s aggression was not just physical but mental, as he consistently put pressure on the bowlers with his fearless stroke play. Whether it was a Test match or an ODI, Sehwag played with the same level of intensity, making him one of the most dangerous batsmen in the world.

Why He’s Aggressive:

His aggressive style of starting innings with boundaries set the tone for his team.

Scored two triple centuries in Test cricket with a level of ease that stunned opponents.

His mindset was to dominate, often turning the tide of the game in his favor within a few overs.

2. Shahid Afridi (Pakistan)

Shahid Afridi, also known as "Boom Boom," is one of the most iconic aggressive cricketers. Afridi was famous for his explosive batting, characterized by an extraordinary ability to hit sixes at will. His aggression wasn’t confined to his batting; he was an attacking leg-spinner who often broke crucial partnerships with his bowling.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Known for one of the fastest centuries in ODI cricket, achieved at a young age.

His six-hitting prowess made him a crowd favorite and a game-changer.

Afridi’s fearless attitude on the field often inspired his team and intimidated opponents.

3. Mitchell Johnson (Australia)

Mitchell Johnson’s aggression was best displayed through his blistering pace and the hostility with which he bowled. During the 2013-14 Ashes series, Johnson was a terror for English batsmen, his fast, short-pitched deliveries making him one of the most feared bowlers of his time. His aggressive nature was not just physical but psychological, as he often got into the minds of the opposition.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Consistently bowled at speeds above 150 km/h, making life difficult for batsmen.

Utilized aggressive tactics, including bouncers, to unsettle and intimidate his opponents.

His ability to maintain aggression over long spells made him a key weapon for Australia.

4. Glenn McGrath (Australia)

Glenn McGrath was not known for express pace but for his incredible accuracy and relentless pressure. His aggression was subtle yet potent, as he constantly attacked the batsman’s weaknesses. McGrath was a master of mind games, often engaging in verbal battles and using his metronomic precision to frustrate and dismiss top-order batsmen.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Had a unique ability to consistently bowl in the right areas, forcing mistakes from batsmen.

Known for his psychological warfare, often unsettling the opposition before they faced a ball.

His competitive spirit and unyielding accuracy made him one of the best fast bowlers in history.

5. David Warner (Australia)

David Warner is a modern-day cricketer known for his aggressive approach to batting and his fiery personality on the field. Warner’s strength lies in his ability to take the attack to the bowlers right from the start, often changing the course of a match in just a few overs. His aggression is not just limited to his batting; his on-field demeanor and willingness to engage in verbal exchanges make him a force to be reckoned with.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Frequently delivers explosive starts in both Test and limited-overs cricket.

Known for his confrontational style, both with the bat and in his interactions with opponents.

Plays with a fearless attitude that often disrupts the plans of the opposition.

6. Shoaib Akhtar (Pakistan)

Shoaib Akhtar, famously known as the "Rawalpindi Express," brought raw pace and aggression to the cricket field. Akhtar’s ability to bowl consistently at over 150 km/h made him one of the most feared fast bowlers in the world. His aggression wasn’t just about speed; it was about the psychological pressure he exerted on batsmen, often leaving them rattled.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Holds the record for the fastest ball ever bowled, clocking in at 161.3 km/h.

Utilized his pace to intimidate and dominate the best batsmen in the world.

His fiery temperament and aggressive nature made him a challenging opponent for any team.

7. Jacques Kallis (South Africa)

Jacques Kallis is widely regarded as one of the greatest all-rounders in cricket history. While known for his technical proficiency, Kallis had a fierce competitive edge that surfaced in critical moments. Whether with the bat or the ball, Kallis’s aggression was measured but deadly, often tilting the balance in favor of his team.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Blended technical excellence with a willingness to play aggressively when the situation demanded.

Delivered key spells with the ball, often taking crucial wickets through sheer determination.

His competitive nature made him a pivotal figure in South Africa’s cricketing success.

8. Ricky Ponting (Australia)

Ricky Ponting’s career is a testament to aggressive cricket, both in terms of batting and leadership. Ponting was known for his ability to dominate bowling attacks, particularly with his powerful pull shots. As captain, his aggressive tactics and uncompromising approach helped Australia become one of the most formidable teams in cricket history.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Played with an attacking mindset, regularly taking on the world’s best bowlers with confidence.

As captain, led his team with a fierce determination to win, often employing aggressive strategies.

His confrontational style on the field was matched by his ability to lead from the front.

9. Brett Lee (Australia)

Brett Lee was another Australian fast bowler who epitomized aggression. Lee’s speed and intensity made him a constant threat to batsmen around the world. His aggressive bowling style, coupled with his high-energy celebrations, showcased his passion and commitment to the game, making him one of the most exciting players to watch.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Maintained high speeds throughout his career, challenging even the best batsmen.

Used his pace to intimidate and dominate opposition batsmen.

Played with a contagious enthusiasm that energized his team and thrilled spectators.

10. Gautam Gambhir (India)

Gautam Gambhir was a cricketer who combined aggression with a deep sense of responsibility. Known for his intense focus and combative attitude, Gambhir played some of the most crucial innings for India in high-pressure situations. His aggressive nature was evident not just in his batting but also in his willingness to stand up to opponents, making him a key player in India’s success during his career.

Why He’s Aggressive:

Played pivotal aggressive innings in high-stakes matches, including World Cup finals.

Known for his confrontational attitude, often engaging in heated exchanges with opponents.

His determination and fighting spirit made him a respected and feared competitor.

READ ALSO:- W.G. Grace: The Father of Cricket and His Impact on the Game

Conclusion

The most aggressive cricketers in the world have left an indelible mark on the sport, bringing intensity and passion that have thrilled fans and terrified opponents. These players, through their aggressive batting, bowling, and leadership, have not only achieved great success but have also redefined the way cricket is played. Their legacy of fierce competition and unyielding determination continues to inspire future generations, showcasing who is the most aggressive player in cricket and what it takes to dominate the game at the highest level.

[zooterchet]

The Order of the Progress State (Trump)

During the Holocaust, a Jewish star was applied, with a metronome, for "chet". "J". If refusing to admit Jewish, and marry Wehrmacht, you were sent to the camps. Otherwise, admitting Jewish, you were admitted to the Schulzstaffel.

A government compliance code.

Out of New York, since the 1970s, Donald Trump has waged the same, for "cop".

I was a cop; but I killed anyone on, a forced badge demand.

These are the units I served.

NSA HUMINT: The interdiction of criminal forces under racketeered logic of Rabbinical German; the Cohens and Hitlers and Bulgers.

CIA Prosecutor's Agent: The legalization of marijuana under tree surgeons standards, and tax stamps according determining the transit of cannabis.

UMass-Amherst CI: The interdiction of peace activists, serving on demand of police drafts of any capable of serving as a CIA agent in overseas France, Eastern Europe, and Turkey.

Homeland Security: The interdiction of DC Comics and its cumulative relation to Bellevue hospitals for the removal of the academically competitive if practicing lotus position; in accordance with Cardinal Bernard Law, outside of lawsuits for admission of Lutherans.

Army Reserve: The informed civil prudence and jurisprudence on Unitarian spies inside companies of logic and scholarship, and resulting hunts of forces affiliated with international crime syndicates out of corrections staff.

Sinn Fein: The hunt for British psychologists on FetLife and related boards like Collar Space, Encyclopedia Dramatica, 4chan, 8chan, 420chan, Alt, and Tumblr; the removal of the German Nietzschean police of semen theft to write lyrics, through continuing CIA precognitive experiment; "David", "Artificial Intelligence", as printed by Stephen Spielberg.

[sarahtheflutist]

Has any one played Minor Alterations: Christmas Through the Looking Glass by David Lovrien?

I'm having technical issues from U to the end with the ridiculous fingering changes. I can play it slow, but at tempo, I slow down measure 321 and that gets out of sync to the end.

Just looking for tips on a different approach to it.

I've drilled with the metronome, isolated each fingering change, chunked it down to the smallest sections (which I can play) and then can not put together.

[romirola]

A RedactedASMR soft-smut prompt and fanfic fill below! 18+ ONLY. MINORS, DO NOT INTERACT! Thank you!

“I have low key wanted to see a biting power switch between either Angel/Davey or Vincent/Lovely for ages.” Your wish is my command, @floofdeloop! Thanks for your request and hope you enjoy!

Rating: Explicit, WC: ~1.5K, Prompts: Biting Power Switch, David/Angel

It was supposed to be a day-trip to attend a graduation party for a young pack member. As alpha, David couldn’t refuse the invitation. And Angel made everything, even social events, better. He thought he’d make an appearance, drop off a card with a generous check as a gift, have a slice of cake, and say his goodbyes before too long to allow himself time to drive back to Dahlia that night.

But the party had been fun. He caught up with people, danced with Angel, and had two slices of his favorite kind of cake, chocolate with chocolate frosting. It had been more relaxing than he ever could’ve imagined. Surrounded by family, sitting with his mate, both of them dressed up and ready for a night out where they wouldn’t be the hosts having to coordinate food, arrivals times, or anything else. They stayed longer than they thought they would, meaning the sun was long gone by the time they finally left the event space. To make matters worse, gusts of wind and rain fell in sheets.

David grimaced. “We’ll have to grab a hotel for the night.”

And so they did. It would be like a mini vacation, Angel joked.

************************************************************************

With a gasp, Angel leaned back into the headboard of the hotel’s bed. It squeaked persistently, a metronome that kept time to the rhythm of their hip grinding up into the man who towered over them. Angel couldn’t help but let out a moan as David trailed a line of kisses spiralling along their collarbone before dipping down lower to their chest.

“Angel,” David panted through the kisses, hands slipping over and under Angel’s back and ribcage as he sought to touch them more, squeeze them closer, hold them tighter as they both worked their way towards ecstasy. His hands wandered around Ange’s writhing body. David couldn’t tell if the heat blossoming at his chest was coming from within, a physical manifestation of his growing hunger for a release, or from without, tangible evidence of the friction that he and Angel made together despite the slickness of their bodies. “You’re perfect,” he praised breathlessly. “So perfect. We fit together like we were made for each other.” His mouth trailed down along their chest and ribs. He hooked his arms around their quivering thighs to keep them firmly in place. David growled as he felt their hands grip into the tangled sheets. “I can’t get enough of you, Angel.”

Angel swallowed, trying to find their voice beyond the noises of pleasure they felt tear at their throat. “Davey,” they murmured roughly, hoisting themselves up by looping their arms around David’s neck and pulling themselves upwards. “Davey, wait.” They focused hard on making their mouth form the words, rather than latch onto David’s lips. “Wait a minute.”

At their soft speech, David paused sharply, adjusting himself so that they could face each other without his weight pushing down on them so heavily. “Okay, okay,” he said hastily, tamping down on his own growing desire once they vocalized a need to slow down or even to stop. As wild and unhinged as David knew he could become when it came to pleasuring Angel, he was never so lost in his own instincts that he didn’t respect their boundaries. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Angel quickly realized how David must’ve interpreted their cry. “Oh, everything’s fine,” they assured him. “Everything’s great.” Angel couldn’t keep the hint of dizzy bliss that they were feeling out of their voice.

David ignored the throb of pride he felt at hearing that.

“You mean so much to me, Davey,” they declared, smoothing his chest hair along their flat palms. The strong, purposeful touch nearly sent David over the edge right then and there, but he focused on what Angel was saying. “Will you, will you let me show you how much?”

David found himself nodding along even without understanding what Angel meant. He knew they’d explain themselves. They always did. They spoke as quickly as their sharp mind could think. The words usually tumbled out of them as they strove to provide as many details as possible as they recounted little moments from their day, asked question after question about his day, found ways to add sass and humor into even the most mundane topics, whispered sweet and supportive words as he drifted off the sleep.

David nudged himself back to reality, still fully confident that Angel would tell him exactly how they’d show him what he meant to them.

“I want to bite you,” Angel said, the words clear and crisp as they hit David’s sensitive ears. “I can’t put words to how amazing you make me feel, Davey. Or how much I love you. I thought, maybe I could communicate better that way. Your way,” they rationalized. “But only if you want me to.” They curled a hand into the nape of David’s neck.

Whatever David had been expecting them to say, it wasn’t that. But he’d be lying if he said that he’d never thought about being bitten. Sure, he had made no attempt to hide his more dominant, predatory side as he and Angel explored the dynamics of their relationship. And he certainly didn’t have any plans to give up those impulses, even if he wanted to. But despite being alpha to his pack, it was only natural that the idea of a partner biting him would cross the mind of the wolf within him. It was a sign of mutual possession among mates, like a renewed commitment of the bond the two share. He imagined it’d feel like a comforting hug, or a gentle burn, or maybe even a rough scratch that settled a constant itch, all wrapped up in the bit of teeth and grit that never let him forget just how protective his mate was over him.

When David fell for an unempowered human, he always presumed that’d be one sensation he’d never know.

He never factored Angel and all their brilliance into that equation. Fool, he called himself wryly.

“I do,” David confirmed, his voice already heady and needy at the thought of their mouth claiming him. “I do, Angel. Please,” he added, dropping back onto the bed to give them ample opportunity. “Show me what I mean to you.”

Angel seized the shift in power dynamics with more might than David thought possible. They climbed up onto him, straddling his hips and wiggling into him to connect every curve and edge between their bodies.

David held his breath, staring up into Angel’s shining eyes. A slow, seductive smirk crossed their face and they leaned down, nestling their face into David’s neck. They kissed him passionately, causing his pelvis to rock upwards like a reflex.

Angel stayed balanced atop David, and then, ever so slowly, they bared their teeth and bit him.

It was even better than he had imagined.

David couldn’t suppress the groan that erupted out of his mouth, nor could he help that it turned into a low growl of pleasure as he felt himself break. It was like each of Angel’s teeth combed over his skin, leaving small bursts of fireworks behind with every indentation he felt Angel press into his skin. His eyes shut tightly, if only to help him hang onto the overwhelming high running through his body, stretching along all of his magical threads. “Oh, Angel,” he grunted out, fully enveloped in Angel’s love and their strong grasp. David felt weightless, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before, as Angel put their tongue to his skin, trailing along their mark, (his mate’s mark, David’s shaking brain suddenly supplied and he smiled in a satisfied daze) each flick of their tongue a small reminder of the great meaning imbued into their actions.

Angel concluded with a kiss to his neck before letting themselves fall back beside David. If the shake in their arms and the blush on their cheeks were any indication, they had enjoyed biting David as much as he clearly enjoyed being bitten. “How…” They stretched one arm out over David’s (still heaving) chest. “How was that?” Their other hand massaged gentle circles into David’s neck, each little spiral sending a wave of pleasure along his spine.

David quickly caught Angel’s outstretched arm and brought it to his lips to kiss the back of their hand. After a moment, he rearranged himself so that he was holding them close as they were tangled into each other

“That was…” David almost just fell silent and let his mind wander, like he couldn’t be bothered to talk after having been so thoroughly exhausted. His head was pleasantly empty, save the love and devotion he felt towards Angel. It was only for their benefit, to make sure that they understood how immensely satisfied and happy he felt because of them, that he found the strength to complete that sentence. “That was amazing, Angel.” He moved his head ever so slightly so he could kiss Angel’s forehead before he let his head collide with the pillow again. “I love you so much. You’re amazing. Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” Angel crooned, fitting themselves into his chest as they let one hand lazily comb through his hair. “I love you, too, Davey.”

[aknosde]

this slope is treacherous

chapter 3: out of focus, eye to eye (’til the gravity’s too much)

[chapter 1] [< previous] [chapter 3] [next >]

Andrew Minyard/Neil Josten // Neil Josten & David Wymack // Neil Josten & Abby Winfield // Hurt-Comfort // Angst // Slight Medical Inaccuracies //  Memory Issues  // Post-Canon // 8.8k

ao3

—————

This type of work requires no plan. Or it is all a plan. He can’t tell.

The ball rebounds against the wall, enough power behind it to make the sound reverberate through the empty court, the empty stands, the empty stadium, and then flies back hard, right into the net of his racquet.

He’s running laps inside the court, movements smooth with repetition. His arm is pulling back before the ball can settle, keeping momentum, not letting the force of it shake up his arms. One step. He sends it flying, runs after it, catches it. Two steps. Again. Three steps. ‘Round and ‘round he goes.

With his second therapist, early on but not so early that he refused to close his eyes, they had tried meditation. The scenario was simple, something he had actually done many times, in fact, though his therapist hadn’t known that. He was to imagine sitting on a rock, looking out at a highway. Each car was to represent a thought, and he was supposed to watch them pass without lingering on them, without reaching out to touch them, without getting up to chase them.

His mind had turned the cars into a mob, the rock into restraints, and the panic had been all encompassing. Like a sensory deprivation chamber, his body had been trapped in his mind, the therapist unable to tell, not until his session was over and Neil couldn’t get out of it. Matt, who was supposed to pick him up, had dragged him out of the office with a dirty look at the doctor. Neil never went back to him.

This, though, this is what meditation is supposed to be.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, doesn’t know how he got here, doesn’t know why he came. What he does know is the weight of his racquet in his hand, the sound of the ball bouncing against plexiglass, the force of the rebound, the number of steps he has left.

His heartbeat pounding in his ears, previously comparable to the ticking of a clock, becomes nothing more than a metronome to lose himself in. With each swipe of the pendulum he can feel more of Neil Josten being erased, and for once in his life the loss of an identity causes no fear. The pressure that has been building, slowly and surely since championships, vanishes pass after pass until he can no longer feel himself running.

—

“You been here all night?”

Wymack catches Neil off guard. The ball rebounds, but he isn’t moving to redirect it. The shock of it hitting the net sends tremors up his arms, guards useless to stop it, and it's all he can do to tighten his grip through the pain and prevent the racquet from dropping to the ground.

“It’s barely past five.”

Neil takes his helmet off before responding, hands still shaking. He’s clammy with sweat and fighting a shiver. He doesn’t know when he woke up, or if he even went to sleep. It’s a terrifying gap in memory, but he’s nothing if not adept at compartmentalization.

“Just a couple hours,” he responds, hoping it’s not a lie. “I didn’t come in last night so I thought I’d run drills this morning.”

“Weight room’s at six, want a ride?”

On a normal day he’d run to the gym, but on a normal day he would know how much sleep he got and he wouldn’t be leaving from the stadium. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he says, resisting the urge to make his voice chipper the way that fools his friends. To Coach, it would only be a red flag. As it is, Wymack scowls at him momentarily before brushing it off.

“We leave in thirty. Clean up and meet me in the parking lot,” he says, letting the door to the court drift shut as he disappears back into the foyer and leaving Neil to inspect the court with what feels like a new pair of eyes. Or maybe just fresh contacts.  

He’s in full gear, armbands secure under his arm guards, but the only other things out are his racquet and a single exy ball, a level of narcissism that not even Kevin maintains. The thought that Neil could run each drill so precisely as to only need one ball and still use his time efficiently is laughable, yet the full bucket of balls is nowhere in sight and he cannot recall chasing the ball once.

He actually can’t remember running any drills aside from the one Wymack caught him in. It’s… unsettling, and with his gaps of memory come the things he suspects he was trying to escape; pressure on his shoulders, a gentle cloying in his stomach, the remnants—or beginnings—of a headache.

He grabs his things and heads toward the locker room, willing the water to wash it away to no use. In the shower the side of his head plants itself against one of the plastic walls of the stall and he doubles over, dry heaving.

Something– Something is wrong. He’s not stupid. This reminds him of the months after his freshman year championships. The image of the bullet finding a home in Riko’s skull had clicked satisfyingly into place amongst Neil’s memories, but it was as if the final piece had flipped every other over until Neil could barely function. His nights were drowned in blood and burning flesh. For the first time in his life he couldn’t sleep silently; he would wake up covered in his own claw marks, throat worn raw and fighting to keep his dinner down. His summer was dotted with nights his eyes found themselves burning with sunlight and days they were crusted open with lack of sleep. Upon returning to his competition season sleep schedule he had found himself insomniatic.

The sleeping pills were the first of his medications, the only one that Andrew had supported. They work, and they work well. Maybe he’s coming down with something.

The water spins around him for a moment longer, kaleidoscopic diamond beads, his arms bracketed against the stall for support. Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the nausea stops. He’s left outside of the stream, cool water snaking down his hairline and into his bones. He wrenches the handle to hot and steps back under the showerhead.

—

He can’t find his sneakers.

His game bag, which he had automatically repacked upon receiving his away uniform from the launderers, sits at the head of the nearest bench, sharp white and orange lines and black ribbing overlooking its previous contents. He counts them; a change of clothes—the set he’s not wearing, meant for post-practice dinners; court shoes—the ones he had been wearing and his spares; the first heavy racquet Kevin bought him—covered in tape and stickers; and all of the gear—minus the uniform, which will need to be cleaned, and the exy ball—that he had just used.

Neil checks his locker again, bare of everything except the stickers that have collected there over the past five years and a small poster of a cat in exy gear that Renee had given him, and turns back to the lineup of his belongings along the nearest bench.

His personal gym bag—the one he takes back and forth between his dorm, the stadium, and the gym—is absent as well. Which, he thinks, hands on his hips like Dan when she’s trying to put a difficult play into words, could be explained. However, the absence of his sneakers is as baffling as it is annoying, and he’s quickly finding whatever respite he had found in his shower to be falling away. He needs his sneakers for—something. Standing in the locker room with socks feels foolish at the very least.

With an accusatory glare to the mouth of his locker, Neil returns to his hands and knees, where he had begun his search.

He’s covered half the room, head half bent under another bench and smooth linoleum tile pressing soft circles into his skin, when Wymack enters the room.

“Neil, we gotta go,” he calls, voice crowding the room; it echoes across the walls and floors until it ricochets under the bench and Neil jerks to sitting on his heel, nailing his head on the underside of the bench.

“What the hell are you doing down there,” Wymack asks, suddenly appearing at the end of the bench. His arms are crossed and he looks down on Neil like he truly thinks Neil attempted to concuss himself.

Neil rubs the back of his neck, tender and sure to bruise, biting out a curse before glaring up at Wymack. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, you see,” Wymack starts in an overly patronizing tone like he’s explaining the squeeze theorem to Neil, “I was waiting in my car, expecting my captain of four years to be punctual for once in his life considering I’m being oh so generous as to give him a ride to the gym, but I guess that’s too much to ask.”

Deciding to ignore Wymack in his pettiness, and the mystery of why he needs to find his shoes resolved, Neil says, “I can’t find my sneakers.”

“What?”

“My sneakers. I can’t find them.”

“How’d you get here then?”

“With them, supposedly.”

Wymack pinches the bridge of his nose, looks up to the fluorescent lights, and releases a sigh. “We don’t have time for this, just wear your old court shoes.”

“Maybe the cleaners came through after I got here,” Neil says, using one hand to tug the shoes on as he shoves everything back in his locker.

“I’ll ask.”

—————

Running back from the gym is probably not one of the brightest ideas Neil’s ever had.

To be fair, it’s definitely not the worst; he’s done this nearly a thousand times. What makes it a poor idea at the very least is that he is seventy-three percent sure he has some sort of cold and that his aching ankles protest each step. The rising heat doesn’t help, and by the time the addends have come together he finds himself becoming increasingly frustrated. And then, because Neil is known for many things but having healthy management of his emotions is not one of them, he becomes frustrated with his frustration, which is stupid on a level he cannot put into words and also something that he cannot seem to stop.

He has made this run thousands of times; in sun and rain and wind and snow, and once even during a tornado. It’s such an overwhelmingly normal route—one he could run blindfolded in his sleep—that his difficulty keeping pace is especially annoying. Taking into consideration that he has spent much of his life, though now not the majority, running, quite literally, in unpleasant weather and frequently injured, the annoyance increases two-fold.

By the time he arrives at Fox Tower he is uncomfortably sweaty and whatever length fuse he was granted today has been burned short. He’s lost his keys at some point—what a win for his paranoia, he’ll have to call to get the locks changed—and in the process of picking the lock he manages to break the paperclip he found on the floor and is forced to resort to a most likely used toothpick. The second he gets the door open his phone begins to ring.

It’s loud, abrasive in the empty apartment, grating against his skin and building the pressure behind his eyes. He crosses to the table where he left it, slams the reject button so hard it makes his finger hurt, powers the damn thing off, and promptly strolls into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and drops it into an open bag of cereal.

It feels… unexpectedly good. While he’s technically always breaking the law—owning a few small caches of forged documents and foreign cash does that, especially when taking into account the very serious rules of his release from the FBI—it’s been a while since he deliberately… broke the rules. Destroyed something.

That’s what his frustration is making him feel, he realizes. Destructive. It’s been so long since he has felt this way, so strongly, that he finds it almost refreshing.

He closes the cabinet door—tempted to slam it but knowing that senseless violence has never felt satisfying to him. Instead he steps back into the living room, turning on Nicky’s old XBox. He rarely plays—really only to kick Aaron’s ass when he knows he can or to provide the proper amount of challenge needed to entertain Andrew—but it’s the first thing he thinks of. He opens Nicky’s old save of Grand Theft Auto, one he always talks about resuming but never does, and re-introduces himself to the controls. Once he knows what he’s doing he goes about strategically dead-ending every mission he can find and trashing every item Nicky has collected. Nicky will be pissed if he ever finds out, not that he ever will.

He plays until it gets boring, and then he takes a hint from the game and heads to the shooting range.

—————

Wymack hates guns, with a passion. He’s told Neil, the two of them sitting with their backs pressed to the court’s outer walls, Neil’s hands shaking with the remnants of a panic attack, that the only good thing guns have ever done is kill Nathan.

Neil is smarter than that.

See, there is a lot more to guns than teenagers incapable of critical thought waltzing down hallways with AK-47s strapped to their backs. There is a lot more than the Secret Service and their JARs. There is a lot more than James Bond and his Walther PPK. There is a lot more to it all than point and shoot.

The only thing his mother had bothered teaching him was operating a gun, and of that the first thing she taught him was point and squeeze. The second thing was that guns are not one-size-fits-all. Shooting a firearm well takes skill, and treating it as an extension of one’s body—like one might treat a staff or sword—takes practice. Grip matters. Precision is a talent, one that must be nurtured, and sights should be utilized.

Neil can trace his mother’s gun from memory; conjure it in his hand; remembers disassembling it, cleaning it, putting it all back together. He knows the handgun Stuart gifted him just as well.

What has always fascinated Neil—despite the fact that it’s too much of a risk for him to be seen with a gun even considering the open carry laws of South Carolina—is the threat registered by nothing more than their form. The sight of an object even resembling a firearm sends most quaking in their boots, without the knowledge of whether or not the carrier can even shoot straight. That’s too much power for a single object, Neil had thought at ten. That’s a power I can exploit, Neil had thought at thirteen.

He returned from the range over an hour ago, showered before coming to practice due to the accumulation of sweat on his run back, and held a cigarette out of Robin’s window on the drive to the stadium. Wymack can smell the gunpowder on him.

There is no way, logically, for him to be able to do so—gunpowder doesn’t even work that way. Yet he is glaring at Neil across the court like he knows where Neil has been, arms crossed and leaning subconsciously to one side to relieve pressure off of his bad hip.

“Josten,” Wymack barks, Neil in the midst of latching the court doors closed and his team already splitting up for the scheduled scrimmage. Wymack’s voice is scraped down to a growl, on that means ‘get your ass over here right the fuck now.’ Neil motions for one of the striker subs to take his place and lets Rachel take control of the court before jogging over to the step where Wymack has decided to make his stand.

“What’s going on?”

“You tell me,” Wymack counters, staring down at Neil.

Neil quickly weighs whether getting into this whole gun debacle is worth it—it’s truly not; Wymack is one stubborn motherfucker—and decides to lie his ass off. The simplest method of lying is, of course, to pretend you have no understanding of what is happening. Neil’s found it quite reliable over the years, both in tumultuous situations and in escaping several attempts of the sex talk from Nicky. It’s his second favorite tactic when facing Wymack—right after pretending to have a complete grasp on whichever situation he’s found himself in.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Neil says, throwing in a look of disinterest that will make Wymack blow his fuse all the quicker and therefore speed up this interaction.

“What is the one thing I have been pushing all year?”

It’s odd to refer to his anti-gun crusade as something he has been pushing this year specifically; he hasn’t let it go since Aaron let slip Neil’s (forged) concealed carry licence nearly three years ago, but perhaps Wymack has been slightly more enthusiastic about it since sparring with Andrew became out of the question this year. Still, Neil would like to stop circling around the point.

“Not tracking water into the lounge,” Neil says, quirking the end of the sentence into a question. It is most definitely not the answer Wymack was looking for, and he lets Neil know by resuming his glare.

“I’ll make this easy for you,” he says slowly, like Neil when he cannot stand Aaron’s arrogant stupidity. “What did you have two of today, one at nine-thirty and another at one?”

Twist, Neil thinks, before realizing he actually has no idea what Wymack is talking about. Oh how the tables have turned, Andrew’s voice sounds in his head. You should know what he is referencing, says another voice, imperious. It sounds a bit too much like Jean for his liking.

“Class,” Wymack emphasizes when Neil fails to respond. “Our policy,” he says, holding the stress, “is to only miss a class for games or illness.”

It’s an… uncomfortable thing to have to be told, least of all because Neil was the one who signed off on the whole thing.

The thing is… The thing is: Neil actually feels sick. At the moment he can’t tell if it’s because of this unignorable gap in his recollection or if he’s actually ill, but he knows that he normally isn’t winded after laps; that his joints ached this morning; that he threw up yesterday. He had barely thought anything of it, possibly a stray thought of a cold, but ultimately did nothing, told no one. Only now he is thinking about it, and the hole he’s dug himself.

If he is honest—tells Wymack that he thinks there is something wrong with him—he will look conspicuous, especially considering Wymack essentially just said that the only way Neil is getting out of this is if he’s sick. And, more than anything, it would be another lie. Neil didn’t miss class because he was sick; he missed class because he was angry for no reason; he missed class because he forgot; he missed class because he couldn’t even admit to himself that there was something wrong.

“Want to tell me what that’s about,” Wymack asks when Neil takes too long to respond, yet again.

“Nope,” Neil says. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“We’re talking about this later.”

“Can’t wait,” Neil says, spinning on his heel as Wymack points to the court with his chin.

—

Rachel brings the scrimmage to a halt as he approaches and he grabs the subs off the bench, herding them into the court to give notes to those playing while Rachel supposedly gives him a rundown of how the match is going. In actuality she informs him that Robin is mad at Jack for some reason or another and nearly hit him in the ankle with a rebound. Neil sighs.

“So,” Rachel says after a beat, a little too innocently curious for his liking, “what’s up with Wymack?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” “Sure,” she says, sounding utterly and completely like she doesn’t believe him.

“It’s nothing,” Neil says. The words come out terse and clipped. He frowns.

“Yeah,” she says, turning to walk back to her position, all emotion suddenly gone. She’s mad at him.

“What,” Neil calls.

“If you don’t want to talk about something,” Rachel shouts, fitting her helmet over her head and refusing to look back, “at least be honest about it.”

—

The scrimmage resumes, Neil swapping with the sub, Bennet, that took his place earlier, but he can’t stop thinking now. Something is wrong, something that he hasn’t been able to accept all day, and even now he doesn’t accept it—doesn’t know how to when he doesn’t know what’s wrong in the first place. It’s followed him through his day, he realizes; through the gym and the video game and the shooting range and the classes he missed. And there are all of these other little things that don’t line up—not only from today, but from the past few days. He can’t remember the flight back from South Dakota, only the landing. He can’t remember what he ate for dinner last night, only throwing it up. He can’t remember showering this morning, only the scent of bile mixing with body wash.

He can’t remember how Andrew’s game ended.

The pass leaves his racquet with the arc and strength of a goal—despite the fact that he’s directing it across the court horizontally. Somehow, Jack sees it. Neil doesn’t know how the man can tell its speed, its force, but maybe it has something to do with the whizzing Neil heard as it left the net of his racquet. Jack adjusts his footwork. Neil watches the projected path change—instead of landing in Jack’s racquet with a velocity strong enough to twist a wrist, it will rebound off the court walls, losing steam, ready for Jack to pick back up. It’s a seamless solution, except for the fact that his change in footwork trips up the backliner Jack has been paired against.

Rachel doesn’t see it. She only sees the opening Jack has left her in his backstep, no clue that that ball could shatter a television from seventy yards. Jack steps forward again—the window in which he would have caught the ball having passed—and Rachel steps forward at the same time, ready to catch it. Two trains, set to collide, with a third as a surprise.

Neil takes off after his mistake.

He watches it as if they are in slow motion; first their knees knock together, both too focused to notice; then Rachel catches the ball, the shaft of her racquet rotating with the force. Rachel’s rocked to her right, knee catching against Jack’s, who is rocked to his left. Racquets clash together and legs are tangled and tripped and there is a loud crash as two helmets hit the floor and then, just as he is sure the world cannot go anymore to hell, a pained cry.

Never let it be said that he doesn’t know how to control a room.

“Everybody freeze,” he says, whipping out a voice somewhere between Nathan’s threats and Mary's bellows. The court comes to a stand still; Jack and Rachel frozen as well, legs knotted in the air.

He crouches by Rachel’s side, inspecting her and Jack's faces through their visors. Jack is stoic, Rachel is biting her lip. “Breathe,” he instructs them both.

Jack heaves a sigh, Rachel pants, the rise and fall of her chest barely visible through her padding. Neil takes his helmet off, taking a deep breath himself. The crack of their helmets against the floor is still ringing in his head, rolling through his stomach and up his throat. He swallows it down.

“Sheena,” he calls. She’s still friends with Jack, despite Jack leaving behind his more asshole-ish ways, and there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for each other.

“Take Jack’s helmet off,” he instructs, his own hands hovering over Rachel’s helmet. “Slowly.”

He feels the strap of Rachel’s helmet unclasp, hears Jack’s click open a second later, and carefully cradles her head in his hands as he slips it off, resting it gently on the floor.

“Do you know how to check for a concussion?” Sheena nods. “Do it. Don’t move either of them.”

Neil looks up from where he’s crouched on the floor. Robin has come over from where she had been stationed at the away goal, standing in front of Sydney.

Wymack had gone back to his office to polish off some paperwork, trusting Neil to manage practice on a day Neil hasn’t been managing anything well at all. His co-captain is on the floor being checked for a concussion, his team is standing around, high on anxiety and fidgety.

“Sydney, take three and go find Abby and Wymack. Robin, take the rest for a water break and update the subs. Sheena”—he looks back down, watching his team file off court with their orders out of the corner of his eye—“how are they looking?”

“No concussions as far as I can tell,” she says, voice missing the usual venom or disinterest she uses when speaking to him.

“Good. Jack, Rachel, how you feeling?”

“Never been better,” Jack says. Rachel lets out a pained grunt.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” he promises, moving from Rachel’s side to look at their tangle of legs. Rachel’s are nearly limp, but Jack’s are strung taught; it appears he’s keeping their limbs in place with his strength. It’s a knot—but Neil is good at untangling things. “Only move where I move you.”

Jack’s feet are hooked around Rachel’s right ankle, pressing together, and Rachel’s left leg is hooked around Jack's right. Neil begins by taking Rachel’s leg and nudging it slightly back towards her, then moving Jack’s right foot up a bit, limiting the tangle to only their left legs. Rachel pants, squeezing Jack’s hand, who, in turn, is holding onto Sheena’s. Neil wipes sweat off his brow, sitting back on his heels just as the court door opens.

“Concussions,” Abby asks, rushing onto the court with her bag slung over her shoulder and already half open. She comes to a stop by Neil, seeing what he’s trying to do and apparently trusting him enough to continue.

“No,” Sheena says when Neil doesn’t answer.

Jack’s leg is what is keeping Rachel’s suspended, and Neil has the feeling Jack is sparing her a world of pain with the way his toes are pointed, practically holding her ankle straight. Neil brackets an arm under Rachel’s calf so he can keep it in place once Jack is gone, and with his free hand he takes the toe of Jack’s cleat, tilting his foot to the right until his leg is no longer pressing against Rachel’s ankle and shin. Rachel whimpers. Jack pulls in his leg and rolls onto his side, away.

“Sheena,” he calls once again.

“I’ve got him.”

“Bring him to the exam room,” Abby says. “I’ll meet him there after looking at Rachel. Neil, let’s get her to a bench.”

Rachel is sweating, tears collecting on her waterlines as Neil bends down, threads his arms under her armpits and hauls her to her feet. With his arm supporting her she hops over to one of the benches just off court, now vacant of subs. Someone has brought an ice pack, and he passes it to Rachel as Abby carefully removes her shoes, shinguard, and sock. A bruise is already forming, dark and mottled and sending guilt festering in his stomach.

“I’m gonna go talk to Robin,” he chokes out, Rachel in too much pain and Abby too focused to notice the strained quality of his voice. The second he turns the corner he takes off on a mad dash towards the bathroom.

He skids into the closest stall, just managing to hang his head over the toilet bowl before the acid bubbles its way out of his throat. It tastes brackish; like sea water and dry rot. He hacks it out in thick, mucus-y globs that get stuck in the back of his throat, thinking of the dogs his father used to overdose on ipecac.

Neil doesn’t know how long he spends kneeling in front of the toilet, but it’s certainly not as long as he wants. He forces himself to his feet the third time he doesn’t manage to spit anything more than saliva into the bowl, letting the toilet flush as he stretches his legs on the walk over to the sink. He looks terrible—it only takes a glance in the mirror to see so—hair wild with cooled sweat from their disastrous scrimmage, vomit on the corner of his mouth. He washes his face in the sink, gargles water, combs through his hair with his fingers, and puts his bandana back on before stepping into the foyer.

He almost walks straight into Robin and Wymack, standing by the door and speaking in hushed whispers as the rest of the team chatters through their extended water break.

“Neil,” Robin says, startled, as Wymack catches him by the shoulder, frowning.

“You alright?”

“‘Course,” he says, waving Wymack off. “I’m fine. We still have an hour left in practice, I’d like to get back to the scrimmage.”

“Okay,” Wymack says, a little too slowly for Neil’s liking. He’s looking at Neil critically, like he’s trying to see past Neil’s eyes.

“Great,” Neil says, a little hesitant under Wymack’s strong gaze. “Robin’s in charge,” he calls to his team, stepping back to watch them trail out of the foyer.

Wymack stays by his side, resolute, waiting until the others are out of earshot.

“Are you sure you’re okay,” Wymack asks, keeping his stare straight ahead. Neil nods, also without turning. “Alright,” he says, then walks away.

—

Neil walks over to the home benches, where Rachel is laying, one ankle hanging off the bench and draped in an ice pack that covers most of the bandage wrapped around her foot. Abby must have gone to check on Jack. Neil takes a seat by Rachel’s head, watches the others in their scrimmage.

He waits a minute, listens to Rachel’s breathing—not slow in sleep or shallow in pain, just deep and controlled—before asking, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she says lightly, voice thick from lying down. She shrugs. “Numb. Abby gave me the good stuff for the pain. There’s a lot of ice.”

He nods, lets his gaze drift to the floor. He’s almost surprised not to see his guilt eating through it.

Rachel is one of the best backliners they have—the last trained by Matt. Her proximity to Matt is what sparked their friendship his junior year. It’s nothing like his relationships with the original Foxes, but something nice to have nonetheless. Rachel was a reprieve his first year solo-captaining; a kind girl who only dished out what she received, not someone to fight him like Jack had, or ignore him as Sheena often still does.

Three years is a long time for him to have known someone. Depending on the way he looks at things, it’s half his life as Neil Josten. He’ll miss her next year; miss mornings on stray couches watching game recaps on her phone, lunches spent throwing celery sticks at each other, nights hinting at mothers who were often better at manipulation than sharing love.

“You aren’t looking so hot,” Rachel says, breaking through his thoughts.

“Neither are you,” he says, laced in heat, and for his trouble he receives a kick to the already aching guilt in his stomach, almost strong enough to make him double over. He clenches his gloves in his hands.

“Well you’ve been kind of an asshole today,” Rachel says, matching his tone. “I thought I should point it out to make sure you got the message.”

She only gives what she receives, he remembers, deflating. If possible, he feels worse now; body overtaken by something hollow under the absence of tightly strung muscles and a racing brain.

“Sorry,” he says. Rachel cocks her head curiously at the change in tone, hums an acknowledgement. “I’m going to go check on Jack.”

“Hey, Neil,” Rachel says as he stands. He turns back to look her in the eye finally; watches a smirk tug at her lips like she’s thought of something clever. “Nothing good’s going to happen if you aren’t honest with yourself.”

She’s quoting him; the Neil Josten of two years ago who sat with Rachel in the stands, fresh from a vacation spent with her mother and feeling everything that that entailed.

“I’m working on it,” he says, and for the first time all day he just might believe himself.

—————

If Abby doesn’t know about the specifics of Neil’s disagreement with Wymack, it’s apparent that she can tell one took place.

Keeping on his ‘people face,’ as Andrew has dubbed it, is easier after checking in on Jack and gaining some space from his team, but he is distinctly uncomfortable in his skin in a way that is all too familiar and yet impossible to place. All he wants to do is curl up in his bed and watch exy on his laptop, hidden under his comforter, until he can no longer think about every situation gone awry and memory gone missing from the past week.

That’s not how it works anymore, he knows; that’s not how it has worked in a long time. He has to think about it, has to dissect it, has to identify all of his emotions and talk about them and not fucking lie about it all; to Betsy, to Andrew, or to himself. Being a real person is hard, and Neil doesn’t have the privilege of being a non player character with a nine-to-five and without what amounts to four counts of PTSD.

Abby tries to catch him as he’s leaving Jack, but he pretends not to hear her over the clash of racquets and the thud of the ball.

It’s not until later, during her second attempt to catch his attention, that Neil discovers that apparently she can also tell that Neil is planning on skipping dinner with her and Wymack tonight.

“Neil!”

The door to the exam room is wide open, letting the air flow in and out freely—it’s always freezing in there. She has a clear view of him through it, trying to catch up with Robin and weighing just how much Robin will interrogate him if he asks to hitch a ride back with her instead of running. It’s rude of him to ignore Abby, especially because he has already done so once today, but Neil’s never cared much about stuff like that. He speeds up.

“Neil,” Abby shouts down the hallway. “Rachel wants to talk with you!”

It’s a trap. He spoke with Rachel as he was untangling her legs from Jack’s, and he spoke with her as he helped her to the home benches, and he spoke with her as he joined her on that bench, and he spoke with her as he carried her to the exam room. But he’s still captain, and Rachel is still one of his, and that means he’ll go to her. Abby knows this and is using his loyalty against him. Begrudgingly, he respects her a little more.

Rachel is in the midst of rolling her eyes as he enters the room; he can’t tell if the look is meant for him or Abby. Her ankle has been rewrapped, a new ice pack strapped on, and she grabs a pair of crutches as she scoots off the exam table, notably without a wince.

“I’m going to the clinic tomorrow to get an X-ray. It’s probably just a sprain, but I won’t be at practice tomorrow morning.

“I was just going to text you,” she says, looking meaningfully at Abby in acknowledgement of her scheming. “See you later.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he says, jumping on the opportunity to leave, but he’s only half turned around when Abby says, “Actually.” Now he’s trapped.

“Neil, while you’re here. Kevin’s game starts in less than two hours and David and I have a lot of paperwork to finish up before then. I scheduled a pick up at that Indian place over on Pine Street, do you think you could pick it up before you come over? I’ll give you David’s car key.”

This is a dirty, dirty trick. Neil was going to go back to his dorm, eat one of the good Bagels Randy sent him from New York, watch Kevin’s game on TV, and drive his roommates away with his constant criticisms and commentary, a la Kevin. Now, Abby is drawing him into her warm house with its comfortable rugs and the closest thing he has to a favorite food. To add insult to injury, she’s doing it when he feels like very literal trash, making the offer irresistible no matter how much he wants to be alone.

“It would be a huge help,” she says. Not pleading, because Neil doesn’t like pleading, but maybe something close to saying she wants him to be there.

He sighs and holds out a hand for the keys. She grins.

—

The best Indian food Neil has ever had was on a rainy night in London, him and his mother working their way up from Germany and toward Ireland before crossing to Canada. They were passing through one of those streets—the ones that don’t appear on postcards because they’re just a little too far from tourist spots, but are staples for the locals—and the light from the restaurant was streaming out like watercolor onto the rain-slicked ground. He ate vegetable samosas so fresh his tongue was burned for days and three types of curry and way too much garlic naan.

He can smell the garlic through the bag—Abby’s ordered him some—and steam from the food rises out and warms his hand. Wymack’s truck—one of those with two rows of seats and a flatbed that can open two ways—lets out an annoying beep as Neil uses the key fob to click it open. The warm lights of the restaurant reflect off the black paint job back at him, tauntingly dim.

He opens the door with one hand, leans across the driver’s side to dump the food in the passenger seat, and in doing so promptly slams his knee against the sidebar.

He feels the joint move and click like changing the gear of a car, like turning off the safety of a gun. It’s a deep, piercing ache. It’s struggling against the handcuffs holding his ankle to a radiator. It’s Romero jumping up and down on his damn knee. He slams the car door shut behind him, rests his head on the steering wheel, and wrestles his phone out of his pocket.

His hands are shaking, looking for the right contact. The smell of Indian food surrounds him, boxed in in the car. He feels all of fourteen again, sitting in an emptying restaurant and clutching a burner phone, hoping his mother will come back for him. She always did, but she never said so, and secretly it had been one of his greatest fears, right up until the day she died. He’s not waiting for his mother this time, though. He’s waiting for Betsy; a woman he simultaneously trusts far more and far less.

His call goes to voicemail.

—

Pulling into Abby and Wymack’s driveway, the sky is much darker than it should be. He squints up at the rising moon, absently reaching for the bag of food in the passenger seat. The light in Wymack’s office is on, as well as in the living room, but still Neil gets out his keys to unlock the front door. Wymack looks at him strangely through the open double doors of his office, but Abby brightens as she sees him.

“Neil,” she chimes, dusting some invisible piece of lint off of her sweater. “That took longer than I thought.”

“Traffic,” Neil says. That must be why it’s so dark.

“I think I’ll let this heat up a bit in the oven,” she says, taking the bag from his arms. Only then does he realize it is barely above room temperature. “Could you grab plates?”

Neil nods, begins making his way towards the kitchen before Wymack calls, gruffly, “Keys.”

“What?”

“I need my keys back,” he says.

Neil turns back and places them purposefully in Wymack’s hand. Wymack looks up at him carefully, less stern. Confused, even. Neil feels equally so.

“Something wrong, Coach?”

“Nothing. Go get the plates.”

—

Things return to normal pretty quickly after that. Wymack shouts through his door about which channel the game is on, like Neil doesn’t have it memorized, and complains about time differences. It’s not so much the lateness of the hour—it’s nearing ten, but Neil, Wymack, and Abby routinely stay up until two on the weekends—than it is him being accustomed to games beginning at seven and hating the fact that seven for Kevin is ten for them.

Abby sets the food out on the coffee table once it’s warmed up and calls Wymack into the living room. Neil turns the TV on. They take their spots on—or in Neil’s case, by—the couch, watching pre-game interviews and filling their plates.

Exy coverage is sporadic—thirty years and none of the live broadcasts have seemed to have found a good broadcasting schedule. Neil, Wymack, and Kevin swap between three channels for pro games; the first for pre-game interviews, the second for the game itself, and the third for post-game interviews, then back to the second for post-game expert analysis.

With the interview watching they’ve almost completely missed warm ups; the teams have broken into smaller groups focused on last-minute, individual drills. Kevin is attempting his compass drill while his team’s primary goalie works on deflecting his shots. He makes one in four regardless.

San Francisco’s first game, surprisingly, is not against their bitter rivals, and for this reason Neil finds it refreshing. They’re playing against the Las Vegas Lizards, and both teams have different strengths. San Francisco has a strong pool of backliners, but before Kevin, a pitiful striker line. Las Vegas has an incredibly strong striker line, and an exceptional dealer.

Kevin doesn’t get put on until the end of the first half when his coach realizes his rookie is the only way to increase their point gap over the Lizards. The stadium erupts in cheers the second Kevin sets foot on the court. Neil pities his teammates.

From there the game moves so quickly that Neil finds himself left behind, struggling to catch up during half time. Kevin is replaced by a cheerleader with a rust red stripe on her cheek, the buzzer still sounding in Neil’s head. He can’t find the score on screen, and the replays appear warped on screen, some moments passing slower than normal slow motion while others move faster than average speed. Neil blinks hard, wishing the images to correct themselves, but his breath catches in his throat as he feels his eyes roll around in his head. As soon as the sensation stops, a headache materializes, so strong it makes him nauseous.

He sucks in a breath, deep and slow, and lets his eyes slip shut once again, this time carefully, keeping an ear out for the buzzer that resumes the game. Hopefully, he’ll be back to normal by then.

—

Wymack’s cheer jolts him awake.

The TV screen is divided in two, one camera zooming in on the embracing members of the San Francisco Sea Lions, and the other zooming out on the entirety of the court, showing players in dust colored uniforms coming together and looking disappointed. The first camera brings Kevin into focus, some hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and sporting a small smile, but all Neil can think is, when did he replace the cheerleader?  

“Neil,” Abby asks, voice tipping toward concern, though he can’t fathom why.

He can’t see her, only Wymack, a silhouette outlined by the court on TV. His movements are odd in this light, like glue. Wymack’s head turns to a lump as he rotates it, then the volume of the TV goes way down.

It’s been muted, maybe, though maybe it’s just Neil’s hearing going in and out like it used to when he was young. It’s quiet enough for him to tell that whatever thoughts he’s having aren’t really occurring in his brain. They float above him like a helium balloon, connected by a ribbon. He feels kind of like an astronaut here; he has nearly a birds eye view of his body, sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out under the coffee table, half cleaned plate by his side and leaning against the couch.

He looks up to his thoughts, head feeling light on his shoulders, and there’s Abby. She’s sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her. But then she’s not; she’s getting up; standing next to him; squatting down.

“Neil? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he says, he feels like an astronaut, of course he’s alright. But— his voice. He sounds breathless, confused. His voice breaks. His palms are sweaty. Something is… wrong. How could he forget something is wrong? "No."

Abby looks away, maybe to the coverage still playing on TV, maybe to Wymack, maybe so she doesn’t have to face him. Wymack’s head turns to a lump again. Someone is talking. Neil leans his head back against the couch.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Wymack says, some indistinguishable amount of time later. The TV is off, the living room is lit only by the light spilling out of the kitchen.

Neil stands up, shaking, Abby by his side. He has to take a break at the other end of the couch, placing a shaking hand on its arm to keep from tipping. His forearm stings with residual nerve damage under the pressure; it’s a familiar feeling, but not one he’s experienced recently enough to brush off. He keeps his grip on the railing light as he makes his way up the stairs.

Wymack guides him to the second floor, down the hall, to his room, and then follows him in when Neil doesn’t shut the door behind himself. He passes Neil his water bottle when he sits on his bed. Something itches Neil’s brain.

“You don’t remember the game, do you,” Wymack says.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. My eyes were open, I just—” His voice is hoarse and crackly with emotions he can’t place and one he can, frustration.

“It’s alright,” Wymack says, keeping Neil from forcing himself to continue. He takes the bottle out of Neil’s hand and places it lightly on the nightstand. “Go to sleep, we’ll figure it out in the morning.”

—

He wakes up in the dark, blackness pressing in from every angle, cinder block walls and stuffy air, and all he knows is that he can’t, under any circumstances, give in.

He sits up in bed, the feeling of handcuffs releasing ghosting across his wrists, a sensation he has no time to ponder because the realization is more important: he is unbound. And, just as good, the door is unlocked.

His sneakers are on, he doesn’t remember if he went to sleep with them on, fighting tooth and nail for Riko to get his hands off of him and let him keep this single practice of autonomy, or if he just put them on, but he knows that he can run faster in them than barefoot, and he speeds out of the room without anybody to stop him.

The stairs to the roof have disappeared, but he suspects his bleeding head at the time has a part to play in his inability to find the path Jean showed him, and maybe he’ll find something better tonight. There’s a new staircase, leading down, and it takes only a moment of deliberation—the thought that any dungeon below the Nest will still pale in comparison to his father’s—for him to follow it. They lead him to a door, four small windows inset in it, and he’s right, this is better.

Through the windows he can see outside.

There are two things he has to do while he’s here at Evermore: protect Andrew, and not sign himself to the Ravens.

If he signs himself over he’ll have no leg over Riko, and Riko will be free to back out of their deal at any time, putting Andrew at risk. Until then, he has to walk the line of giving into Riko enough to keep Riko satisfied and Andrew safe, but not as much as to lose his control and sign himself over. It’s a hard line to walk, but if he can get out, if he can run in the fresh air, then he’ll be running the line. He’ll know, positively, that he can get through all of this. And if he can get out and back before Riko notices, then it’ll be doubly worth it.

He opens the door.

—

The Evermore campus is familiar, almost startlingly so, even in the dark. He didn’t think he got that good of a look at the pictures posted on the university website, but he’s always had a good mind for maps. There are few lamps and the moon hangs low overhead, barely enough to light the street and definitely not enough to illuminate the buildings he passes by. In the dark he can just make out the occasional grass strip lining sidewalks, a smattering of trees outlined against the sky. The streets are clear though, and he knows them, which is all that matters.

He picks his jog up to a proper run, planning to circle the outside of the stadium but keeping a two block radius between him and it, enough space to clear his mind but not too much as to make any Raven sent searching for him angry enough to do much more than kick him around a bit.

The wind begins breaking against him as he speeds up, gently tearing away the pain that is etched into his face, climbing up his legs, encircling his wrists, lacing into his stomach. It’s numbingly soothing. He can imagine the rings on his wrists where handcuffs have rubbed away his skin, the bruising roped around his throat and stacked on his calves, the engravings on his back, all being blown away in the breeze.

It makes him weightless. Quicker, rabbit, quicker, Andrew goads him on, and he listens.

“Neil.”

It’s nothing more than a whisper in the wind he is cutting through, but his step falters anyway. He tries to shake it off, unreasonably awaiting Riko; his sharp commands and sharper knives, anticipating what will come if Riko spots him responding to that name.

“Neil!”

It causes him to stumble this time, a familiar edge to the voice, the delivery.

“Neil!”

He stops.

His chest is heaving, his vision going in and out of focus. Images are piled on top of each other and shuffled, their opacity constantly readjusted, but through them all he can see Wymack jogging toward him. He’s barefoot, wearing flannel pajama bottoms, feet slapping on asphalt. It feels a bit like a dream, if he could have those.

“Coach?” His voice is surprisingly clear, no sign of the raw and rough tone it had taken on after hours of stifling his own screams—and often failing.

“Neil,” Wymack gasps, slowing down and holding a hand to his hip, as if he’s trying to hold himself together. Or back, maybe.

The moon hangs over his head, beginning to set, probably. It’s like light bleeding through a crack in the sky, bathing Wymack in something unreal and ghostly, exposing the dashed white lines running down the street that are cutting into Neil. His world begins to rip apart.

“Coach.” The word escapes him, the final monster in Pandora’s Pithos, hope. His voice shakes along with his legs as he chokes it free. Tremors rake up his spine, spread into every limb, every ache, every stapled scar. He is dizzy; with fear, with pain, with relief. Too tired to move. Too worked up to stay still. He lurches away from the knife in the middle of the street, away to the small patch of woods edging up against the road.

Wymack follows him, or guides him. He can’t tell. They are magnets, repelling each other but only when they draw close enough, and Wymack is trying to bridge the gap, holding his arms out, offering a bar of support. Neil doesn’t take it until the last second.

He collapses on his knees, grass damp through his sweatpants, and empties his stomach onto his ground, feeling the world around him pound with his pulse; the pulse of his heart, the pulse of his head, the pulse of his pain.

“I got you, Neil,” somebody whispers by his ear, running their fingers through his hair and peeling his bangs away from his sweaty forehead. “Let's get you home.”