#it was like a two hour long heartfelt car commercial. like those ones where the kid goes to college

[cheesebearger]

barbie movie the test ground for more shameless ad movies compliments of mattel let's all clap and cheer for feminism and the fact we now get a POLLY POCKET movie

[nachtgraves]

Fic: Chasing Gazes

This was my piece in the @avocadotoastskkzine! I’ve been lazy about formatting and all the little things to post online so it’s up a lot later than when we were allowed to post. I had a lot of fun with this!

Read on AO3.

Pairing: Dazai Osamu / Nakahara Chuuya Word Count: 5,000 Warnings/Tags: T. Rockstar AU, rivals to contract friends to lovers, fake/pretend relationship but it’s fake friendship instead of fake dating, Summary: Maybe getting into a one-sided drunken fight with Dazai of Armed Detective Records in public wasn’t the best idea.

Ougai and Kouyou watch Chuuya storm around Ougai’s office. He finishes by slamming his hands down on Ougai’s desk, breathing heavily and glaring murder. Ougai drums his fingers expectantly.

“There’s no way we’re working with that bastard!”

“Gin, Ryunosuke, and Tachihara have already agreed,” Kouyou says from behind.

“Kouyou suggested to wait to tell you until everything was settled,” Ougai explains. He glances at the jostled items on his desk. “We were all in agreement.”

He’s surrounded by traitors. All of them. Traitors.

Chuuya crosses his arms over his chest with a huff. He knew he was in for a scolding when he was called to Ougai’s office. He knew when he woke up to Google alerts and tweets and tabloid articles with his arm pulled back ready to throw a punch—that ended up missing, seeing as Chuuya’s knuckles are fine. Which is unfortunate in Chuuya’s opinion, but he’s in the minority.

Maybe getting into a one-sided drunken fight with Dazai of Armed Detective Records in public wasn’t the best idea. But he doesn’t even remember much of what happened. All he remembers is that he’d already been in a bad mood because he’d come second to Dazai in yet another popularity list that everyone seemed to be talking about.

So he went to Arahabaki, a bar he’d been going to since he was an underage kid begging the owner until he was allowed to perform on weekdays after school. Arahabaki is where Ougai found him and he joined the Akutagawas and Tachihara to form BlackSheep.

It’s his turf. Dazai wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near it.

Ougai hands over a file of papers. "Sign this and we’re all set."

Chuuya takes the packet and flips through. It's a contract detailing the collaboration for two songs, one by BlackSheep featuring Dazai and one by Dazai featuring Chuuya alone. It seems easy enough, but as Chuuya reads on, the contract starts detailing events he has to do with Dazai. A few of them involve the rest of BlackSheep but mostly it’s just him.

“What the hell is this?” Chuuya flips through the contract. “Be seen having meals together, interact and post on social media about and with each other, present the image of best friends?”

“We need to clean up your image. Your rivalry with Dazai, however self-declared⸺”

“Self-declared!?”

“⸺and one-sided was fine for sales for a while, but getting into an actual altercation is not.”

Kouyou adds, “ADR is being quite generous considering you almost injured their cash cow.”

“They had the choice of taking advantage of this to promote themselves while your reputation sinks. But—” Ougai’s grin sends a shiver of dread down Chuuya’s spine—“what’s better marketing than two rivals becoming the best of friends?”

“His fans hate me,” Chuuya argues.

Ougai waves his concern off. “Vocal minorities. Have you any idea how much fanfiction there is of the two of you?”

Chuuya does not know nor does he want to.

“Anyway, everything’s already set. We’re just waiting for your signature.”

Chuuya flips to the last page where six signatures are scribbled at the bottom. The terms could be a lot worse. Dazai and ADR could have left Chuuya to sink and he’s not alone. He’d have dragged BlackSheep down with him and he’d never forgive himself for that. Ryunosuke would kill him if Gin, by some miracle, didn’t beat him to it. Tachihara would burn his guitars.

Reluctantly, Chuuya grabs a pen and signs in the space left next to Dazai’s obnoxious flourish. Just as he finishes, a knock sounds on the door behind him followed by Ryota’s voice. “Mr. Mori, I have your guests.”

Chuuya drops the pen as Dazai enters, grinning wide. “Thanks for having us.”

“No time like the present, my ass,” Chuuya mutters. Dazai came with Kunikida, his manager, and regards from Yukichi, ADR’s president. After a quick round of introductions, Ougai tossed Dazai and Chuuya out with the company credit card and everyone’s orders to go buy from a nearby café.

They’re in minimal disguise, hats and sunglasses, but the café’s between rush hours. Some of the few patrons have been glancing over and whispering to their companions, but no one’s come up to them just yet. Chuuya’s noticed a few awkwardly angled phones.

“Hmm. What’re you thinking of getting?” Dazai’s scanning the menu.

“We don’t have to actually make small talk,” Chuuya replies. “Just sit and look pretty for fans and tipped paps.”

Dazai ignores him. “I’ll go up when you decide what you want.”

“I can order my own damn drink. And it’s on my label’s card.” He goes to do just that, Ougai’s card is in his pocket, anyway, but Dazai grabs his wrist and holds him back.

It takes every part of Chuuya not to yank his hand free and go off on the popstar. Ougai would kill him. Kouyou would sign him up for one of those terrible celebrity game shows.

“Yes?” Chuuya fixes a tense smile and tries to pull his hand away, but Dazai’s grip is unrelenting.

Dazai steps closer but there’s really no space for him to be doing so, they’re chest to chest. To Chuuya’s displeasure he barely makes it to Dazai’s chin. It’s one thing to know there’s 21 centimeters between them and another to confront it so closely.

“Seriously, let me cover it. It’s my turn.” Dazai beams down a smile, all commercial teeth and conniving eyes.

Chuuya has no idea what the hell Dazai’s on about. He’s about to say as much but Dazai squeezes his wrist and lowers his voice, keeping his smile in place. “Sit and look pretty, right? Suits you more than me.”

He places a hand on Chuuya’s shoulder and gently but firmly pushes him towards a barstool by the window. Chuuya’s too stunned by Dazai’s cryptic statement to fight and even then he’s stuck, legally bound not to make a commotion. So he fixes a smile that’s likely more of a grimace, conceding. Dazai still takes a touch too long to let go of him.

It’s not until Chuuya’s slouching in the seat that he realizes he never told Dazai what he wanted, but it doesn’t matter as long as they finish up quickly. His gaze flits about the café but ultimately lands and stays on Dazai because there’s nothing else to do. The man rocks on his heels like he’s a kid who can’t stand still.

The line’s short and Dazai makes his order and pays quickly. He waits by the pick-up, leaning against the counter like he’s posing. When he meets Chuuya’s gaze and winks, Chuuya turns away before he can scowl and looks out the window, until an iced drink is held in his face.

“What?”

“A drink.” Dazai shakes the cup.

Chuuya’s eye twitches. “I can see that.”

“One of their summer iced teas. Thought you might like it.”

Chuuya hesitantly takes the drink and a sip, grudgingly admitting, “It’s good.” He glances up at Dazai only to see that Dazai’s gaze is a little too focused on him.

Chuuya’s gotten used to being watched. Even when he wasn’t a celebrity people watched him, granted, for vastly different reasons, but Dazai’s stare smothers them all. It’s as if Dazai’s seeing into him, seeing something Chuuya can’t and it puts Chuuya at a disadvantage. It’s like he’s lost before he even knew he was competing and still didn’t know in what.

“Go get the rest of them, they’re ready.” Chuuya goes to get the door for Dazai when he gets a tray of everyone else’s drinks and a bag of cakes. Chuuya takes the bag from him and intends on it being a silent walk but Dazai has other ideas.

 “What’s your schedule like today?” Dazai turns so he’s walking backwards. He pulls a too-perfect expression of sincere curiosity. “Hmm? Your manager said you weren’t that busy.”

“I’m busy.” Chuuya doesn’t like Dazai’s insinuating tone. “Today’s free time is rare.”

The way Dazai’s grin widens has Chuuya walking faster so he doesn’t give last night’s punch another go. He’s sober so he won’t miss this time.

“Then how’s BlackSheep’s new album coming along? Your last single did well.”

Chuuya’s eye twitches. ‘Well’ was understating it. It was number one on the charts when it came out. And then Dazai released a new song not a week later and BlackSheep dropped to number two. From Dazai’s willful grin, he’s well aware of that.

Luckily for Chuuya, PM’s doors are just ahead stopping him—for now—from reacting. Because that’s what Dazai does. He gets under your skin and baits you into reacting and when Chuuya does, he ends up the bad guy. Last night was definitely Dazai’s fault.

They return to Ougai’s office and distribute drinks and snacks before going over the contract, again. It’s mostly their managers talking. Chuuya sulkily drinks his tea because he doesn’t really have much of a choice in things, apparently. When they wrap up, Kouyou orders Chuuya to walk Dazai out while she walks Kunikida to their car.

Chuuya spots Kouyou’s tipped reporter almost immediately once they’re outside.

“Looking forward to next time, Chuuya,” Dazai says, giving the reporter a good angle.

“Definitely,” Chuuya replies, lying through his camera-ready grin.

When Kunikida pulls up, Chuuya goes to wave a truly heartfelt good-bye to Dazai, but Dazai has other ideas. Before Chuuya can raise his hand, Dazai’s stepping in and hugging him.

Despite his twig-thin appearance, there’s strength in Dazai’s arms. He presses close to Chuuya, fitting their bodies together so all Chuuya can feel is Dazai.

Chuuya freezes, tries to step back but Dazai’s arms tighten and he ducks his head to Chuuya’s ear, whispering, “Best of friends, remember?”

With great effort, Chuuya’s arms come up to return the hug as he hides his scowl against Dazai’s chest. The bastard’s height has its uses. “Fuck you.”

Dazai pulls away with a shit-eating grin and lazily waves as he gets into Kunikida’s car and they finally, finally, drive away.

Kouyou’s waiting for him inside and beckons him to follow her. “Come on. Since you’re here, you can continue working on the album. Ryunosuke and Tachihara are already here and Gin will join you boys at four.”

It’s technically his rare day off but he’d have been working on new songs at home anyway, so he follows without argument.

Kouyou drops him off at one of the practice rooms that BlackSheep have been using at all hours of the day for the past few weeks. They walk in on Tachihara and Ryunosuke in the middle of a break, Ryunosuke at a table with a bento and tea, and Tachihara lying down on the spare futon they keep in the corner, on his phone.

“How was your meeting with your new best friend?” Tachihara asks without looking up.

“You’re all traitors,” Chuuya replies, grabbing the chair opposite Ryunosuke. “What’s new?”

Ryunosuke uses one hand to slide over a revised composition of what they’d been working on yesterday.

“Lyrics still need work,” Tachihara says from the floor. “Huh. Have you checked Dazai’s Instagram?”

“Why would I?”

“Prob should now that you guys are besties.”

Chuuya glares at him but pulls out his phone. His page is rarely updated outside of promotional obligations but he finds Dazai’s profile. At first, he’s surprised by the ‘follow back’ option. But his attention quickly shifts to the newest post.

He has no idea when Dazai took the photo. It’s of Chuuya in the café drinking the iced tea Dazai had got him. He can’t even be angry because it’s actually a good photo of him. But when Chuuya reads the caption, his ears grow warm.

[ @blacksheepchuuya makes sitting and looking pretty so easy, right? ]

“That asshole.” But he likes the photo and follows Dazai back. Because he has to.

The first day they actually work together, Dazai returns to PM. It’s a disaster.

Everyone gets along with him and he’s polite and brings donuts. Chuuya, unlike his bandmates, doesn’t partake in the bribe even though the dark chocolate glaze Dazai brought is his favorite.

When they do finally get to work, Dazai requests that they play some of what they’ve done so far.

“Didn’t realize spying was part of the contract,” Chuuya says.

Dazai blinks innocently. “Not at all. Since our song will be part of your new album, I just wanted to know what the general sound was to make sure I fit with what you have. Unless you haven’t got much done yet.”

Chuuya grits his teeth, knows he’s being baited, but Dazai’s not wrong. Dazai sits with his legs crossed and stares directly at Chuuya while they play snippets of their songs. Chuuya ignores him.

As they play, his ire fades as he focus on the music, on Tachihara’s drums, Gin’s bass, Ryunosuke’s guitar and supporting vocals. He forgets his audience, eyes closed as he sings. It’s like a regular practice session. At least until he opens his eyes and meets Dazai’s gaze. He’s watching intently, like in the café, expression unreadable, but it’s gone in a flash back to his usual aloof amusement. When they finish, Dazai doesn’t look at Chuuya. He claps and hands out praises to Chuuya’s apparently easy bandmates. Tachihara doesn’t even reply with his usual arrogant snark. Ryunosuke preens. At least Gin’s still on his side.

Later, when Ryunosuke’s showing Dazai what they’re in the middle of, Gin says, “Dazai’s not bad. It’ll be fun working with him,” and Chuuya takes everything good he’s thought about her back.

It is not fun working with him.

By the time they have to end for the day they haven’t done much. It’s not Chuuya’s fault, despite the looks everyone keeps giving him. Dazai’s ideas and suggestions weren’t good enough. Chuuya has standards and if Dazai doesn’t meet them, that’s his problem.

 “You know,” Tachihara says as they pack up to head over to film a wine commercial Chuuya’s been looking forward to. “The more you fight the longer you’re going to have to work with him.”

Chuuya tells him to shut up.

Dazai walks out with them to the van and pulls Chuuya into another hug goodbye. Kouyou hadn’t texted him about a tipped pap so he figures Dazai’s side arranged someone who was better at hiding.

The second time they work together a few days later goes somewhat better. With Gin and Tachihara giving him pointed looks, Chuuya doesn’t combat everything Dazai does. But they still argue over a refrain for half an hour before the two are separated, and Chuuya has to walk him out.

Their next commitment is a photoshoot. They’re all in some sort of suit and tie look, Dazai in white and gold and BlackSheep in black and silver.

Ranpo, an eccentric photographer who’s worked with PM and ADR several times starts with just BlackSheep. Dazai stands against the back wall and watches. Chuuya feels his eyes rove over his body like hands. It’s disconcerting. When Chuuya’s hanging off Tachihara in a manner that’s a little provocative per Ranpo’s directions, Dazai’s gaze burns.

“Something wrong, Chuuya?” Ranpo asks. “Your face is a little red.”

Chuuya doesn’t look at Dazai. “I’m fine.”

But Ranpo says they’ve got plenty of great shots to work with and Dazai’s called up for a few solos before they do all five of them.

Dazai passes him a bottle of water as they switch places. “Pity your brand is all dark and edgy. You’d look great smiling.”

“W-what?” He can’t have heard right.

But Dazai carries on, their fingers meeting around wet plastic. “But I don’t know if I want the whole world to know your smile that easily.” And he leaves Chuuya with the water bottle that’s too cold against his heated skin.

“You do look a little red,” Ryunosuke says when Chuuya takes a seat in the back.

“I’m fine. It’s hot,” Chuuya replies and drinks his water. He sneaks a glance at Dazai and finds the man already watching him over their crouched photographer, loosening his tie.

Chuuya’s caught in Dazai’s gaze, only released when Dazai has to break contact to follow Ranpo’s directions. When Ranpo finishes with Dazai they move onto the group shots.

Assistants bring a loveseat onto the set that everyone has to fit on with Chuuya and Dazai in the middle since they’re the focus of this whole farce. Gin and Tachihara take up the armrests and Ryunosuke stands by Gin.

The loveseat is intimate. When Chuuya sits down beside Dazai there’s really not much room between them, yet Ranpo orders them closer.

Chuuya grits his teeth. He doesn’t know what Ranpo wants from them, there’s not much closer they can get. But Dazai curls his arm around Chuuya’s waist and Chuuya all but ends up in Dazai’s lap. Dazai radiates heat and his hand on Chuuya’s hip is like a brand.

Ranpo says, “Good,” and the camera clicks.

It’s the worst shoot he’s ever had to do. Dazai is far too close and it’s hot and uncomfortable but Ranpo seems to want the two of them all over each other.

Just when Chuuya thinks they’re finally done, Ranpo says, “Now just Chuuya and Dazai.”

The second his bandmates are off the set, Chuuya leans closer to the free armrest but Dazai decides to throw his legs over the side of his armrest and lie down with his head on Chuuya’s lap. He grins up as Ranpo takes photos that probably won’t be used because Chuuya’s glaring down at the annoyance he’s contractually bound to.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

Dazai just reaches up and steals Chuuya’s hat. “Your scowls are almost as cute a smile.”

Chuuya splutters, face heating. He fists Dazai’s tie and yanks him up, maybe trying to choke the bastard, but Dazai just laughs and Ranpo yells at them to hold the pose.

Dazai spends the rest of the shoot all over Chuuya. He has some limb or another draped over him at all times, and even goes so far as to carry Chuuya for the few stunned seconds Chuuya allows it before recovering his senses. Ranpo only encourages it all. When the shoot finally ends, Chuuya rushes through getting his own clothes back on, but as he leaves the changing room, he walks into Dazai.

Arms wrap around his waist as he braces himself against Dazai’s obtrusive chest he’s become far too familiar with as of late.

“Careful there, shorty,” Dazai says but he doesn’t let go of Chuuya, even when Chuuya moves to step back, pushing against Dazai’s chest.

“Who’re you calling shorty?” If only he could punch him. Just once. Right in his stupid grinning face.

“Is there anyone else here?” Dazai removes one arm from around Chuuya and pulls out his phone. “We should post a selfie. Teaser material, among other things.”

Dazai’s already got his camera app open and holds his phone out with his stupid long arms. Chuuya doesn’t have the time to fix a pretense of a smile before Dazai’s taking the picture. Dazai checks the photo but pauses.

“Ah, never mind. Not good for the internet.”

“What, why?” Chuuya reaches out to snatch the phone and catches a glance. Chuuya’s captured with his eyes transitioning from wide surprise to narrowed scowl, and something must have been off with Dazai’s camera or the lighting because he looks far too flushed.

Dazai releases him. “I’m going to be late for another appointment. See you soon, shorty!”

He’s gone in a flash but the ghost of Dazai’s touch stays through his next appointment.

The following few weeks are a lot of back and forth between ADR and PM. Their breaks are spent going outside so reporters can see them and post photos and speculations. After they announce the collaboration, more photos of the two of them, outside of the ones they and their labels have been posting, appear online.

Chuuya notices a lot of them have Dazai looking at him when he’s not paying attention. Dazai’s expression isn’t one Chuuya’s used to seeing. It’s soft, thoughtful. His mouth curved in a gentle smile that makes Chuuya’s ears burn.

Chuuya’s at ADR waiting for Dazai. He’d come early and Dazai was apparently going to be running late so he busies himself by working on a song that’s been swimming around his head. It’s mostly just a jumble of verses but they bring Dazai’s face to his mind and make him unable to progress much.

Frustration gets to him quickly so he takes a break, resting his head on the table. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep but he wakes up to brown eyes watching him. He sits up, quick enough to make his head spin and wipes any traces of drool from his mouth, flustered.

“When’d you get here?” Was he just watching Chuuya sleep? Chuuya rubs his face, it feels too warm.

“Just now. Were you working on this?”

Dazai holds up Chuuya’s partial lyrics that Chuuya quickly snatches, folding the paper up and putting it away. “It’s nothing.”

There’s a box on the table. Dazai opens it and pushes it towards Chuuya. “I brought snacks.” More donuts and this time, Chuuya takes the dark chocolate offering.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says and Dazai just hums.

After that, their schedules don’t line up for close to two weeks and that’s only partly Chuuya’s fault. He comes down with a weird cold the mornings he has something scheduled with Dazai, his heart racing, his skin too warm, and his stomach twisting. The symptoms worsen whenever he sees photos of the two of them or just Dazai, works on the unfinished lyrics. When he thinks about Dazai’s casual touches for cameras.

Their only interactions are through social media to keep to their contracts. Fans from both sides have been speculating and directly asking what’s going on between them. Dazai’s as enigmatic online as he is in person and his answers are unhelpful, to say the least. Chuuya just doesn’t respond to the direct questions. They have an interview soon anyway.

It’s early when Chuuya’s at the studio for a morning talk show he and Dazai have a segment on. ADR and PM announced their collaboration and quickly set up the first TV interview.

Chuuya doesn’t see Dazai until right before they’re due on set and there’s no time to talk or rehash what their stories are. Not only do they have to sell their upcoming albums, but their friendship too.

They wait in the wings, fitted with body mics and standing closer together than needed. Chuuya crosses his arms, tries not to fidget, not think about Dazai being so close. He’d gotten familiar with the feel of Dazai near and around him and not seeing him for weeks has amplified his awareness of the other man. He’s so caught in his own thoughts that he almost misses their cue, but Dazai grabs his hand and leads the walk onto the stage, letting go just before the cameras catch them. The applause is deafening. There’s no time to think. Chuuya pastes on a smile and does his job.

They quickly go through the usual pleasantries and get to business when their interviewer, Naomi, asks them about their albums. Dazai takes the lead for most of the answers, charming everyone with winks and cheeky grins. He’s a firm line of heat against Chuuya’s side, arm loosely draped over the back of the couch they have to share, fingers brushing against the back of Chuuya’s neck.

“You both have been taking social media by storm since you publicized your friendship and collab. How long have you two been close?”

Chuuya looks to Dazai but it seems it’s his turn to answer. “It just…happened. Our circles don’t exactly mix but we cross paths enough. Dazai may have started his career before me but we’re the same age and I caught up to him. It kind of developed from there.”

“So is there any truth to the big rivalry between you two?”

Dazai laughs and leans into Chuuya. His arm moves from the back of the couch to settle around Chuuya’s shoulders. “Chuuya’s very competitive so there’s some professional rivalry, but I’m actually a fan. I own every CD BlackSheep’s ever released and I’ve been following Chuuya for years. I used to watch him perform at Arahabaki.” When Dazai glances at him, his smile doesn’t look as sharp as it usually is.

Chuuya can’t hide his surprise. “You’ve known me since then? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Let me have some secrets.” Dazai winks at the audience and incites joking boos.

“All you are, are secrets,” Chuuya huffs. His mind can’t stop circling about Dazai knowing him for that long. He’d always thought it was one-sided. Why would Dazai have known him before BlackSheep got popular?

“I’m a lot more open with you, though.” It’s quiet, Chuuya almost isn’t sure he heard correctly, but their forgotten interviewer jumps back in.

“You both have just been full of secrets. Can you share anything about your new songs? Any teasers?”

Chuuya laughs and shakes his head. Even if he wanted to, they still don’t really have anything. He refuses to feel guilty for his part in their standstill progress. But Naomi pouts and tries to cajole them into giving away details.

Chuuya goes to continue their planned blue-balling, but Dazai sits up and shrugs. “Why not. A teaser for our lovely fans.”

Naomi and the audience cheer while Chuuya stares wide-eyed at Dazai, wondering what the idiot was doing as a piano is rolled onto the other side of the set.

The piano was not a part of the script. All they were supposed to do was be coy with hints and teasing. There isn’t supposed to be a piano and Dazai isn’t supposed to go up to it, or be grabbing Chuuya’s hand and pulling him along.

He can’t even demand to know what’s going on because he’s mic’d and they’re on a live broadcast. Dazai sits on the bench and pulls Chuuya down beside him. They’re flush against each other, the bench designed for one, not two, and Dazai rests his hands on the keys. There’s a sheet of paper on the music rack. Chuuya doesn’t recognize the handwriting but the lyrics are familiar. Dazai made some additions.

“When did you…” he starts but Dazai starts playing and even though all he has are questions, Chuuya sings.

They only play a snippet, maybe thirty seconds, forty-five tops. It’s a slow piece, slower than Chuuya’s used to. It’s definitely in Dazai’s style but some of the chord progressions are in a lot of Chuuya’s compositions. When they finish, Dazai’s not looking at Chuuya but Chuuya can’t look away.

The rest of their segment is a blur. He only vaguely registers smiling and nodding along to Naomi as she thanks them for joining her and waves off as they cut to commercial and Dazai and Chuuya sign a few pieces for their fans in the audience.

When Dazai gets held up talking to an enthusiastic fan, Chuuya makes his escape. He gets to the dressing room and downs one of the bottles of water, mind a whir of all the strange things Dazai’s said. Of what Dazai hid under all his antagonizing jabs and smirks.

He has no idea how to face Dazai. So he has to find Kouyou and get out before Dazai comes back. When he reaches for the door, it swings open as he grabs the handle, pulling him along and right into a chest.

The hand not on the other doorknob comes to hold Chuuya. “I’ve told you to be careful, shorty.”

Chuuya stumbles with a retort, mind blank but for the awareness of Dazai holding him, Dazai against him, Dazai grinning down at him. At least until whatever expression is stuck on his face wipes Dazai’s grin clean and Dazai shuffles them into the dressing room, door clicking shut at Dazai’s back.

“All the ways I imagined this, I didn’t think you’d be the one pinning me against a door,” he says.

 Chuuya lets go of the doorknob and tries to step back and give both him and Dazai space, but Dazai doesn’t let go, instead he slides his hand around Chuuya and leans back against the door.

“What’re you doing?” Chuuya looks to the side. He’s flushed and his heart’s thudding in his chest, erratic and uneven as if it had an off-tempo twin.

“Not sure just yet.” Dazai’s voice softens. Chuuya’s never heard him sound so hesitant. Didn’t know he could be. The man doesn’t know how to be anything but a confidently arrogant pain in the ass.

The thudding at his chest increases and Chuuya realizes it’s not just his heart thundering away.

“Dazai,” Chuuya starts and makes himself look up and meets Dazai’s gaze.

Chuuya’s heart stutters and the other one ticks even faster, like it’s sprinting the last leg of a race.

“I like you,” Dazai says and Chuuya can feign ignorance, misunderstand, but the weight of Dazai’s words don’t allow room for anything but what Dazai means. Chuuya doesn’t know what to say.

“This is where you say you like me too,” Dazai fills the pause between them.

“What?” Chuuya splutters. “How do you know I like you?”

“Ah, so you do?” Dazai’s smirking but Chuuya feels the moment Dazai’s heart skips. He’s let his smug armor crack.

“Oh shut up,” Chuuya grumbles and rises up to make sure the tall bastard can’t say something irritating.

The kiss is brief but Chuuya’s breathless when he pulls back, or at least tries to. Dazai follows him and Chuuya’s stuck in Dazai’s arms that hug him close for another lingering press of mouths that for once have nothing mocking to say.

“I think the rest of this collaboration is going to be fun,” Dazai says and his smile isn’t the sharp one he flashes to cameras.

[mitchipedia]

African safari journal – one year ago – a travel day

June 15, 2019 – Yesterday was a travel day. We had an 11:25 am charter flight from the LLT airstrip [Note from 2020: That’s the Leroo La Tau safari camp, where we stayed for a few days], and could have jammed in a short game drive, packing and breakfast before then, but it would have been too stressful. Instead we decided to sleep in, which turned out to be 6:30 am for Julie and 6:55 am for me. We were done sleeping. Noteworthy because at home we can sleep hours later if we don’t have to get up. We packed, had breakfast and killed about two hours reading and such before we left for the airstrip at 10:40 am.

The resort staff, who adore Julie, packed us bag lunches, which was lovely but more to carry, so we had mixed feelings about that.

A guide named Bones, who provided star lessons two evenings earlier, was our driver and with many heartfelt farewells to the staff, we set off for the airstrip. After three days together it felt as if we were leaving friends, as we had before at Camp Xakanaxa.

We drove along unpaved roads. The Toyota moved slowly and fishtailed on fine white sand like beach sand that buried the road. A few times Bones stopped to shift gears to get us out of a particularly deep sand drift. A couple of times he hopped out of the car to inspect the wheels and undercarriage. We slowed down once to avoid goats in the road, and another time to avoid cows. We arrived at the LLT airstrip, with its only building a structure that looked like a Little League dugout, along with fire protection equipment. The airstrip was just a long narrow rectangle of flat packed dirt a thousand or so feet long. We had been told earlier that sometimes flights were delayed because animals wandered out on the runway, and sometimes elephants dragged brush on the runway, which had to be cleared for takeoff and landing. But none of those things were problems yesterday; our plane was waiting for us, a four-seat prop job with the pilot standing beside it. The pilot was named Myello; he had joined us for breakfast earlier. We climbed in the plane and he warned us that the plane was light and the skies were windy, so we might be blown around a bit. That concerned me; I don’t do well with vertigo; my brain shuts down in panic mode. Myello taxied us to the far end of the runway. He consulted a computer printout folded in his hand. We were sitting immediately behind him in the snug little plane, closer than the backseat passengers to the driver of a car. He held his hand behind him to show me a line of text demarcated with his thumb; I saw Julie’s surname, Brown, with letters and numbers in a row. I looked at it blankly. He gave me a querying look. We couldn’t speak because the engine noise was too loud, and he was wearing a headset. The line of text was clearly an important question, but I had no idea what it was. I smiled and nodded and gave him the thumbs up. He appeared satisfied. He reached the end of the runway, turned the plane around, paused and gunned the engine. The plane lunged forward and we lunged into the air. [Note from 2020: I wonder if bush pilots do that pause-and-then-floor-the-accelerator for dramatic effect?]

The warning about rough skies proved overstated. Our half hour flight was relatively smooth and comfortable. I looked out the window and photographed the desert. The desert gave way to our destination, the city of Moun, which is more of a town of a few tens of thousands of people. I could see houses below us like ordinary suburban subdivisions, but with apparently unpaved roads.

(Click the photos for a bigger view)

Moun has a proper, but very small, airport, with a tower and many commercial planes lined up and a terminal where we were met by a porter and representative of our travel company, who together helped us get our bags checked and get us through customs. The porter disappeared before I could tip him. I didn’t tip the travel company representative, although now I think maybe I should have. [Note from 2020: Tipping was a mystery in Africa. I just gave money to people at random.] The terminal has a bare-bones but comfortable cafe, where we had $5 water bottles, attempted to get on the WiFi, and waited for our flight at a gate that looked more like a bus terminal than an airport, crowded with what seemed to be backpackers, safari travelers like us in khaki and olive green, businesspeople – a couple of them tapping on laptops – and just regular people taking a flight.

Our flight to Johannesburg was a regular commercial flight, same as any intercity hop in the US. Again, our travel agent arranged to have a porter meet us at the gate, who escorted us and helped us with our bags through customs and deposited us at the CityLodge hotel, located inside the airport, where we spent our first night in Africa 11 days ago. By now we felt like Africa veterans, light years beyond the greenhorns we’d been when we arrived. We’d faced down lions and hippos and elephants and the aggressive porters who hang around the airline check-in desks (completely different than the lovely porters who’d met us at the gate when we landed – we’d have another encounter with the check-in variety of predator the next day).

I had been looking forward to returning to the airport hotel, to enjoy a restaurant meal, sleep in a climate controlled room, and use reliable WiFi. But the room was too warm, the food was mediocre at best and the service was slow, and once I’d spent 15 minutes on the Internet I was done with that, though I did leave my iPhone and iPad connected to back up photos to iCloud and Flickr.

We discovered we were able to check luggage at CityLodge until we returned for our final night in Africa before going home in 10 days. For some reason the desk clerk on our first night 10 days ago told us we couldn’t do that. Huh? Julie insisted we buy a cheap duffle at the airport shops for that purpose, and we did. I filled it in part with unnecessary electronics, including a power brick, several electrical adapters that are lightweight but relatively bulky, and a noise canceling headset, also lightweight but bulky and unnecessary until my flight home. Julie checked clothes and a travel pillow and backrest for the flight home. I estimate we cut our travel weight by about 25% and I am delighted by that.

And now we’re on a commercial flight to Windhoek in Namibia, eager to get back to the bush and resume our holiday.

=-=-=-

Anton, our driver, takes us through Windhoek. He says it’s a city of about a half-million people, only 29 years old, built because it’s a crossroads between other Namibia cities. It’s the nation’s capital, and also seems to be an industrial town. Seems relatively quiet for midday. [Note from 2020: Wikipedia says Windhoek was founded in 1840, abandoned, and then founded again in 1890. I remember it felt more like a large town than a city of a half-million.]

=-=-=-

We were taken on a long, 3.5-hour drive from Windhoek to the Afrikats lodge, which was our next destination. The highway is rural between towns, mostly devoid of human construction, flat and well paved and maintained, two lanes in each direction narrowing to one each way. In towns we see construction, a sign of affluence, alongside poverty, people living in shanty villages. We see warthogs and baboons on the side of the road. Once or twice we pass big clusters of shacks and some tents forming bazaars of traditional crafts.

We drive through mountains. In other places the desert is flat enough to see to the horizon.

It is a long drive, much of which we sit in silence.

[Note from 2020: It was a looooooong drive, in an air-conditioned modern minivan, more comfortable than but not as interesting as the Toyota safari vehicles. Later, when we returned to the US, we asked our travel agent WTF she booked us for a drive rather than a short flight – Afrikats has an airstrip a few minutes away. She said the flight would have cost literally thousands of dollars US. So, yeah, the drive was a good idea.

[Also: I was puzzled during the drive by the juxtaposition of prosperity and poverty – new city construction immediately adjacent to squatter camps. A few days later, one of our guides told us the squatter camps were populated with people who were coming to work on the construction.]

=-=-=-

We stopped at a Shell rest area to stretch our legs and wash up. All variety of people there, very busy. We saw several stout middle aged women wearing traditional clothing, flowing print dresses with two-part hats representing animal horns. A skinny man approached Julie to try to sell wooden beads bigger than golf balls. She has difficulty brushing him off.

[Note from 2020: The dresses are traditional women’s clothes for the Herero, a Bantu ethnic tribe of about 250,000 people. The dress is based on colonial German women’s dresses. Photos and more information on Wikipedia: <en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Here…>]

📓📚

[callmeblake]

Interview: Frank Iero talks touring Russia, the real sound of his new album and My Chemical Romance’s legacy

By:

Tom Shackleford

 AXS Contributor Apr 12, 2017 

Frank Iero talks touring in Russia and his new album in a new interview with AXS.

photo (by Justin Borucki)  courtesy of Frank Iero and the Patience 

Guitarist Frank Iero and his band, The Patience, are currently enjoying some well-deserved time off from touring. Their upcoming run of shows will be their third tour since 2017 began, having just spent some time over in Europe and Russia. The latter, which Iero pointed out, was “the hardest tour that [he] had ever done in [his] entire life.”

The band’s second studio album, Parachutes, was released back in October of last year, but it’s taken a minute for Iero and the group to build any momentum behind it. Just a few weeks prior to its October 28 release, the band was forced to cancel the year's remaining tour dates following a car accident during an Australian tour which left multiple crew members seriously injured.

With a new year comes a fresh and much safer start for the veteran musician. AXS caught up with the former My Chemical Romance guitarist while out bulk shopping recently. Throughout the conversation, the rocker spoke about how 2017 has been treating he and his band thus far, what it was like touring across Russia in the winter, whether he thinks there will be another movement like the post-hardcore scene throughout the 2000s and more.  

AXS: I hope you guys are doing okay following the car accident back in the fall? Has 2017 been off to a better start for you and the band so far?

FI: So far so good! We just finished our second tour of the year where we were in Russia for three weeks. The shows were amazing, the kids were unbelievable, but it was definitely the hardest tour that I had ever done in my entire life. The travel was … I had never experienced anything like it [laughs]. The main way you tour over there is in these trains. Initially, I figured, ‘Okay you put your equipment in like a luggage car or something then you go and sit on the train.’ You only get five minute stops though, and that’s it. We had like nine guitars, pedalboards, drum equipment, plus our suitcases and all that stuff, and you have to load them onto this train and shove them into the seating area in five minutes like a fire brigade. There’s also people getting off and on the train while this is happening and nobody really waits in line, they just kind of rush in [laughs] I just realized I said ‘Russian.’ Then you get everything in and you’re on the train for 22 more hours, before you have to eventually get it all off the same way it got on.

AXS: What happens if you don’t make it in time?

FI: I don’t know, and I was too scared to find out. I probably have three ulcers just from being so stressed out the entire trip because of that. The best part is, once you accomplish this impossible task, then you’re at this station with no ramps or elevators in the middle of the night. I survived it tough, so chalk it up as a win.

AXS: Now six months into a new album cycle with your second project post My Chemical Romance, how are you feeling with this album and shows so far compared to Stomachaches?

FI: We’re six months in, but we’re only two tours in because of everything that happened. At the same time, I didn’t think I was ever going to play again, so there’s this sense of having a new lease on life and what it is that you do and how you create. In a live setting, it’s been really invigorating. I also could not have asked for a better record and a better batch of songs to do that with, because that’s kind of what this record is all about. As far as it evolving and changing, it’s been such a surreal experience from the get-go that every show I feel like this rush of different emotions coming through and it’s pretty incredible.  

AXS: Because the album seems to sound pretty evocative and heartfelt at times, would you ever consider it more of an emotionally revealing singer-songwriter album just with the amps turned up real loud?

FI: You know, I thought about that. It’s funny you mention that because at the heart of it, this record is very much a folk record, and at times so was Stomachaches. There’s this singer-songwriter storytelling type of vibe that could really lend itself to that type of a setting or that kind of a record. What I do see though is a pretty vast evolution from Stomachaches to Parachutes. Where that goes next, I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, but as far as where we actually land with it, that’s going to be something very exciting.  

AXS: Having worked on the Parachutes with Ross [Robinson] and tracking it over a very short period, how did that work with pretty much forcing the band to make the songs come alive right there on the spot?

FI: That was the challenge. We only had seventeen days and we had 12 songs. I had a lot more songs that I wanted to look into and work on but we just didn’t have the time. So immediately on the first day, it was like, this goes and that goes. We got into a room where I had to, not fight, but really convince Ross that we could do the 12. I was like ‘I will do anything that I have to do to get these 12 because it doesn’t make sense without the last two.’ We got them all done but it definitely took us knowing what we wanted before we even got there. The only wild card was that I was going to be playing bass, but when we got there, we were able to convince Steve Evetts to play with us so we were able to track everything live. Having him in the room with us and playing with everybody crushing it together is really what kept the album’s energy and feeling of intensity.

AXS: If you had to do it over again would you go about it the same way?

FI: I would still track the same way musically. I would probably give us an extra day or two so we could track the extra songs that I had wanted to do. I would have also left some space to let my throat heal, then I would’ve done the singing parts a week later. Doing it the way we did it, I actually had to go to the doctor’s twice and get steroid shots just to be able to finish tracking vocals. I sang at 100 percent from day one until day 17. One of the crazy things about tracking with Ross is that he has you all in the room playing at the same time, and also singing. [He] hates isolating vocals and would rather use this live, frantic take. In a perfect world, I’d probably just give myself a week and a half to heal so I wouldn’t have to get large needles injected into my butt.

AXS: What have been some of your favorite new songs to play live so far?

FI: “I’ll Let You Down” has been a favorite of mine for a while. I wrote that song on an acoustic guitar when we were on tour in England late one night, and that’s all I ever saw it as - just this acoustic song. We were scheduled to record and a few days before, something happened and Ross needed to push the sessions back a week. I brought out “I’ll Let You Down” because I didn’t want to over-rehearse the songs we’d been doing a lot up until then. I threw together a quick arrangement for a full and ended up making the record and being one of my favorite songs. It’s kind of like one of those tracks that wasn’t supposed to exist but ended up working great.

AXS: As someone who spent their teen years throughout the 2000s and in New Jersey, I remember the impact that bands from around the NJ/Long Island area like My Chemical Romance, Senses Fail, Taking Back Sunday or Brand New, were all having on teenagers. Looking back on it do you think that may have been the last real movement in commercial rock music?

FI: Ah jeez, I have no idea. When you’re doing it, it just seems so ridiculous that people are even paying attention. No one ever thought that this was going to be huge commercially, because that just doesn’t happen. The fact that major labels were calling the rehearsal studio and sh*t like that, I can’t speak for every band but for us, it was just so laughable that it seemed like a dream. We just kind of shut all that out, put our heads down and worked really hard. As far as it ever happening again, I don’t know man I feel like bands don’t really need that to happen for them anymore. There are just so many outlets now where you can do it yourself. I don’t know if people rely on this major corporation to just come in to get you heard. Will it happen again? Who knows. Does it need to happen again? Probably not, and that’s kind of awesome.

The band will head back out on the road again with a run of spring shows starting April 18 at New York’s Music Hall of Williamsburg.

[dylanmaystk]

My top 10 Music Artists of All Time

I’ve thought about doing a post like this for a while but always held off because I felt like it would be an impossible feat that would eventually remain unfinished due to my inability to commit to just ten, nevertheless... here we go.  The idea kinda came from a conversation I had with one of my friends on his top five bands of all time. This was something I always thought would be easy to decide on, until I’d ultimately remember a band pivotal to my very existence that would cause me to reshape my whole list in entirety an hour later.  When looking at the subject of top ten artists of all time, I thought about it in the simplest of terms: What artists, by any means, would I not be able to live without? Doing it this way kinda helped, but I’m sure to raise a few eyebrows especially to those that don’t really know me. Even after reworking the list a few times, this was the one that stayed the most consistent. So fuck it, my top ten music artists of all time:

10. The Smiths  

What could you say about The Smiths? Other than being the soundtrack for every brooding and emo teen since the groups first album in 1984, The Smiths are just great.  Complex to the point where it’s welcomed, fans of the group have praised them for their songs of love, loss, and just about everything in between.  Ofcourse, the band really isn’t much without one of the most recognizable voices in alternative music, Morrissey (what I’d kill to have that ‘preme shirt). The don that is Morrissey gave us so much content throughout the years, but maybe what he’s best known for is his vividly descriptive, weird, yet endearing chorus on “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” that’s been known to show up on countless TV shows and movies.

“If a double decker bus, crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die/and if a ten ton truck, kills the both of us, to die by your side, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.”

Yup, gotta love The Smiths. 

Recommended Listens: The Smiths, Meat is Murder 

9. Lauryn Hill

From the Fugees to her flawless The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, L-Boogie has always been a revered and ominous presence in Hip Hop. Having the smallest body of work on this list, people have pleaded to get her back in the studio in hopes of creating something with even remotely as much magic as her solo and only studio album. What’s amazing about Lauryn is she seems to be great without even trying.  Her only album nabbed a Grammy for Album of The Year and is one of only two Hip Hop based albums to ever have that honor.  Not only that, her verses are so eloquent and deep you really can’t capture everything in one listen. With layers beyond belief, Lauryn Hill embodies the saying “quality over quantity” to perfection.

Recommended Listens: The Fugees’ The Score, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill

8. Paramore 

Holy fuck they’re finally back.  After about a four year hiatus, Paramore is slated to release their fifth studio album this month and it couldn’t be more overdue. Their longest break between albums to date, Paramore’s sound is forever evolving and their new singles Hard Times and Told You So are proof. Although vintage Paramore will always my favorite, their new 80′s/poppy inspired sound is something they’ve hinted at for a while and fans like myself are curious to see what surprises they have coming. 

At their core, Paramore is angsty yet refined. Their early grunge inspired sound led by Hayley Williams is alot of what I remember about the early 2000′s and is done well enough that I find it worthy of commendation. Something I always revert back to, Paramore is the pinnacle of the Warped Tour collection of bands and continue to prove why they’re one of the best collectives of the last decade.    

Recommended Listens: Riot!, Brand New Eyes

7. Drake 

Champagne Papi or Coquito Papi (shout out J.Lo) is the biggest hip hop pop artist on the planet, that’s a fact.  I honestly don’t know if there’s anything he can’t do.  Since 2009 and the debut of So Far Gone, a mixtape that’s changed what mixtapes are by their standard, Drake has reigned supreme and has dominated commercially as well as in the barbershop conversations for best rapper of today (you’re there too Kendrick, don’t worry).  What makes him so universally loved is his appeal and his ability to identify with both the male and female demographic.  His vulnerability has spawned a new wave of what many call “emotional rap” that has since been replicated by many but none with the sheer bravado and lasting brilliance quite like Drake’s. He’s calculated almost to the point where its scary and shows a grit that 90′s rappers can be proud of. With his ability to give you an emotional and heartfelt ballad one minute, then talks of “crushing some ass even if it ain’t too big” the next, Drake is certified platinum and a legend in his own right. 

Some chunes for your headtop: Take Care, So Far Gone 

6. Nas 

The Street’s Disciple had to have a place on my list.  Nas is arguably one of the greatest rappers of all time and has inspired so many people I listen to today. His wit, cadence, and knowledge was unheard of for his age and at the time of his now enshrined Illmatic. Out of all of the golden age rappers, Nas seemed to stick out to me the most because he knew exactly what he wanted to be/was straight from the beginning.  A few mediocre albums aside, Nas’ return with Life is Good in 2012 was so reassuring that he hadn’t lost his touch, I myself even exhaled. Flashy with the wordplay and a knack for stealing the show- even at the age of 40- Nas’ brilliance can’t be met. We need the new album Nas..... like seriously.

Recommended Listens: Illmatic, It Was Written 

5. Taylor Swift 

Remember how I said Drake was the biggest pop star in the world? Taylor Swift might just rival that. I don’t care what anyone says, Taylor is the greatest songwriter of this generation. I say it all the time because I think it’s something she hasn’t received enough credit for.  Granted, country Taylor just seemed to flow more, but that could be because Speak Now is one of the greatest albums I’ve ever heard.  Although sometimes she can tatter on the line of whiny, Taylor’s honesty and storytelling are what makes her connect and continue to sell out arenas worldwide.  Translating seamlessly to pop and still conveying that same sort of style and message are the reasons why her fans haven’t left her. I’ve been a fan since she was crying about that nigga Drew on “Teardrops On My Guitar”, and that was in ‘07.  

Recommended Listens: Speak Now, Fearless 

4. Michael Jackson 

Any music list that contains the words like “top ten” and “all time” should include the King of Pop.  Michael Jackson is literally the GOAT, like his name is synonymous with a four legged petting zoo animal. His music and overall presence in pop culture cannot be overstated and his influence is shown in many of the top 40 artists of today and I’m sure years to come.  I once asked why Thriller was the best selling album of all time (I was like 11) and my dad played it for me and said “just listen.” Yea I never heard anything so amazing in my life. Michaels just one of a kind and they’ll never be another, enough said.

Recommended Listens: Thriller (even though you’ve definitely heard it), Bad, Off The Wall 

3. Kanye West 

From one GOAT to another, Kanye might not have the lasting legacy Michael has now, but I think he definitely will.  Kanye seemed to come out of nowhere breathing fresh air into a genre that was predominantly still in the sex, drugs, and money era.  The College Dropout was huge in that it showed everyone what direction hip hop could go in, that sort of elegant and glamorous atmosphere that only Kanye himself could propel it to.  He has the most Grammys by any Hip Hop artist and for good reason, he’s been a pioneer in pushing the culture forward ever since he came on the scene.  Forever ahead of the curve and meticulous to the point where it frustrates his peers, Mr. West is the only artist where I can say my favorite album from him changes any time you ask me (even though the majority of the time I’ll say Graduation).  With what continues to be a privilege to hear anytime he releases new music, Kanye will probably agree.  I don’t have the answers Kanye, but I’m sure you do.

Recommended Listens: Graduation, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy

2. Queen 

I have a tattoo of Freddie Mercury as a skeleton dressed in his drag outfit from the “I Want To Break Free” video on my leg.  That was a mouthful, and incase you don’t think you read that right, you did. I’ve loved Queen for as long as I could remember and I’m not really sure as to why specifically. The obvious reason would ofcourse be the frontman Freddie, but the band was so much more than its star. What’s crazy even to me is just how much I love this band even though I wasn’t even alive during their reign at the top of British and American music charts.  Queen signifies a universal acceptance and the idea that you shouldn’t give a fuck what anyone says and just produce dope shit, because at the end of the day that’s all that matters. With countless hits and some of the most widely recognized songs, the argument can be made that they could be in the top five bands ever to grace a stage.  If you tell me you listened to Bohemian Rhapsody in the car and didn’t go full Wayne’s World I’d call you a liar, simple as that.  

Oh also, their Live Aid performance may have been the greatest performance of all time, just ask Watchmojo.

Recommended Listens: A Night At The Opera, The Game, Hot Space (fuck what you heard it’s actually fire)

Honorable Mentions    

Kendrick Lamar

Chvrches 

Daft Punk 

Wu-Tang Clan 

A Tribe Called Quest 

Shania Twain 

Lana Del Rey 

Nirvana 

1. J. Cole 

J. Cole will always be my favorite artist and I credit alot of who I am today to his music.  He is the soul personified and his takes on life and personal growth add to his ability to make the human struggle seem beautiful in just about every way. Overshadowed at times by both Kendrick and Drake, Cole fans would attest that his openness and relatability range far beyond his contemporaries and put him in a category all his own. He’s responsible for creating my favorite body of work by anyone ever, Friday Night Lights. This mixtape (or album) changed my life in more ways than one and it’s sentimental value holds Cole at the top of my list for good reason.   I think what’s great is that although we don’t hear the hunger in his voice like we did on early tracks - especially those when he was seeking to ink a deal with Jay - we still get his energy and thought provoking lyrics in the form of a streaming social consciousness and a never ending want for social justice.  What some may find boring, I find incredible. “Cole world no snuggie” was a pretty questionable bar though...oh well, you get the pass fam.

Recommended Listens: Friday Night Lights, The Warm Up, 2014 Forest Hills Drive   

[susielindau]

Have you ever taken a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation class? I took one for a babysitting badge when I was in Girl Scouts. I remember the plastic dummy and going through the routine while hoping to God I’d never have to use it. Flash forward a few decades.

On March 9th, I flew back to Wisconsin for my mom’s eighty-seventh birthday. My brother, Joe McCartan, ordered a cake and I picked up flowers. Mom was so surprised! Over dinner that night, she told us she planned to live a long time. For her one-hundredth birthday, she wants a stylist to dye a blue streak in her hair. I love her attitude.

My brother is the king of joking around. I couldn’t get a picture of him when he wasn’t mugging for the camera.  When I left Colorado it was seventy degrees. Check out the temperature on my brother’s iPad.

Two days later, Joe drove to the butcher to buy steaks to grill and went to a chiropractic appointment. In February, he slid on black ice and crashed his car into a telephone pole. It exacerbated an already sore back.

Later, the three of us watched the UW Badgers cream Northwestern by thirty points. Being a yawnfest, Joe texted on his phone. He’s a highly sought after, free-lance, on-location sound technician for major networks, television, movies and corporations. Very excited, he read the thread out loud. It regarded a commercial he had been hired to record. The company wanted to shoot tight shots of musicians playing the oboe, violin and cello. He had texted the high school music teacher, who had all kinds of ideas.

“The kids will love being in a commercial.” Joe was stoked.

“Sounds like you contacted the right person,” I said and yawned. “I think I’ll take a quick nap.” I walked upstairs to my room.

When I returned downstairs, Mom played Words with Friends in the kitchen while the steaks thawed in a pan. I had planned to walk the dog, but Joe had already left with Charlie. I opened my laptop and wrote my last post about daylight savings time. After dinner I thought it would be fun to play a game and take some group selfies.

Always pretty high energy, Joe burst through the door led by their Collie.

“I just missed you,” I said, looking up from my computer.

“Yep,” was all he said. Then he ran up the back stairs to his apartment behind my mom’s Victorian. I heard his footsteps overhead and then settled in to proof my stupid post.

He moved in a year before my dad passed away and has been taking care of Mom. He’s been a godsend, taking her to appointments, shopping and the little things, like setting the table for meals. He brings her tea and puts her eyedrops in before bed. My mom is super sharp, but has glaucoma and hasn’t been able to drive for years.

When Joe didn’t come downstairs, Mom said, “What’s taking him so long? We need to get the steaks on the grill.”

I shrugged and more time passed.

“Go check on Joe,” she said. “I don’t want to eat at 8:00.”

“Give him a few more minutes,” I said, knowing he liked his privacy.

A few more minutes passed and I ran upstairs.

I opened his door and peeked inside. “Hey, Joe!” I shouted. You have to walk through a kitchen to get to the large open, living and dining space.

“Joe! Time to make dinner,” I shouted through the doorway.

No response.

I stepped inside and saw him chilling in front of the computer. His arms relaxed on the armrests, his head was cocked backward and his mouth hung open.

“No wonder you didn’t hear me. You’re sound asleep.”

Still no response.

Something was wrong. “Joe! JOE!” I raced up to him and patted his pale cheeks.

No response.

“Oh, my God!” I felt for a pulse in his neck, but couldn’t find one. His lips were white. He wasn’t breathing. I screamed to my mom. She called 911, hysterical when the operator didn’t understand what was going on. I used my fingertips on his wrist and heard quick taps racing across the surface. Were they mine? 

Just like I’d been taught all those years ago, I started mouth-to-mouth and alternated with the CPR technique I’d learned on the Internet. One, two, three, four, staying alive, staying alive… I’m sure only minutes passed, but it seemed like an hour before the first responders arrived. They tried everything, but couldn’t get a pulse. Hope slipped away.

The paramedics came and hooked up a CPR machine and breathing tube. I went downstairs to check on my mom. Her friends, Kathy and Roger Roth, consoled her on the couch. Time passed. I ran back upstairs. “Did you get a pulse?”

“No, nothing,” one of the paramedics replied. I felt so guilty. I didn’t do it right. I could have saved him, but I failed! I couldn’t stop sobbing.

After answering tons of questions about his health, I went back downstairs. By that time, the funeral director, Bill Hurtley, and the priest from across the street, Fr. Dooley, had arrived. I got to know and love both of them when they took care of my dad’s funeral. Bill brought my mom back from her catatonic state with his dry humor.

Anxiety filled my empty stomach with broken glass. I turned to Bill for support. “I wrote a stupid blog post and didn’t come upstairs in time. I screwed up. I could’ve saved him.” Tears streamed down my cheeks.

He looked me in the eyes and said, “You found him relaxed in his chair, right?”

I nodded.

“There was nothing you could do. He threw a clot,” Bill said.

“What?”

“A blood clot. Believe me, I see a lot of dead people,” he said. “It’s what I do. Heart attacks are pretty uncomfortable. The victim has time to react, so we usually find them on the floor. Throwing a blood clot is painless. It happens to runners all the time. They go for a run and as soon as they sit in a chair, they die.”

“Why am I here if I couldn’t save him?” I asked.

“For your mother,” he said. “If she would have discovered him, it would’ve been a shock she would never have recovered from.” He took a moment and added, “Don’t blame yourself. Even if someone throws a clot in the hospital, no one can save them.”

An autopsy would have cost five to six thousand dollars. Bill insisted it would be a waste of money. Pulmonary embolism. It’s what people get from sitting too long on planes. Who knows where Joe got his clot. Surgery two years ago? The accident? Bumping into something and not telling anyone about it? We’ll never know. He wasn’t on blood thinners. I’m taking a baby aspirin now.

Alive and vibrant one minute and then gone the next. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

My little brother, who towered more than a foot over me, who did lotus position yoga with me when he was little for giggles, who I took to all kinds of concerts and events when I was in high school and college since I feared our almost ten year age difference would cause us to drift apart. My little brother who I loved dearly is dead at forty-nine years old. I was only a few steps away. How can that be?

He was a saxophone player in a band and was a local celebrity. He worked with people all across the United States. His Facebook and funeral home page are filled with heartfelt shock and condolences. We planned his funeral for March 25th at St. Paul’s Church across the street from their home in Evansville.

Being the writer in the family, I had to write his obituary. It was tough enough when I wrote my dad’s and felt tremendous pressure to do Joe’s life justice. His friend and co-worker, videographer Eric Janisch helped fill in the work details. You can read Joe’s obit here.

Two things I discovered on my own might help others.

I couldn’t get the image of him sitting in the chair out of my head. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. I must not have blinked the whole time I ran toward him. I stayed up all night. It was the same the next day as neighbors and relatives arrived. My husband, Danny, flew out that afternoon. As I drove toward the Dane County Airport I noticed some perfectly formed trees silhouetted in the snow. I picked one and stared at it as I drove toward it. I closed my eyes and saw the tree. It totally worked. That horrific last image of Joe disappeared, at least from my retinas.

Exhausted, I didn’t dare take a nap. Experiencing the shock all over again upon waking is the worst. In the past it has taken weeks for my brain to wrap itself around death. I wondered if saying it out loud to myself would speed up the process. I gave it a try. “Joe is dead. He died and you couldn’t save him. He’s not coming back.” I repeated it again before I picked up Danny and then twice before falling asleep. It worked.

Danny and I have lost half our families in two years; his bother and mom, my dad, then his mom’s boyfriend of fifteen years and now, my brother. It’s devastating to lose the people we love.

What about that quick tapping in Joe’s wrist? I hadn’t told anyone. Even though others shared the cause of death idea, I still wondered if it was instant as the funeral director and doctor claimed.

Days later, I remembered. “Make sure to lay your fingers across the wrist or you’ll feel your own pulse,” the instructor had told the Girl Scouts. I held my husband, Danny’s wrist in a different way. A strong slow pulse throbbed beneath his bones. No quick tapping on the surface. It had been mine I felt, not Joe’s.

There was nothing I could do. He had already passed.

How am I? Better. I’m grateful for the time we had together. Looking back, the timing of my visit seems serendipitous. I’ll embrace my grief and will remember him always.

Spring is emerging after a long winter dormancy. I see everything more intensely now and understand life’s fragility. Everyone will die. Life is impermanent. The trick is to live each day with appreciation and wonder.

In memory of my brother, I will start a nightly journal. I’ll list three positive things that happened during the day. He would’ve liked that.

What about my mom?

Many of her friends have offered to help. At this point, she won’t consider moving to Colorado with my brother and dad inurned in Madison. We’ll do whatever it takes to celebrate her one-hundredth birthday. I want to see her rock that blue streak.

I Celebrated a Birthday, But Failed to Save a Life. Have you ever taken a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation class? I took one for a babysitting badge when I was in Girl Scouts.