#it's “blink and you'll miss it”

[mirmi]

15x03 – I Love To Squander Promise

[ohtendril]

Colin and Pen + these kinda frames (s3)

[roz-ani]

I think we haven't given this Alastor enough attention

[cinamun]

Crossing Paths

Things Fall Apart continues September 22nd

[bisclavret]

sir gwaine always at the scene of the crime (saying things that sound astoundingly gay both in and out of context)

[mourningsbane]

so uh i've heard we can do ask for the characters? So. . .

Honeyspring, what are your objectives?

Just past the bramble, Honeyspring smiles and beckons you closer.

Gr brx zdqw wr nqrz d vhfuhw

[fyeaheddiemunson]

*sound on*

[ascesabo]

sometimes i want to reach through the screen and shake sabo by the shoulders because. god. there's just so much going on with him.

he's first introduced through the veil of luffy's memories- here he's just another feral jungle kid, sticking it out with ace and luffy, the 'nicer' brother in young luffy's eyes. and then boom. you find out he's a runaway noble trying to escape his abusive, neglectful family- and this changes nothing, they still get to become sworn brothers, but just as quickly as this is resolved, his asshole of a dad takes the three of them hostage. and what does sabo do? he gives up the little sliver of freedom he'd fought for, is willing to become miserable and lonely again if it means ace and luffy are spared. and then he comes home to find that in his absence, his parents have already found a replacement! great!

and he doesn't even get to address how fucked up that is, because stelly runs his mouth and now sabo's too busy trying to figure out how to stop his brothers and their home from getting burnt to the ground. he never gets to give them a proper goodbye- he exhausts himself trying to reach them, but he can't because. you know. he's ten. so where does this leave sabo? ten years old, with nowhere to go- he sets out to sea to try and start over, and for the crime of wanting to escape a terrible life, he's punished with an explosion to the face. he loses his memories, his brothers lose him- and so the cycle continues.

then the army saves him, takes him in; he's essentially a child soldier, with how prodigious of a fighter he is from the get-go. but hey, he thinks he's finally found his footing, even if his past's a blur to him- then it all comes flooding back. in the worst way possible. he sees his brother's corpse and he remembers, but it doesn't matter, does it? he's too late, ace is gone, and sabo's lost ten years of a life he could have shared with his brothers. we don't even know how (if, even) he recovers from this- except for a single passing statement from koala, asking him if he's 'had that dream again' because he'd been crying in his sleep. this is never brought up or addressed again. great!plus, we never do find out if getting blown up at the ripe old age of ten could have left any lasting fire-related trauma; and if it does, what does that mean for sabo, who's pretty much made of it, now?

both of these questions are answered at once- sabo treats the fire as if it's ace. it's ace's legacy he's carrying on, and it's ace he seeks freedom for. he copes by making sure ace lives on in his flames, and how can he ever hate the fire living in him if that fire is all he has left of the brother he never got to see again?

i just have to wonder about him, because he's got so many Issues that just. don't ever get addressed? every time we see him deal with his grief (episode of sabo, his own retelling of events in dressrosa) we never really discover anything about him. i wonder how it felt to finally remember the childhood that eluded him, just to find out he was an unwanted, replacable child. how he feels, living with the knowledge that he could have done something to save ace, that he'd failed to remember the two people he loved the most? i wonder just how terribly that guilt must weigh down on him- because where luffy's already begun to heal, sabo still sees ace in everything he does. his title of flame emperor is a direct callback to ace's final attack in his fight against blackbeard. he talks to his goddamn fire like his brother is still in front of him, which is sweet and heartbreaking and, considering his backlog of unaddressed trauma... incredibly unhealthy. i know these will probably be left unresolved for the sake of moving the story forward- but god, sabo, are you okay?

[adams-rigatoni]

Adam und die Rigatoni!

Bonus: Live Pia reaction (weil sie einfach süß ist)

für @muidipel, der wir Rigatoni im Spatort verdanken <3

[superduperkas]

In my mind, Mel purposefully ricocheted the bullet to kill Maddie instead of deflecting it after hearing her say, "I did appreciate your warmth"

Until I realized she used her new empathy ability to see who Maddie was as a person and she was happy (smiling on the inside) to kill Cait. She then promptly sent that bullet thru her head

[four-is-the-best-number]

(having a thought) yknow i always think abt that moment where X says he gets invited to a lot of parties actually. considering his nature you'd almost think he isn't that social bc they're quite meek and docile but the thing is. a lot of characters like X because they are very friendly too. so it's interesting to me that X stays with Four despite them being fairly mean, when clearly other characters like them a lot. it wouldn't be hard for X to make new friends because pretty much everyone who they meet likes them. so... why do they stick around? sure, loyalty is probably one reason. but I almost wonder if X is drawn to Four for being someone who doesn't immediately treat them like this sweet, soft character.... Four is willing to be blunt towards them when no one else really will because of the way they view X. and I think that's part of the reason why X stays. Four's confidence is something they are trying to learn from and is something they slowly do gain more of.

and that goes for Four as well. X is everything Four struggles to be. both of them inspire the other to try and change and grow. they are both learning from each other and becoming more like the other as the show continues on. okay im done having thoughts now

[projectjasper]

phum and peem with their plushie children (or, phumpeem's younger child suffering more than jesus) - eps 1-16

[daz4i]

hsr as screenshots and other pics i have saved on my phone but it's only the astral express family

[russilton]

Huh crocheter George... I can see him doing it and he seems like a person that would make stuff for his friends?

Someone gave Carlos a crochet chili? So something like that

Obviously first to like Alex and Lando etc and now I want Lewis to be a bit jealous and offended that everyone seems to be getting something self made from George from him (except of course, it's fine to give something with potential mistakes to your best friend and other friends but to someone like Lewis? It would have to be perfect which means improving a lot before you dare present something....)

(Anon I have been working on this for months now- since you sent it, but you can’t complain it’s late or that I made it knitting instead of crochet since you got what is in essence, fic) (un-edited because my wife is sick, there was no planning, just vibes)

word count: 4679

It started as a stupid way to prove to Alex he did in fact have artistic skills. Somewhere between grainy YouTube videos and detangling knots it became a way to decompress between sessions, it made for good practice with repetitive actions and not making mistakes, something in following stitch patterns that isn't that different from memorising turns and breaking points.

Incorporating new colours and designs teaches him to build patterns in his head that help with race planning. It's surprising how much the skills intersect. The only problem that arose was just how many scarves he ended up with.

So, George makes everyone scarves. Everyone gets a scarf. It’s a straight line and easy to follow. He has to get rid of the results of his labour somehow.

Aleix? Scarf. Bono? Scarf. Marcus’ scarf has extra fancy tassels. Riki’s has his first ever pole time embedded in it in little pixelated number shaped stitches. Mike’s scarf is almost as long as he is tall, George finally conceding it was long enough when he ran out of yarn at that weekends race. Shov’s scarf is connected in a loop, when asked, George teases ‘it’s because you’ve been here forever, Andrew.’ and has to duck out of the room and set off running before it gets pelted at his head. Shov does keep it though, along with one George manages to slyly pay Anthony to slip into his bag for Jenson. Toto gets sent home with scarves for Susie and each of his children. His is hidden at the bottom, so George doesn’t have to look him in the eyes when he finds it.

George only has to squint at Fred with red ears and nose, on a chilly Silverstone test day huddled up beside Mick in their boyband style white puffers, before he’s handed a black and silver scarf a week later. It doesn’t matter how much he protests being from a northern circle country, if Valtteri got a scarf so does Fred.

The fact Valtteri’s attempt was one of his earlier ones and has a finger sized hole in it is of no consequence. After all, Alex’s scarf has more holes than it has clean runs, but George just tells him it’s to get him used to the Williams style of living. If James Vowles' scarf is a lot neater, George challenges Alex to go and fight him for it.

Charles gets one in a red so vibrant it almost glows, though it’s not until after a summer break, George wouldn’t be caught dead working with Ferrari red in his garage, even now. Mick’s is a similar red, if paler, patterned with a grid of white stitches, and he looks surprised when George drops it in his lap, but it morphs into his wide bright smile when George just nods at him. Even Nicky receives a scarf in Williams blue with little wonky maple leaves patterned in white down the length of it mailed to him after a particularly stressful season opening. Nicky's girlfriend sends him a photo of him wearing it while they stand in snow up to their ankles. It feels good to know he's doing alright.

Eventually George’s scarves get more and more complicated, new patterns and shapes appearing as he pushes the boundary of his easy little plans, and finds new ways to occupy his mind during the hardest parts of the season. Eventually even drivers George knows a little less well find themselves with an unlabelled gift George gets snuck to them— Yuki and Guanyu both have the good sense to not question it too hard. Esteban texts him a middle finger, but he doesn’t get it back.

Even Roscoe gets a scarf, perfectly shrunk in size for his boxy head, rows interwoven with yellow and purple that he wears proudly as a bulldog can for a modelling photo in his home in LA alongside Angela who’d been more than excited to partake in George’s unspoken mission. The Bulldog looks stylish and comfortable despite it not being even close to the right season for it. He’s a professional after all.

—

Lewis gets nothing, which, y’know, he’s fine with. Roscoe got one so that kind of counts, and he’s been told he’s hard to buy for with his eccentric fashion sense, doubled by the fact he has enough money that even he doesn’t know what to do with it all sometimes. He’s worn more scarves than most people have ever owned, the majority of them handed to him by his stylists and then neatly returned that same week, their loan period from the brands vying for his attention ending without much fanfare.

He’s only kept one or two that particularly held his interest, and while Lewis doesn’t know their exact price, he knows that they probably cost more than one of the team's laptops. While Lewis has long been comfortable with his wealth, every now and then it still catches him, like a missed tag in a shirt, itchy and distracting.

This was one of those times.

When he’d first seen the scarves popping up around the garage, in the early part of that season when they’re still racing in deserts and countries close to the equator, he assumed its a new fashion trend he just isn’t aware of yet. It doesn’t make sense to him the way trends usually do; the heat of the climate combined with the way all of them are so varied and different. The only connecting factor is the handmade air to them, holes and sloppy loops peppered across the lengths. He even starts to wonder if one of the mechanics partners was sending them to races with gifts.

Lewis is used to purposefully distressed fabrics, so it takes him longer than he’d care to admit to realise what’s going on. He really should have noticed when Bono got one, as notoriously intolerant to modern trends as he usually is, but it isn’t until Valtteri of all people texts him a photo of himself with one tucked around his neck and newly trimmed mullet on a cycling trip between races that he finally cracks.

———

[VB sent an image]

LH: Where the hell did you get that thing, I keep seeing them everywhere

VB: This is a moustache Lewis, you should be familiar with the concept

LH: Har har

LH: wise ass.

LH: I meant the scarf

VB: Ask your boytoy

VB: it was him who threw it at my head in Spa last week

LH: George???

VB: who else

LH: don’t call him that- since when is he buying everyone scarves?

VB: but you knew who I meant didn’t you

LH: answer the question

VB: I’m pretty sure he made it, there’s a lot of holes

LH: Since when does George knit?????

VB: these sound like questions for YOUR teammate, I have pedalling to do

VB: 👋➡️🚴‍♂️

LH: what the hell man

LH: did you seriously just ghost me rather than answer

LH: fuck you

LH: and your secrets

LH: I hope tiff beats you

LH: 🖕🏾

[Valtteri BottASS liked a message]

——

The conversation with Valtteri leaves him even more confused than he was before. Despite the fact he now has even more questions swirling around his head, he does not ask George what’s going on. The last thing he wants to do is find out why he’s been excluded from the man himself. Lewis chooses not to question exactly why that is.

He’s also glad he hadn’t asked his stylist to find it for him like he’d planned to, containing his mild embarrassment down to just Valtteri, who he’s reasonably sure won’t tell George he asked about it. Valtteri may deeply enjoy fucking with Lewis, but not enough to have a conversation with George about it. If there’s one thing Valtteri objects to on all levels it’s being involved in… whatever is going on between Lewis and George.

Lewis isn’t quite sure what it is either. They’ve been dancing around each other for years now, Lewis isn’t quite sure when George turned from colleage to friend, and he really doesn’t know where they stand now they’re teammates who spend almost every week together in some form. The formality of clear labels was lost somewhere in the late night strategy sessions and food shared at different tables across the world at every hour of the day, from late breakfasts in Qatar to eyes-barely-open meals at 3am in Singapore. He wouldn’t call George his best friend… but he’s not sure he would call George just his teammate anymore either. He’s George. Whatever that means.

That lack of definition bites him in the ass sometimes, such as cases like this one where he has no idea what he is to George in return.

In his final year with Mercedes it had only gotten harder to figure out where they stood. In the years prior it had been a little easier at least, they'd had their ups and downs as they fought the car and worked hard not to fight with each other, but they'd always settled somewhere level. George's warmth toward him had felt unshakable.

Now it feels like they're both in some kind of pendulum motion, sliding from a desire to keep some distance, to make it hurt less, to an almost clingy need to soak up the time they have remaining together. It feels silly really, it's not like Lewis is retiring, he'll still be there, a couple doors down from George...but he can't escape the reality of knowing it'll be different.

Coupling that with his already complicated and grief heavy emotions about the entire team, and the fact their needs don't exactly line up most weekends, it's been a hard year. Lewis is pretty sure he's pulled George into more hugs this season than he has any other teammate before, but that didn't stop the sting of weeks where George seemed to catch a glance at him and turn tail and run for his drivers room. He doesn't feel particularly emotionally intelligent, but the slip of pain and something pinched in George's too clear eyes had been plain as day.

He knows there's nothing he can really do about it other than let George feel what he feels, but it still felt like a balm when George would grab his hand after a good race with that crazed joy in his eyes he always got, sweat practically flicking off every strand of his hair, and smile so bright it shone reserved just for Lewis, rubbing away any awkward moments from that weekend, like when George had winced when Lewis as squeezed his hand in greeting in Silverstone, mumbling something about sore fingers that Lewis hadn't understood.

Coming into their final races together as they do now, every movement feels amplified, every gesture and discussion hangs with the weight of being potentially his last with his team the team. Thoughts about George and scarves get lost in the heat of desert tracks and a cloying grief he finally has to face head on without the facade of getting through the year. He's not sure he's ever felt this emotional in his life. Leaving Mclaren had been a breath of fresh air and a weight lifted even if he'd loved what they had achieved together. Leaving Mercedes feels like moving away from England for the first time, unsure of what will be on the other side, or if he'll be able to make somewhere foreign and so different feel like his home again. Unsure if he wants to.

George seems to almost disappear behind that. Lewis figures he's giving him time to say goodbye to his team uninterrupted. Despite the fact George had been part of the Mercedes family in a way almost as long as Lewis has driven for them, they both know there's something different about it, and he's thankful for the space. He can press down the guilty, aching and confusing emotions he has about George into a box in the back of his mind to be handled late. He doesn't have time to unpack Georges furtive, almost nervous peeking at him between monitors when he's listening to Shov present their debrief for what might be the last time.

That's does however leave him ultimately unprepared for when George does finally demand his attention, by appearing on the doorstep of his drivers room after they're wrapped up for the evening, qualifying finished and preparations for the race day concluded, with what appears to be a colourfully wrapped lump in his arms.

Lewis is still blinking at the shiny obstacle between them, overhead lights glinting off the chrome coloured paper, when George speaks.

'Sorry mate, I hope I didn't interrupt anything did I?' His voice is oddly high pitched, sounding a little like when Lewis knows he's trying to lie to Toto about how much sleep he's had.

'No man I was just packing up for the night'

'Mind if I come in before you leave? It won't take long I promise,'

Lewis murmurs a quiet uh sure as he steps back, gesturing George inside and then shutting the door behind them as he see's curious eyes in the engineering bay start glancing over toward them. Even Bono, Mike, and Marcus, still clustered in the corner as normal poking away at their laptops seem to be looking over, trying and failing to seem subtle as if Lewis hasn't had over a decade to pick up on what Bono looks like when he's trying to listen to gossip.

In the privacy of Lewis' drivers room George spins around to face him and before he can even ask what's going on, George is pushing the thing he brought with him into Lewis' grasp

The parcel isn't too dense, but there's a weight to it that feels like it has to be good deal heavier than the wrapped scarves Lewis had watched George pass out in the past, and it looks at least three times the size them. Lewis barely has a second to try and figure out what it is before George’s fingers twitch toward him, like he’s itching to pull it from Lewis’ hands and unwrap it himself because Lewis is being too slow. Wordlessly, Lewis holds the package back out, gesturing for George to go ahead, and rather than steal it back out of his hands, George crowds up into his space to start unpicking the paper.

George’s wrapping handiwork has never been strong, but Lewis can’t really pay attention to that when George is this close, towering above him but seeming almost small in his nervousness. The moment feels strangely intimate as George slips those long fingers between his own crumpled tape job, tugging the attached parts free until he pulls back the final fold to reveal his signature woven handiwork.

George steps back then, leaving Lewis holding his presented gift in a cradle of paper. Out of the corner of his eye Lewis sees him twist and wring his fingers together as he watches, but Lewis can barely focus on how George might be feeling as a wave of... something hot and warm rushes over him.

The lump turns out to be a jumper. It's a bright mustard yellow, rich and bold. Or at least, part of it is, the arms and chest in one continuous colour that ends abruptly partway down the torso when one line stops and continues in a slightly paler shade. The difference is almost imperceptible, and likely would hidden entirely if the colours weren’t butted up against each other like this, juxtaposed the way they are. Towards the hem of the thing, the colour shifts again, one step lighter for the last handful of rows falling at the waistline, the changes creating a gradient down the body. When Lewis traces it with his eyes, he can spot small areas in the neck and wrists where the pattern falters, warped patches that correct quickly but don’t quite line up with those around them. Rather than make the whole item look bad, there’s an odd personality to it, a touch of handmade individuality compared to a lot of the pristine items Lewis gets handed by his stylist, not a spec of lint in sight despite the fact they aren’t headed to a closed catwalk, but a dusty paddock.

As his fingers lift the folded bulk of it he spots a little detail along the neckline, a tiny, almost unnoticeable LH in a dark gold colour that would settle in line with his ear. Surely enough on the right side, there's a tiny 44 in the same font, the pair crowning his shoulders. Twisting the woollen form again, he sees there are tiny stars stitched into the cuffed sleeves in the same colour. There's seven by his count, and an eighth peeking out from the inner band where it would press against his wrist.

He's not sure how long they've been stood together now, silent but for the rustling of paper and the jumper as Lewis studies George's work. As he finishes his inspection he becomes aware of the anxious energy practically radiating off George in the silence that the same man finally snaps and breaks.

'I know its uh, pretty hot where we are but I figured, when you get back home- I mean when you get back to England you can- I tried to finish it earlier but-' George stumbles, words sounding unsure and faux light before Lewis interrupts him

'Did you make this?' He breaths, fingers pressing into the stitches as if it might tell him instead.

'Yeah, I wanted to make something... bigger. I know it's not quite what you're used to with the fashion stuff but I thought...well I don't know what I thought' George explains, words trailing into a lilting mumble. When Lewis' eyes dart up to meet his face, George's cheeks are glowing even in the low light of the one lamp he'd left on, face twisted as if braced for a blow. Like he thinks Lewis is going to be mad at him for this, somehow.

'George...man...'

'Sorry- It's stupid I know, if you don't like it I'll take it back, I won't be mad, I swear-' George isn't looking at him anymore, eyes darting around at his feet and his hands that he shoves into his pockets only to yank them out and wring them together again, fidgeting so he doesn't have to meet Lewis' gaze. His uncertainty makes Lewis' stomach hurt.

'It's perfect'

'I can even save the yarn, it's not actually that hard to unravel- what?'

'It's perfect, George, I really like it' He repeats, grabbing Georges arm with the hand he isn't cradling the jumper with, forcing George to stop trying to climb the walls with his eyes and look at him properly.

'You do?'

'Of course? Did you think I wouldn't like it?'

'I dunno I just- I wanted to make something special.' George rasps, surprisingly wet looking eyes boring into his. That stumps Lewis, and he has to drop his eyes back down to the gorgeous golden knit work, so undeniably a labour of care. It must have taken months, When Lewis was so deep in his own head trying to figure out if George felt anything or was just waiting for him to leave, the man himself was working in secret on something just for Lewis.

'How long did this take you?' He whispers into the space between them, not sure he even wants to know the answer, fingers still wrapped almost too firmly around Georges arm, a little worried George might run for the gates of the paddock if he lets go.

'You don't want to know- since before Imola at least. I normally just do scarves cause uh, they're just straight lines y'know.' George starts tentatively, before the dam seems to burst and he begins rambling 'I had to unpick half of it in October cause I'd counted wrong and it was shaped like a pear- there's still some wrong bits I couldn't fix, sorry about that- and I hope its the right size I had to ask Angela for them and she said they're a couple years old and-'

He continues but now it's Lewis' turn to freeze up, puzzle pieces clicking together in his head as he realises George has been working on something just for him since at least May. For over 7 months while Lewis was absorbed in fighting the car and his own emotions George was working away at something specifically for him, without even being sure if he would like it.

George has started to go off into a tangent about getting knitting needles through airport security when Lewis finally stops him, squeezing his arm.

'Why... why'd you do all that just for me?' He grits out, voice scratching against his raw throat, trying to make eye contact with George so he might read it in his face why the hell George put more effort in for him than anyone else.

'Just for you- Blimey, Lewis, cause I had to say thank you somehow, didn't I?'

'Cause I'm leaving?'

'No! No- 'cause you stayed. 'Cause you made me feel like this is my home too. 'Cause you listened to me and never made me feel too young or not good enough when I made mistakes and you never treated me like the enemy or just some guy across the garage. I know I keep saying it but you probably saved my career-'

'George- you would have been fine without me, you've always been good-' Lewis tries to interject, but George just steamrolls past him.

'Yeah but- you didn't make me figure that out on my own. I learned more in a month with you than three years at Williams. You made me a better person'

'George-'

'Please, I know it's a bit much, maybe, but I just had to do something before you left, so you knew.' George's voice cracks a little over the last words, and Lewis doesn't feel much better, eyebrows furrowed and throat clogging as he tries to choke down the indescribable feeling climbing up his throat and threatening to suffocate him in response to George's frank honesty. He's always been better at being vulnerable than Lewis.

He doesn't know what to say anymore, how to tell George that it was never a hardship to be his teammate, that Lewis was the one who struggled to articulate what George meant to him. That he's going to miss this like breathing and he wasn't prepared for that.

Words have never been his strong suit though, so instead he turns slightly and gently throws the jumper onto the nearest couch, ensuring its landed safely and ignoring Georges noise of confusion before he turns and drags George into his arms.

It's become natural, to hug George, another thing that's evolved over the last couple seasons when Lewis would have sworn himself touch averse for the most part. His arms wrap tight around George, one clutching at the middle of his back as the other skates up to cup around the back of his head, fingers slipping on shower damp hair and George's shirt collar.

George's nose tucks into his neck like routine, cheek pressed hard into Lewis' as he winds a long arm around the shorter man's neck to clutch at his shoulder, the other tugging at Lewis' shirt, gripping like Lewis is going to pull away, as if he hadn't initiated it.

Lewis squeezes harder than he imagines is probably comfortable, but George just makes a wet noise into his neck and digs his head down harder, fingers clutching tighter as Lewis runs a thumb over his hairline. There's a damp feeling growing on Lewis' shoulder but he doesn't care, he's not sure how he isn't tearing up himself, maybe he would be if he wasn't trying to memorise the feeling of how George fits against him.

It crashes over him then, blunt as a hammer, that this is what he's afraid of losing. He's afraid of losing this closeness with George when he leaves, when he's no longer going to be the experienced, advising teammate but just another obstacle on the grid George needs to climb over. He might lose the George who crowds into his space looking for Lewis to celebrate with him this way. He might lose the joy and adrenaline of George flinging himself at Lewis with the confidence that he will be caught, when it might be strange if they aren't teammates.

'I'm sorry' he blurts out, words crawling from somewhere in his lungs, only for George to make a confused noise, trying to pull back and stopping when Lewis only grips harder.

'What're you sorry about' George gets out, words wet and quiet where they are muffled against Lewis' shoulder.

'About this, the hugging, I just-' Lewis starts, but George just laughs at him, damp and a little hysterical, face tilting till their noses are practically brushing so he can look at Lewis from within his embrace.

'The last thing you ever have to be sorry for, is hugging me. You can do it more if you want'

Lewis stares at him for a second, gaze darting over George's lax but wet eyes, and the way his cheek smushes into Lewis' shoulder at an angle that must be uncomfortable but yet he makes no attempt to move away from, and yet another thing clicks into place, very much the theme of the evening. He was clearly teasing, but even Lewis can hear the truth under his words.

He brushes a seeking thumb over the nape of George's neck, dragging across the hot skin there. George shivers, fingers flexing against Lewis back, and that's all the permission he needs to tip his mouth onto Georges, lips slotting together in a kiss he hadn't even realised he'd wanted.

It's hardly picture perfect. George's face is sticky from his own tears and Lewis can taste it on his lips, his own cheeks are hot and itchy, and the angle they're at makes the seal of their mouths messy at best, and yet its the best thing Lewis has ever tasted. The hand George had at his shoulder slips along to thumb Lewis' jaw, pressing over his beard, and Lewis wants to drown in it. All his experience flies out the window in the face of following his gut and holding George as close as he can manage.

The slide of their mouths should really be indecent, wet as it is, and he's starting to think a little about being too loud, when he shifts slightly and George makes a breathy whimpering noise that sends any worries about being overheard right out of his head.

Time melts a little, as they curl together, until Lewis' neck really can't tolerate the angle anymore, and he has to pull back, panting harshly just in time for something to go clattering the the floor outside in the engineering bay, making them both jump and reminding them abruptly that they are in fact still at work, in thrown up rooms with paper thin walls that the cleaning staff are going to want to vacuum soon, as thorough as they are.

'We probably shouldn't be- well- we probably should have figured this out before now' George muses, still sounding awful breathless for an athlete Lewis seen run several miles for fun. They'd pulled apart a little in shock at the noise outside, but he's still gripping Lewis' arm, and there's that bright, beautiful smile creeping across his face again.

Lewis glances just over his shoulder, where the jumper is still lying haphazardly on the sofa.

'I dunno, Man. Better late than never?'

[metalhoops]

The place was Chicago. The year was 1990. 

It was early enough into the year that the term ‘1990′ still sounded space aged. It’d been the 80s for as long as Eddie cared to remember. It was late enough in the year that everyone kept telling him winter was over. Nevertheless, he wore the leather jacket he’d ‘borrowed’ from his ex-boyfriend. Spring in Chicago was worse than a million L.A. winters. 

Eddie hated California on principle, but his record label was in Burbank. Despite the band being one of the biggest rising stars in the metal scene, he didn’t have room to get cocky. He’d spent the break between tours last year with his aforementioned ex-boyfriend in his New York apartment. 

The place had been small enough that smoking with the windows open felt like a hotbox session. There was one window in the apartment. It was in the bathroom and only opened an inch if you could get it to open at all. It wasn’t the rockstar life he’d fantasised about back in high school, but he was getting by. 

So how the hell did he end up in Chicago? He was getting there. 

As the filmmaker he’d slept with in Toronto had told him, opening in media res was the best way to hold an audience's attention. Was that what Eddie was doing? Trying to retell the shitshow of his life back to himself? Trying to make sense of it all, make it climax to something meaningful? Maybe. 

Eddie had gotten into the habit of keeping a journal, mostly for lyrics. The band was meant to be recording their third full-length studio album in a matter of months and Eddie only had three songs that were worth anything. To make matters worse, the other two had been concept albums. 

Corroded Coffin’s first and sophomore albums had been different enough that the band hadn’t been boxed into anything. Yes, they were a metal band, but they got their fair share of punks, goths and even a handful of yuppies that’d shown up to their gigs in the past. Hell, their opening act had been a grunge band. It sounded pretentious as fuck, but Eddie wasn’t afraid to transcend genres. The metal scene was changing. They had to learn to change with it.

The nail in his goddamn Corroded Coffin was that the band were known for their concept albums. Their first album Knightmare was a D&D-inspired thrash, metal album. Think Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow, with a few more homoerotic undertones. Their next album, Dream Dimension was more sci-fi leaning. It told the story of an unnamed group of kids who’d stumbled into another dimension. It was a little more glam metal. Some of the B-sides like ‘My Year’ and ‘Lakeside Interlude’ had been downright shoegaze. One magazine had likened the story to Dream Warriors, which Eddie thought was fitting. 

It wasn’t like Eddie didn’t have ideas for the next album. That was the problem. Eddie did have an idea. He just couldn’t write the damn thing. It was meant to be his magnum opus, the third album that’d stand on its own but also interconnect with the other two. 

He’d call it Daydream. It followed the story of a white-collar guy living the perfect nuclear family life, complete with a white picket fence and a Malibu Barbie, dream house. The thing was, the dude was miserable. He’d spend all his free time daydreaming about adventure and forgotten realms. 

The kicker was halfway through the album the listener would realise the guy was the titular knight from Knightmare. His perfect suburban life was turned upside down when his kid disappeared à la portal to another dimension. It’d be perfect. All Eddie had to do is write it, and that was the damn thing. He couldn’t.  

All his albums were about something. There was always a meaning beneath the meaning. Knightmare? Easy, that was about escapism. Dream Dimension? It was about growing up too fast. Daydream? That was more complicated. 

Daydream was why Eddie needed to write in his journal. It was why he needed to remember that the year was 1990 and that he was in Chicago. 

The thing was, Eddie didn’t remember writing Dream Dimension. There was a 1988 sized hole in his memory between their first and second US tours. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what caused it. In their early days, they were practically paid in 8 Balls and party favours. Eddie always had an addictive personality and getting into anything stronger than weed had been a bad idea.

It wasn’t until his bandmates had an intervention that he’d been able to see the forest through the trees. Realising there was a whole chunk of his life he’d missed out on was petrifying. So, Eddie kept a journal. 

He’d been sober for almost a year. He was practically fucking straight-edge without all the pretentiousness that came with it, but he knew one slip-up was enough to send him spiralling. That was how he ended up in Chicago.

It was the last show of their Dream Dimension tour, and they were in Chicago. Eddie was always lively on stage. Gareth had abandoned one of his drumsticks during a solo only for Eddie to run across the stage, slip and bite the dust with his ankle going one way and the rest of him going another. 

He’d woken up in a hospital with a lump on his ankle the size of a baseball and the uncomfortably familiar feeling of being high off his face on painkillers. 

To answer the question, Daydream was about getting older. It was about being okay with getting older. It was about doing it your own way. Back in the thick of it all, it’d looked like Eddie wasn’t going to make it to thirty. He was trying to be okay with the idea that he might. 

Last year, Jeff got married to a nice girl who’d been their costume designer for their first music video. It’d shaken him in a way he didn’t know how to explain. He was in his mid-twenties, yet suddenly he felt old. Wayne had retired and with Eddie’s help brought a Winnebago. He was probably fishing in Nebraska right now. 

See, the thing about the titular character in Daydream, was that he’d conformed to what life was supposed to be. By the end of the album, he’d have left that life behind for another, one of action and adventure, because Eddie could never understand why Dorothy wanted to leave Oz for fucking Kansas. Fuck Kansas, on principal.

Something about the album wasn’t clicking. Knightmare was leaving his boring life but ultimately, he was alone. Was that what getting older was all about? Being okay with being alone? When you were gay in 1990, it might be. 

After the tour ended he hadn’t wanted to go back to his apartment in Burbank. He hated it there. He’d entertained the idea of heading back to New York but it was depressing. It reminded him of Jack, and how so many of their friends weren’t around anymore. 

When all was said and done, he and Gareth decided to stay in Chicago. He never said it out loud, but Eddie was sure his friend had stuck around to keep an eye on him. 

Sometimes, Eddie just wanted someone to come home to. Maybe that was why he’d had a string of shit boyfriends. If you weren’t picky, people would walk all over you. 

Jack had been the one that’d made Eddie swear off dating. It wasn’t worth the trouble. He’d rather die alone. His name wasn’t even Jack, it was Corey, but everyone called him Jack. Short for Jacket. Eddie wished he was joking. That should’ve been the first red flag. 

The thing about Corey was he always wore the same goddamn custom-made, leather jacket, all year round. He’d liked having sex in front of his full-length mirror with Eddie always on his knees, which should’ve been at least a yellow flag. He never liked anything gentle. Corey liked the idea of having a rockstar boyfriend more than he actually liked Eddie or monogamy. That was why when Eddie left, he took his jacket. 

He didn’t know why he was still wearing it, but he was. He pulled it on as he hobbled in his moon boot across the street from his and Gareth’s rented apartment to the record store. He hadn’t gone outside in a week, and he was about to start climbing up the goddamn walls. He just needed to go somewhere, and Eddie loved record stores, especially little indie ones. 

Once inside, Eddie noticed the place was practically empty save for the guy behind the counter. They had an eclectic mix of records and zines lining the shelves. Eddie was glad the place was quiet. He didn’t have to worry about being spotted. It wasn’t like they were The Beatles. They could go places but in a big enough crowd, he was sure to turn a few heads. Some days, Eddie just wanted to disappear. 

They had Corroded Coffin records on the display shelf and a couple of magazines with his band's name on the cover, which made pride swell in Eddie’s chest, but he wasn’t here for stroking his ego. He wanted to know what other people were doing and get back in touch with the scene. 

He was busy sifting through the bargain bin when he felt someone slide in beside him. He cringed, almost expecting it to be some over-enthused metal head with a pen and a Corroded Coffin tee shirt, but it was just the dude behind the counter.  

“Sorry, can I squeeze past?” the guy mumbled, a crate of records awkwardly tucked beneath his shoulder.

Eddie did his best to make himself small, his dumbass ankle making a simple task seem like an effort. He didn’t miss the way the man’s free hand brushed over his side as he passed, as though trying to assure Eddie stayed stable. 

“Place sure is quiet,” Eddie observed glancing over at the man.

His jeans were fitted, tight in all the right places. He’d rolled up the cuffs of his shirt to reveal more of his bicep than Eddie deemed necessary and god his hair. There was something about his hair. Something about him seemed familiar. Eddie really hoped they hadn’t hooked up once. That’d be awkward as hell. 

“Yeah, we usually close around five,” The man replied putting an album on the shelf. 

It was almost six. Shit. 

Eddie hated when people did that. They treated him differently because his name was in the papers. Everyone wanted something from him, and they thought doing favours was a good way to win him over. It wasn’t. The guy could clearly see something shift in Eddie. 

“It’s no big deal. I have to stay an hour late to replace the stock, plus my roommate has a girl over, so I’d rather be here,” The boy laughed, shooting a look at Eddie over his shoulder, a stray strand of his perfect goddamn hair falling in his face. 

The boy paused, teeth worrying away at his lower lip, his hand falling to his hip as his eyes searched Eddie's face. 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” He asked. 

And there it was. Sometimes people did that. They played dumb about who he was before making a big goddamn deal out of it. Eddie suddenly wanted to crawl back to his apartment and spend another month in isolation. 

The boy snapped his fingers in triumph.

“Munson,” He practically shouted and holy fucking shit, that wasn’t what Eddie expected. 

No one knew his last name, not his real one. Everyone changed their names when they got famous. He’d gone for something simple, Eddie Emerson, it had some alliteration, just like Corroded Coffin. It wasn’t too far from his real name but not even the die-hards knew him as Munson. 

Then Eddie remembered. 

This guy was Steve goddamn Harrington. He didn’t remember many people from high school, but he remembered Steve. 

“Harrington,” Eddie breathed in disbelief. To his surprise, Steve screwed up his nose. 

“Unfortunately,” He admitted and stuck out a hand expectantly. Eddie leaned down and clasped Steve’s hand. From what he remembered of Steve, the guy had never been this friendly. 

“Nice to re-meet you I guess. I’d like to think I’ve changed a little in over five years.” He had, Eddie didn’t know how to explain how he knew, he just did. It was something about the way the boy held himself. 

“What brings you to Chicago?” He asked, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one of Eddie’s records was sitting on the shelf beside him. Honestly, it was a breath of fresh air to find someone who didn’t know who he was. He could keep the charade up a little bit longer. 

“Oh you know, work stuff,” Eddie answered vaguely, toying with his hair. 

That was something he did when he was flirting and holy shit, he needed to squash that right goddamn now. He wasn’t looking to date anybody, and he remembered Steve being very straight in high school. He needed to save himself from another heartbreak. 

“You live in Chicago now?” Eddie asked. The‘ because you didn’t seem like the type to ever leave’ was implied. 

“Yeah. Rob, my roommate, she practically dragged me here. We’ve been attached at the hip since I graduated. It wasn’t like there was anywhere else I wanted to be,” Steve answered. 

A little detail about the statement screamed for Eddie’s attention. 

“The same roommate that has a girl over?” He pressed and watch Steve fold his arms over his chest, all huffy indignation locked and loaded, begging for Eddie to choose his next words wisely. 

“The same,” he confirmed. Now that Eddie knew, he noticed they were selling a couple of queer zines. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Steve might just be progressive. 

“I thought you were meant to be the lady's man, Steve,” Eddie tried hoping that was enough to make Steve’s defences fall. To his surprise, Steve snorted and shook his head. 

“Like I said, lots changed since high school. My luck in the dating department couldn’t be worse,” he admitted as he returned to stacking the shelves. 

Eddie watched the planes of his back move beneath his shirt, wanting to push himself against him, to feel what it was like for Steve to move beneath him.

He really needed to get a hold of himself. 

“Couldn’t be worse than my luck,” Eddie rebutted offhandedly. 

Steve shook his head and shot Eddie another glance over his shoulder. He inhaled deeply as though preparing to tell a long story. Eddie leaned against the shelf to show Steve he was all ears. 

“Last month, I went on a date with a girl and she asked me if she could call me by her ex-boyfriend’s name,” Steve began. 

Eddie screwed up his nose in response. 

“Worse still, I was so shocked she’d asked, I just agreed to it.” It was Eddie’s turn to snort. 

“Stevie, you didn’t.” 

Stevie. Goddamn Stevie. Don’t do this to yourself, Munson. Pet names are one step away from a full-blown crush. 

“I did. Do I look like a ‘Juan’ to you?” Steve asked honestly. The question had Eddie doubled over in stitches. 

“Alright, alright. That’s pretty bad, but that’s one bad date,” Eddie reasoned. 

“Dude, I wasn’t finished. The girl before that realised she was a lesbian, while on a date with me. Which is like... the third time that’s happened,” Steve admitted.

Eddie’s hand had betrayed him and returned to toy with a strand of his hair. He hid behind it as he tried to mask a laugh. This guy did have shit luck. 

“You’re a lesbian magnet,” Eddie reasoned watching as Steve hid behind his hands. 

“And the time before that, I thought I was getting somewhere with a guy. We’d been on three dates before he told me he had a wife.” 

Steve made the next confession a little quieter than the others, a little more reserved. Eddie felt the hairs on his arm stand on end. Steve had changed since high school.

“Once I hooked up with a guy who’d only give me head if I sang to him while he did it,” Eddie admitted, feeling the need to get Steve off the defensive and add to the pity party. He watched the boy’s features shift.

“Oh wow, that’s bad. You should’ve pretended to be tone-deaf,” Steve reasoned, once more proving he had no idea what Eddie did for a living. 

“See I was torn between that and singing La Cucaracha at the top of my lungs.” Steve snorted, honest to god snorted.  

The two lapsed into silence but it was a comfortable one. Steve smoothed down his hair five times within the space of a minute before taking a deep breath. 

Eddie knew what was coming. He wasn’t dumb, but a part of him would always be trapped back in high school. It kept screaming there was no way a popular kid like Steve would talk to a loser like him. He thought he’d buried that part of himself, yet here it was, rising from the dead. 

“Do you want to get a drink?” 

And there it was. Eddie didn’t mean to cringe, but Steve caught it, his hands stuffed themselves into the too-tight back pockets of his jeans. 

“Or not,” He muttered averting his gaze. 

“No. It’s not that. I... I don’t drink.” 

There you go Gareth. He was responsible enough to look after himself. 

“I could do dinner though,” Eddie tried to throw Steve a bone. 

Eddie waited for Steve to throw up one of the red flags he’d gotten used to seeing with all the men he’d dated or hooked up with. Eddie would say he didn’t drink, and they’d give him a funny look or mutter something about him being a killjoy. 

“There’s a place that does a wicked deep-dish pizza not far from here. You said you weren’t from Chicago, right? You’ve gotta have the pizza, it’s a rite of passage,” Steve ploughed on.

“Sure,” He muttered trying not to look as surprised as he felt. 

He watched Steve buzz around the record store, shutting up shop and then extending a hand shyly to Eddie. Right, his stupid goddamn leg. At least it gave him an excuse to get up close and personal with Steve in the street and not draw too much attention. 

The two made the short walk to the pizzeria at a plodding pace, talking about nothing in particular. 

“What happened to your leg?” Steve asked as they slid into the booth. 

“Slid on a drumstick and took a nosedive off a stage,” Eddie admitted. He wasn’t going to outright lie to Steve. 

“Ouch,” Steve mumbled, passing the menu over to Eddie. 

“So, you still do band stuff? I remember that high school talent show,” Steve noted, and Eddie cringed, letting his head drop to the table. 

“I really wish you didn’t,” He chuckled before confirming,

“Yeah, I still do band stuff,” as he raised his head and chanced a glance at Steve. 

“Cool,” was all he said before they shifted the subject. 

They were swapping stories about best friends, roommates, shared high-school trauma and generally flirting when a figure approached their booth. It was a kid, who couldn’t be older than fifteen with a shaved head and a battle jacket. He reminded Eddie of himself at that age. He knew what was coming.

“You’re Eddie Emerson, right? From Corroded Coffin,” the kid asked, his hands shaking. He watched as a furrow appeared on Steve’s brow before his jaw dropped. So Steve wasn’t totally clueless. 

“One and only. You want me to sign something for you?” Eddie asked, having gone through this song and dance a million times before. He tried to be nice, after all, it was a kid, but sometimes he got tired of always having to be on. 

To make matters worse it happened in front of Steve. Something about people coming up to him always sat wrong with other guys he’d been with. He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or ego that did it, but he knew if he ran into a fan on a date, the rest of the night typically went sideways. 

He signed the back of a napkin as he listened to the kid rattle off praise for their music. He talked about his favourite songs and lyrics. Eddie wished he knew what to say, wished he knew how to take a compliment but he didn’t. To his surprise, he heard Steve speak. 

“Hey, did you make this?” Steve asked indicating the kid's battle jacket, forcing him to come up for air.

“Yeah, all on my own.”

The kid blinked and ran his hand over a couple of the hand-sewn patches. Steve obviously knew nothing about the scene because if you didn’t make your own jacket people would call you a poser. It was a nice shout though because he watched the kid light up. 

“Even the safety pins?” Steve asked curiously.

Eddie watched as the kid launched into a story of every little pin and stitch in the jacket, turning his attention away from Eddie, and giving him space to catch his breath. It was nice. He felt like Steve had seen him.

After another few minutes, the kid’s dad came to collect him and Eddie felt his body sag against the diner booth. 

“You get that all the time?” Steve asked, his foot nudging Eddie’s under the table. 

“You wouldn’t believe it,” He grumbled scrubbing his face. Steve nudged his foot again, giving him a goofy grin. 

“At least he liked your stuff,” He proposed. 

“I’m guessing it’s not your thing,” Eddie reasoned. He wasn’t one for stereotypes, but he really didn’t look like the typical Corroded Coffin fan. 

“I’m not too picky when it comes to music. I just listen to top forty stuff.” Eddie shot him a disbelieving look.  

“Dude you work in a record store,” he laughed and Steve shrugged.

“Among other things. I just got the job to hang out with Robin. She works there too. She only took the job to try and peddle her girlfriend Nancy’s zines. Sometimes I write the sports section because Nancy, Robin and Jonathan don’t know anything about sports.” Eddie rested his head in the palm of his hand, listening attentively. 

“Wait, is that the same Nancy that you dated back in high school?” He asked, trying to sound scandalised, glad to have a break from the rock star bullshit. 

“Like you said, lesbian magnet,” Steve grumbled, mirroring Eddie’s gesture, resting his head in his hand. 

“What are you actually doing in town?” Steve asked, more curious than nosy. 

“Trying to run away from writing our third album,” Eddie spoke. 

It’d been the first time he admitted it out loud. He didn’t talk about his music until he thought it was worth something, but Steve was a good listener. To Eddie’s surprise, he found himself spilling his guts to Steve. He told him all about the third album, about the goddamn symbolism, and the way things just weren’t clicking. 

“Why don’t you give him a reason to stay?” Steve asked when Eddie finished his monologue, as though it was the simplest solution in the world. 

“I mean, Dorothy doesn’t go back to Kansas because she doesn’t like Oz, she misses home. She misses her family. You want your knight guy to stay in fantasy land? Give him someone to stay for,” Steve proposed, and it was like the final puzzle piece sliding into place. It was brilliant.

“Stevie, I could kiss you,” Eddie spoke.

“Is that a promise?” Steve asked with a cheeky grin.

“Let’s get out of here and find out.”

[ohrackham]