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hotchley · 2 years ago

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the green light of forgiveness

FIRST MENTALIST FIC WHOO!

Hi?

This is my first fic since March. Since then a lot of life has happened (as I'm sure you're all aware.)So my writing is a little rusty. And I've never written for The Mentalist so I don't really think I characterised anyone properly, but oh well. I basically watched Red John today and I kept waiting for someone to say something about Lisbon (the moral dilemma about Red John) was so interesting. So because I didn't get my line about Lisbon, we are now here.

I haven't actually watched the episode after. I got carried away. Anyways, I've been AWOL for ages so the writing is… questionable and hasn't been proofread (like always) and I will probably go AWOL with fics again, because I'm trying to keep this fun! So yeah! Title is from happiness- Taylor Swift. It's the best song off evermore and you can't change my mind /j

Let me know if I missed any TWs, it's 12:30am and I spent my morning talking to ten different children about multiple books and I am tired.

read on ao3!

All you want from me now is the green light of forgiveness You haven't met the new me yet And I think she'll give you that

Thomas McAllister is grinning at Patrick Jane.

He can't stand it. How dare he. How dare this pathetic coward, who murdered an innocent woman and child and hundreds of other people, grin at him? He isn't smart. He hasn't won. He is just a man, who has fears and weaknesses. Now that his identity has been revealed, there are no cards left for him to play.

Jane knows he is a wanted man, but there is a dead body lying two feet away from him and he didn't put the bullet there. It will be selfish and unfair, but if he escapes, he can get to Lisbon and the rest of his family. He can get them out of whatever situation they are in. Because he knows something has happened to them. It's the same prickling feeling he used to get when Angela gave Charlotte a bit too much sugar before bed since she wanted to say goodnight to him, or when Charlotte accidentally spilt glitter on one of his jackets.

The point is, he is a wanted man, but Red John is desired. The FBI will let him and the rest of the team go if he leads them to their worst enemy, especially now the public is so aware of his existence. He has learnt, that for better or for worse, they will do anything to protect their image. And if that means letting him go because the public perceive him as a grieving man that simply wants closure, they'll do it.

Which means McAllister shouldn't be grinning.

"You shouldn't do it," he says, as though it's simply a conversation about a haircut.

"Shouldn't do what?" Jane asks through gritted teeth.

Red John has seen his full range of emotions without him ever intending to showcase any of them. Red John is his nemesis. Red John is the monster under his bed, the figure he sees out of the corner of his eye when he feels paranoid. Red John is undefeatable.

But Sheriff McAllister is a man who is afraid of death as all people are. Even Jane is afraid of dying. There are so many things he hasn't done. So many words he hasn't said. He hasn't told Charlotte that there's nothing to be afraid of anymore. Hasn't told Angela that he found peace. He needs to tell Cho that he's brave, tell Rigsby that he's going to be a good father, tell Grace that she must never lose that childish hope.

He needs to tell Teresa more things than is humanly possible. He needs to say sorry. That he's proud of her. That she is the most beautiful woman he has ever known. That she needs to loosen up. That he can't afford to lose her and that's why he always runs and leaves her behind. That he loves her.

So whatever reason he's about to be given for keeping him alive is going to be born out of self-preservation and it will be easy to rationalise it into something that means he can pull the trigger. But more than pulling the trigger, he wants his hands to end his life. He wants to watch as that pathetic man starts pleading, wants to make him as helpless as every other victim, wants to witness the light leave his eyes and the panic and realisation set in-

"Teresa won't ever forgive you if you do," McAllister taunts.

Just for a moment, his hand falters. But then he thinks of her. The real Teresa Lisbon who loves with patience and laughs at his awful jokes and never rolls her eyes at the team with any emotion other than humour. He thinks of the Teresa Lisbon he loves, not the woman that has hidden her personality from so many people for her safety.

It’s why his voice doesn’t waver when he speaks.

"You're wrong."

"Oh?"

"Agent Lisbon will find it difficult to reconcile the image of me with blood on my hands with the gun-fearing man I appear to be on many of our cases. She will understand that I likely acted in self defence and will eventually come to terms with what I was forced to do."

"And are Agent Lisbon and your sweet, darling Teresa two different people? She wears a wonderful perfume, I'll have to find out what it's called. And she looks so peaceful when she's unconscious. Likely because she isn't burdened with your shenanigans."

The image of Lisbon, breathing and seemingly relaxed, but Partridge’s blood on her face as she became another on a long list of Red John’s victims comes to the forefront of his mind. He made a vow that day. Never again was he going to wipe the blood off someone he loved because of something he had done. It made him even more determined to find Red John. Because nobody should hold the power to make Lisbon vulnerable unless she had already given it to them.

He had abused that power once. To make her annoyed, so she wouldn’t question where her birthday gift was. He hadn’t expected her to hurt, and the look she had given him- one of pure disgust, as though she had always believed she would be immune to his barbs- had stung more than he’d ever admit to anyone.

“Teresa is simply a woman who is a human. She’ll forgive me in the blink of an eye because she cares about me. And when she cares, she forgives. In fact, she’ll be grateful that I killed you. You abused so many people. You have used them and you have ruined lives and you do not deserve a jury or a trial. She believes in forgiveness. Lord only knows how many times she forgave her father and brothers in order to move on with her life. She cares for me, and she knows this is the only ending to the story. Whilst she may not want to accept it, she will.”

“She loves you.”

“She loves many people.” He can’t afford to give into this game. Not now he is so close.

“She loves you more. And I know you love her also. I wondered what you would do when you found out I hurt her. I was disappointed in your reaction. I was hoping for a more romantic gesture. Perhaps a declaration of love, given that you won’t ever get the chance again.”

“I will. And she knows. This is your downfall.”

“My love for love? Now, now, Patrick, let’s not be silly.”

“Your desire for theatrics. It makes you blind.” He only has a few moments to work with.

“Does it?” There is the cockiness he has needed.

“I need to show you something,” he says, and when McAllister smirks and leans forward, he acts.

The gunshot sounds unnaturally loud. Everything else happens too fast for him to process. All he can think of is the last time Charlotte smiled at him and the last kiss Angela blew him. Tom McAllister, not Bertram, not Red John, took them and so many others. It’s only right that he joins them.

He does doubt whether or not Lisbon will truly forgive him, but he can hardly focus on that when he’s so close to revenge.

He gets it. McAllister begs as much as he’s able to, and then it’s over. It feels shockingly anticlimactic, but he supposes he should’ve been prepared for that. After Lisbon finally arrested Walter Mashburn, she came and sat with him. And when he asked how it felt, she shrugged and said it was just another closed case.

He wonders if the feelings will kick in later.

He knows he needs to leave.

So he does.

In his first letter to Lisbon- he rewrites it several times, knowing that she’ll know but quite frankly not caring enough to send the first copy because there is too much and it is too soon- he details exactly what he did.

He sends four more letters with zero reference to the events that led to this method of communication. Because if nothing had happened, he would’ve been sauntering into whatever office she had and saying whatever he wanted regardless of who was there. He sends four more with zero reference because Teresa sent five with no acknowledgement beyond thank you.

Six months later, at the same time that she starts a new job, she sends a letter. It deviates from their usual pattern.

He fears the worst as he opens the letter. He won’t go back unless he has to. He wanted that “has to” to be something like Cho’s wedding or because Grace and Wayne are expecting, but if Lisbon is writing early it’s unlikely it’s something good.

But the letter is blank save for three words.

I forgive you.

He breaks down there. He clings to the letter as his legs give out and tears stream down his face because she forgives him. She forgives him, and even though he knows he had nothing to apologise for and that she would always grant him this, to see the words written in her own handwriting is like a weight lifted off his chest.

If Teresa can forgive him, then he will be okay. Because yes, Teresa is a forgiving person, but he hurt her again by running away. At some point, her mercy was going to run out. He assumed it would run out when he tried to bury a man alive because that almost jeopardised her career, and when she still let him use her for his vendetta, he knew he needed to be careful.

Teresa’s forgiveness feels much like her love. He doesn’t want to think about that. He wants to think about how beautiful she is. How much she’s changed, for better or for worse. Because the Agent Lisbon that let him look at the files wouldn’t have dreamed of letting him near Red John. The Agent Lisbon that still writes him letters despite saying she can’t has forgiven him for killing.

The first time she sees him, she flinches.

Patrick wants to make her hurt. He wants to shout at her. How dare she say she’s forgiven him if she’s going to look at him like he’s not her friend?

But then he thinks about it for half a second longer. She flinched because she was afraid of what she’d done to him. She was terrified that it was seeing how many criminals they caught walk free for one reason or another that drove him to the edge of a cliff you couldn’t come back from. She thought it was her fault he’d dived off it with no regard for the landing.

He wanted to say he’d desired revenge long before she ever said hello to him, and that she had remained his one tie to the world. That he’d started living- not just surviving- because she looked at him without pity and without sorrow. He wanted to say that he didn’t feel like there was any more blood on his hands because they’d done what they could.

But all those words died when she looked at him with those wide eyes and that slightly hesitant smile since she’d had a moment to compose herself.

So he said the words that said all of that and more. And he did the thing that proved he wasn’t lying.

“Lisbon,” he whispers, and then he embraces her with all the love he still holds for Angela and Charlotte, as well as all the love he’s grown to hold for her.

She smiles, and in some strange way, she feels forgiven too. Perhaps it’s for waiting so long to write the first letter. Perhaps it’s for something she can’t remember she felt guilty about because Jane is back and she’s in his arms and he feels like home.

“Jane,” she replies, the same teasing lilt emerging.

And he knows then. It’s definite. It’s certain. There are now five indisputable facts for when he can’t sleep.

One: Lisbon loves him. Two: they’re back together to solve cases and tease each other. Three: forgiveness is possible, even for people like him. Four: he can keep his vow. And five: he is home, and it is filled with a brightness he has never seen before.

#the mentalist #sumayyah writes the mentalist #jisbon #jane x lisbon #patrick jane #teresa lisbon #tw death #tw child death reference #tw grief

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darker-soft-starker · 4 years ago

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Starker High School AU Pt. 7 (1...6)

tw: general Howard Stark warning

----

So, here’s the thing.

Peter meant to ask May about the letter the night he got it back from Tony, He really did. But then everyone was in such a good mood, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter that to satisfy his own curiosity.

So then he meant to ask the next day.

And he tries, he really does.

But the letter feels as heavy as an anvil in his desk drawer and Peter is too nervous to ask about it. Something always comes up or he gets too scared to shatter the image of the good, obedient nephew he is, one who doesn’t go rifling through mail not addressed to him, prying into personal business.

So he flusters and stumbles pretty badly for the first couple attempts. He changes topic quickly, pretending like he was going to ask about something else, asking himself where exactly his business ends and where his curiosity begins.

Once during a gymnastics comp he stopped mid routine to check on a rival who had fallen from the rings and injured themselves. His coach asked when he was going to stop being a goddamn martyr.

He shakes the Magic 8-Ball on Monday morning and asks the universe if it’s an appropriate time to approach May.

Reply hazy, try again.

Well, that’s not what his flagging courage had hoped for. He shakes it again.

Ask again later.

One more time, harder.

Better not tell you now.

“What the hell,” he whispers, placing it haphazardly upon where he took it. “That’s bullshit.”

“What’s with the potty mouth,” May asks suddenly from behind him. He turns as she’s affixing some dangling earrings to her ears. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Just - do you have a minute?”

She checks her watch. “I have about forty seconds. Is something wrong - are you okay?”

“No - I mean yes, I’m okay. Are...are you?”

“Top of the world, bubby,” she scoops her keys from the bowl, approaching him with a curious expression. “Why do you ask?”

There’s no easy way to ask without blatantly admitting to going through her things, and the last thing he wants her to think is that she can’t trust him.

“I just mean. If you weren’t. If there was something wrong, you would tell me, right?”

“Of course,” her face falls. “You’re acting strange, Pete.”

“I just worry, that’s all.”

You’re all I have left, is what loops over and over in his mind, but doesn’t say. She seems to hear it anyway, rushing forward and kissing his forehead, her perfume filling his nose.

“Everything is fine, bubs. The second it isn’t, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay.”

“I gotta go, but stop worrying okay? That’s my job. You have a good day.”

She hurries to scoop up her handbag and closes the door before he’s broken out of his thoughts long enough to reply. He sighs and shakes the stupid ball again before he leaves as well.

Cannot predict now.

Of course.

Just for once he’d like fate to be firmly on his side.

---

Something smells weird.

It’s sharp, chemical and not entirely unpleasant. Noticeable, however, sharp enough to cut through the usual musty smell of the library. It’s like apple cider, but overpowers the usual library smell of old books and dust and pencil shavings, a scent Peter has long associated with study, solitude, and the easing of his anxious heart from a gallop to a steady stride.

It’s not a bad smell, just misplaced.

And Tony’s been acting strange all study period. Like, weirder than normal - and his resting state of normal is already ineffably frenetic and bewildering, so this was an entirely different carton of eggs.

Peter doesn’t exactly want to bring it up, they’re kind of on a tenuously peaceful truce, a silent lay down of arms, so to speak.

Well, as peaceful as a truce can be while they call each other all sorts of names and rib each other over literally any sign of weakness, but still. They have some sort of an understanding now, and it’s all relatively innocent, good natured banter.

Mostly.

Peter for sure could have done without being called fuck-face-mcgee upon entering the library, but he’s willing to let it pass. He was late, after all.

“Anyway,” Peter says, sitting across the table from Tony, “so I think if we removed the monthly gym membership, we’d have an extra sixty per month that could go towards other stuff.”

“Like what?” Tony’s face pinches.

“I don’t know, like a college fund?”

“Ridiculous idea. I need that membership,” Tony rebukes, shrugging his leather jacket off, hooking it over the back of the chair. “When else am I supposed to get a reprieve from you and the cabbage patch?”

“When do I get a reprieve? I’m the money-maker. When do I get my break from work and childcare?”

“At work. What are you, like an art teacher or something? Your whole day is like a rich, white woman's vacation. Parents don’t get a lunch break.”

“Right. I’m sure watching Dora and burping an infant is as hard as teaching a class of thirty.”

“Wow. So dismissive. I mean, if you were a good spouse, you would give your withered and weary husband a break from screaming babies and shitty diapers.”

“Mhmm. That would mean I’d have to do something nice for you, and that doesn’t sound like me.”

Tony shakes his head. “We’re getting a divorce as soon as Molly is old enough to pick me as the superior parent,” he points to Peter’s papers. “Put that in the notes.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs, willing himself not to lean over the table and smack the other boy.

“You are not the superior parent. You’re the deadbeat that forgets to pick her up from school and day drinks.”

“And yet, she loves me the most. You’re just the breadwinner who comes home grumpy every evening. I’m the cool dad.”

“Fine, keep your druglord baby. I never wanted kids anyway.”

“Fine. I’m keeping the car.”

“I’m keeping the apartment.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

They snicker quietly in a rare moment of camaraderie before a lightbulb goes off in Peter's head.

“What if we used the membership, but cut costs elsewhere, like, cutting our own hair and stuff. We could save for a yearly holiday, go to the beach or something.”

“Florida! Disney, roadtrip, yes,” Tony clicks his fingers towards Peter, smiling wide. “Look at you getting all savvy. Call the judge, the marriage is back on.”

“You can’t go to Disney for a few hundred dollars, dumbass, that’s barely the price of admission,” Peter scribbles on his pad, making note of their ideas. “You ever been?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Not even once.”

“That’s surprising. Isn’t that where all rich white people take their baby sociopaths to beat up their first mascot?”

“One, I was never a baby, I emerged fully grown, and two, could you imagine Howard Stark within a mile of the happiest place on earth? He’d have a fucking stroke,” his face changes like he’s had an epiphany. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

Peter doesn’t mention that he doesn’t personally know Howard Stark but is willing to take Tony’s assessment at face value. That being said, he can’t imagine Tony, now, voluntarily heading to Disney without coercion or the promise of copious quantities of alcohol. He’d probably smoke and cuss and scare away small children.

He mind lingers on that particular characterisation, and for a moment tries to picture what Tony looked like as a kid, if he was a chubby, toothless little brat, can’t help then imagining him with Mickey Mouse ears, gleefully running through his gigantic home, harried caretakers running after him.

He must have been the worst.

“I’ve never been further than Washington,” Peter offers, “but that was for AcDec, so it wasn’t like we got to see much.”

“You did Academic Decathlon?”

“Yep.”

“Ew, why would you do that to yourself.”

“I still do it. It looks good on college applications and it’s fun,” he shrugs. “I like it. I’m good at it.”

Tony’s hands cover his mouth, but it doesn’t stifle the rising apple of his cheeks or the mirth in his voice.

“I’m feeling so much second-hand embarrassment for you right now.”

“Shut up,” Peter huffs, kicking him under the table, satisfied when the other boy winces. He fails to smother his own wince when he gets a kick in return, right in the kneecap. “Nothing wrong with being an intellectual.”

“You’re a fucking nerd, four-eyes.”

“What about you?” Peter rolls his eyes, keen to change the subject. “Been outside New York?”

Tony shrugs, tapping his pen on the pad, looking anywhere but at him. “When I was younger I’d sometimes go on my dad's business trips to Europe or Japan or whatever. And we have a house in Malibu.”

“That sounds awesome.”

Tony snorts. He shuffles on his seat, sliding their notes over and making further amendments in quick strokes, the cheap pen spurting bright red ink over the paper like arterial spray.

“Oh yeah, it was a real blast.”

Spoiled brat.

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?”

“With my family?” Tony looks up. “No, I’d rather stick my head up a turkey’s ass. You?”

Without warning, Peter’s hand flies to cover his mouth, unable to but snort at the imagery, He’s not sure if Tony just doesn’t get along with his family or if he’s still stuck in that churlish, ‘too cool to be around my parents’ stage of adolescence. It’s one the idiosyncrasies that would have annoyed Peter before, his ungratefulness of having a family that’s still alive would be just another thing for Peter to hate him for.

Now, he thinks, he’s beginning to parse out when Tony’s being sincere and when he’s hyperbolic, finally recognising the latter as a mechanism to throw someone off a topic that makes Tony uncomfortable. He sees it - the warning lights and stop signs in barbed coding, wrapped up in dry wit and sarcasm.

Peter is like that sometimes, too.

And what the hell would Peter know about having a normal family.

“Yeah, actually, for once,” he says softly. “My aunt - not May - and uncle have a holiday home up north, so we’re staying with them over the long weekend.”

“S’cool. May’s family?”

Peter shakes his head. “Sort of - they’re not actually related, but May and Margaret have been best friends since college, so.”

“Is Margaret a babe, too?”

Peter throw a chewed-up pencil at him that he catches easily.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not,” he throws the pencil back, overshooting and hitting the shelves behind them. “What are we talking, on a scale of haggard to hottie.”

“I don’t know, man. You seem to have questionable taste in the people you are attracted to.”

Tony grins crookedly, eyes shining with something Peter can’t decipher. “Ain't that the truth.”

“What’s the supposed to --” he stops himself, suddenly recognising what the strange scent was that he’d been picking up. “Wait - dude, are you wearing cologne?”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he responds. “No,” he denies, just as the bell rings. “Oh, look at that, time to get to class.”

Saved by the bell.

“So, this is it,” Tony nods, shutting the lid of his laptop as the bell signals the end of their free period. “We’re done. The assignment. That’s the last of it, right?”

Dazedly, he watches Tony stuffing his laptop and notes into his backpack, brow creasing as his mind catches up.

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“Send me your notes tonight, I’ll stitch them together with mine and send them back.”

“Okay,” he sluggishly collects his own notes, picking up the bag by his feet. “That’s - that’s good.”

“Well, Parker,” Tony slings his backpack on his shoulder, shuffling backwards, “we didn’t kill each other. I mean, not for a lack of wanting on my behalf.”

‘’Yeah, from Wednesday we’re free. We can go back to normal.”

“Yeah,” Tony’s grin fades. They stare at each other for a long moment that could have been seconds or hours, he doesn’t know, until the second bell rings.

“Hey, um --”

“I’ll send you the notes later,” Tony interrupts, sotto voce. “I gotta get to class. See you around.”

Something in his stomach deflates, sadly and slowly, like a balloon with a pinprick, emptying itself until it’s an uncomfortably hard to digest crumpled mass at the base of his stomach. He pastes on a smile and looks out the window, hoping the feeling doesn’t show in his eyes.

That’s when he notices the leather jacket Tony has left behind, still slung over the back of the chair.

“You left your…” he trails off, turning back, but Tony is already long gone, probably already halfway to his next class. Like a bat out of hell, Peter thinks wryly, picking up the jacket, the leather smooth like butter under his touch, still warm around the collar where Tony’s had been leaning against it.

No good leaving it here to get stolen or be tossed into lost property. He decides to take it with him, folding it gently over his arm. He’ll give it back when he sees him again, maybe after school.

“Nice jacket, Parker,” Flash says approvingly when Peter bumps into him out in the hall.

At first he thinks he’s referring to Peter’s ratty hoodie, and it confounds him for a moment because it’s decidedly not nice, but then he realizes he’s referring to the leather in his arms.

“It’s not mine,” he replies a little too late, because Flash is already down the hall, out of earshot.

Peter sighs. It’s beginning to become a depressing theme.

---

The weird feeling in his chest doesn’t subside all afternoon, and into the evening Peter is starting to think maybe he just has indigestion, like acid reflux or something. Must be the chilli surprise from lunch. Maybe he’d missed his meds.

He sends his portion of the final notes to Tony’s email, turns off his computer and switches on Colbert.

---

It’s not until hours later, well after midnight and the infomercials are playing, only then does his phone buzz against his thigh with a response.

Figures that Tony would be a night owl like him.

> soz was distracted > youtube spiral

Peter shifts downwards on the bed, holding the phone over his face. < s’ok < what were you watching > say yes to the dress < lmao really > lol no > anyway, looks good. ur notes > will print off for u to sign tomorrow < is that a compliment or an admission u were wrong about me

> neither. One subject does not a genius make > unlike me, an actual genius

In your dreams, dipshit, he wants to type, but doesn’t, not really keen to provoke a muddy discussion on who is the smartest (it’s definitely Peter).

< u left ur jacket in the library btw, I have it, he texts instead, his pulse jumping when Tony replies with crying emoji’s.

Tony sends him a snap, unexpectedly, a sad face that makes Peter snort. His face seems distressed, the caption reads, thought i lost it for good.

Shifting down further on the bed, he’s feeling suddenly and inexplicably courageous, fire burning up from his belly button to his fingers.

Peter takes a silly photo of himself and sends it back. > didn’t want it to get stolen < aw u care

“I do not,” he whispers to himself. > i do not. come collect it after school tomorrow or im throwing it out. < u wouldn’t do that to me > there’s a lot of things i would do 2 u > .... > um > lol

Peter’s face flames at the implication. He reads over what he just so carelessly typed, stomach positively knotted with embarrassment. Oh god, that is not what he meant. His fingers fly over the screen at record speed as he types out a response. < NOT LIKE THAT < I MEANT IT IN A THREATENING WAY < I’M LITERALLY GAGGING > yikes > ur dirty talk needs work < no it DOESN’T bc we’re not sexting > sure jan > damn. didn’t kno u had it in u bubs < i don’t have it in me > not yet > ;)

Despite the deep blush still heating his face and his heart galloping in his chest, a laugh breaks out of him. The phone in his hand vibrates again. > jk jk, not ever > need to bleach my brain now

Slowly gliding back to earth he types out a response. < ikr me too < ugh.

He puts his phone down on the bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling, amusement slowly fading. His pulse though, that doesn’t return to normal.

How could it when his mind suddenly runs away from him, evoking short-lived, but nonetheless strikingly vivid images of intertwined legs, planes of pale skin, and lush lips. How can the heat in his stomach escape when his thoughts conjure phantom sensations of a soft mouth sucking on his neck, the punishing grip of hands on his hips and the warmth and weight of another body on top of his own.

A forehead leaning against his, brown eyes that knocked his pulse off kilter.

The taste of nicotine.

Stop it.

That is dangerous territory right there. And a line he doesn’t want to cross.

Shaking his head, Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, looking anywhere for a distraction; his window, the posters on his wall, his figurines on his shelves, anything to douse the low-burning fire in his gut.

Standing, he heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed, banging their crappy old heater with his fist to get it working again.

He takes a very cold shower.

----

It’s not that Peter doesn’t enjoy sex.

Not that he’s had it.

But he enjoys jerking off, at least. Like a regular amount, whatever that is for a teenage boy. He likes kissing. Likes thinking about one day being in a real relationship and exploring someone's body and he likes exploring what turns him on and what he doesn’t.

It’s just that he doesn’t let himself think of anyone he knows personally that way, no matter how conventionally attractive they are - not Thor, and especially not him.

Typically, his fantasies are people with vague features, sometimes with bodies like those he has seen in porn, all shapes and sizes. And that’s safe for him.

He doesn’t want to have to look anyone he knows in the eye and wonder what their lips would feel like pressed against his own. If they’re any good at kissing. If they’re the type to take control or cede it.

He does wonder, sometimes though. No matter how much he denies what or who he wants.

Because it doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a thing. Want is never superficial in his experience, it doesn’t feel good most of the time. It’s deep and sometimes dark, it sinks itself into him with its hooks and it tugs, and keeps tugging. It yields to craving and yearning.

Back in his bedroom, his eyes land on his wall-mounted mirror. It’s small. Like the Mona Lisa. Small enough that he doesn’t have to see his whole reflection if he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to crave and yearn for anybody, because he knows it will always be one sided. He’s well aware that he isn’t exactly centrefold material.

Who is gonna look at his weird ears or thin lips, and think, shit, that’s the guy of my dreams. Not with his big glasses or the way his hair twists itself into frizzy, unruly curls once the gel wears off and he starts looking like an unkempt labradoodle.

Who would want to wake up next to him? No one.

So it’s better not to risk imagining anyone real. It’s only in his head that anyone could ever want him back.

His eyes go from the mirror to the jacket folded and placed on his desk. It was intended to be plain sight so he remembers to bring it in - out of sight, out of mind, is what Ben would say. He can still smell the cologne Tony denied wearing earlier.

Once he’s in bed, he turns to face the wall.

Out of sight, out of mind.

---

Maybe Tony subscribes to that mantra as well.

Peter forgets to bring the jacket in all week and Tony doesn’t ask.

---

Danvers wants him fit and ready to be harpooned into the mud by next week; that’s why she looks the other way when Thor and Peter take their informal training in the boundaries of the field, stretching out on the grass as the JV team runs their usual morning drills - drills Peter would have been a part of before his stupid injury and his stupid wrist-brace.

This school is stupid too. Now he has to pay to see a doctor so he can get medically cleared for a sport he doesn’t really care that much about.

Like he didn’t have enough medical bills to deal with.

In any case, he’s not really in a position to complain, because he has the opportunity now to run through his warm-up with Thor, who is taking his direction to spread his legs into a butterfly position so beautifully, even as his knees raise from the ground to make a v-shape, whereas Peter’s lie flat on the grass.

If the last few days had been different, he might have blushed and used the situation at hand as an opening to place his hands on Thor’s knees and applied pressure. But now he just smiles encouragingly and reminds himself that he has no chance - no place - and his hands do not belong anywhere but his own body.

And surprisingly enough, he’s okay about it all.

Thor was a good guy. Peter will never say no to having more friends.

It’s a dreadful, bitter morning. Icy cold, wind biting into his shirt, the grass below them is damp. He has to keep rubbing his hands together so he can restore feeling in his fingers.

To make things worse, Tony is back on the bleachers. White v-neck, jeans and dark sunglasses. Sprawled out over a set of steps, legs askew, arms behind his head, unmoving as if he were napping or sunbathing, appearing like a cocky main out of an eighties movie.

Or a king surveying his kingdom.

Rhodes and Potts slouch on either side of him, swapping phones over his idle figure, taking pictures and laughing amongst themselves.

“It burns,” Thor says lightly, hands on his thighs in an attempt to aim his knees to touch the ground.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, despite the ease in which he can lean in. “It just takes practice, dude. Twenty minutes a day, warm up and don’t over-do it. You’ll be limber in no time.”

“You can do this better than I can,” Thor argues, accent thick as he tries to lie flat like Peter.

“And you can lift a hundred pounds better than I can,” he tries to rebut, even as they switch positions, hip flexors aching with old injuries.

While the stretches are like second nature, he doesn’t miss the pressure of training for competition. The eagerness to get into a flat butterfly or oversplit. There was no argument that he spent nights on crunches back then, and he was somewhat toned - but he was shit at weight training. He hated lifting. Reps were more boring, more tedious and difficult and the diet required to give them any value was frankly not worth giving up a great hotdog or a loaded sub from Delmars. He wouldn’t go back to it now.

None of that old heat is there when he inspects Thor’s form. That quick simmer, the call to be closer. That terrible thing, want. All but gone. awe is still there, as he suspects it always would be with someone as outstanding as Thor, but the butterflies have very much flown away.

As he suspected would be the case. He has someone and they’re happy. With the cat out of the bag Thor had shown Peter pictures of his boyfriend all morning. He’d gotten a puppy, apparently, which just tickled Thor. He was so happy it was almost sickening.

When is it gonna be him that sickens someone with photo’s of his partner?

“Hey, Parker,” Tony yells from the stands, “you suck!”

Looking over, the idiot is raised on his elbows and grinning, like he’s proud of himself for a spectacularly unoriginal insult.

Rolling his eyes, Peter gives him the finger and he gets one in return.

His stomach twists and he has to duck his head to conceal his smile.

“Your husband is somewhat rude,” Thor says, following Peter’s example and switching from a pike to a lunge.

Peter looks back over to the stands. A cigarette now dangles between Tony’s full lips, sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose.

That’s how Peter knows he’s looking at him too.

Even from afar his eyes are round and mirthful, framed with ridiculously long lashes like a cartoon mouse, far too outlandish for any real person to have.

“He’s the absolute worst,” Peter bites his bottom lip, quickly averting his gaze. “It was an arranged marriage, to be fair.”

---

Wednesday comes and goes.

Their assignment gets handed in, Peter signs it off to say he did his fair portion of the work and Miss Ahn beams at the both of them when she is handed the thick binder, looking all too pleased with herself.

They have a presentation of their work next week, after Thanksgiving, each pair expected to give five minutes of their life pretending that they’re passionate about schoolwork in front of their fellow students who don’t care.

After that they are completely unburdened. No study sessions, no car rides, and no fries dipped in milkshakes.

They’re embarrassingly hailed as a prime example of people working through their differences, as if they had come together and were now friends or something.

From the front row Tony sneaks a furtive glance at Peter when she applauds them to the class.

“See, kids,” she says, “it wasn’t so bad working together, was it?”

Their eyes meet briefly.

“Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Tony declares, brash and loud, kicking his combat boots onto his desk in a leisurely display.. “That guy is the human equivalent of watching paint dry. Awful.”

“Oh, come on,” she chides. “Be nice.”

Not one to be outdone, Peter lets his horse out of the gate too.

“Singular worst experience of my life. I once had a root canal without anaesthetic and it was less painful than working with him.”

“Alright, boys, that’s enough out of you,” Miss Ahn sighs deeply, walking to the front of the room. “Mr Lang, how did you find the assignment?”

“Very informative…”

From the front row Tony turns in his seat and winks at him.

----

“Thanksgiving plans?” Natasha asks, leaning beside his locker, smothering a smile as he struggles to get his locker open for the nth time that day with one functional hand.

“Visiting my Aunt and Uncle,” he says, finally prying the damn thing open. “They’ve got a place up at Otisco Lake, so. Probably watching old movies and swimming all weekend.”

“Oof,” his friend winces. “That’s a trip. Think the May-Mobile will make the distance?”

The May-Mobile of course to the ancient, ‘89 Volvo 240 that May has been driving ever since Peter was born. She adores it and refuses to trade in, despite the fact that it rarely gets driven, practically haemorrhages gas, and has cost more in repairs in the last five years than the actual value of the car. But May really loves it. It's sentimental. She says it was the car Ben and her picked out together.

“It better make it,” he dumps his books in, closing the locker. “I don’t want to spend the weekend waiting for AAA in the middle of nowhere. What’s your plans?”

She shrugs, walking with him down the hall.

“Probably go and annoy Yelena. Was supposed to spend it with Bucky and his mom, but that ain't happening.”

He bumps her shoulder sympathetically. “Do you think you two will get back together?”

“Probably. But he’s got a shitload of grovelling to do first.”

“Don’t maim him, please. We need him on the team.”

“No promises.”

“Speak of the devil,” Peter adjusts his glasses, spotting Bucky at the base of the stairs talking to somebody. He gets startled, heart jumping when Natasha grabs him by the waist, pushing him towards the wall and inching them closer to the stairs.

“What are you --”

“ -- Shh, I want to listen. Who is he talking to?”

Craning his head, he finds himself in for another surprise when he sees that the other person he’s talking to is --

“He’s… he’s talking to Stark - what...?”

She shushes him again and Peter listens, curious now too.

“... what do you want, Barnes?” Tony visibly grimaces, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tucking it behind his ear. “Make it quick. I got places to be and your noxious stench gives me headaches.”

An announcement goes off over the loudspeaker over their head, calling for Brendon Bennett, a dick of a senior, to move his car from where he has blocked a teacher from leaving. It would be funny at any other time, but as it goes, he misses a chunk of their conversation.

“...Rogers isn’t the boss of me.”

“Yes, he is, and I’m not getting suspended again because you’re a pussy and he has roid-rage.”

“I just need an ETA. C’mon, pal, I really need this.”

“I’m not your pal and I don’t give a flying fuck what you need.”

Ever the easy going guy, Bucky puts his hands up placatingly as a group of students file down the stairs, causing enough noise that Peter misses whatever is said next. As he strains to hear he tries to draw the line between the dots, but comes up short on exactly how these two are connected.

“That fucker,” Natasha mutters near his ear.

By the time the students clear, Tony’s descended the stairs and begun to walk away

“I have better things to do than to sit around and wait for you,” Bucky calls out, giving him the finger.”

“And yet you will.”

Not in any possible lifetime was Peter going to address that he was weirdly relieved that Tony didn’t flip him off in return, some part of him petulantly thinking that’s our thing, but that’s wrong - Peter and Tony are not friends and they do not have things, even when they do, it’s not like a thing thing.

Nat grips his hand and pulls him along when Bucky leaves as well, swiftly walking away to avoid being caught. His backpack jostles at the speed and he realizes he’s still clutching Tony's jacket from where he had retrieved it from his locker.

“What was that about?” He asks, struggling to keep up with his friend's furious pace as he’s led down the hall. “Tash?”

She drops his hand once they are outside, her disapproval near palpable, voice laden with fire and fury.

“That’s Bucky being a world class idiot, he’s gonna get himself expelled, I swear.”

Peter stops on the spot.

“Expelled?”

Something dark curls unpleasantly in his gut, heavy and not leaving.

“They have a thing,” she explains hotly, mouth turning down. “Bucky and Stark.”

“What?” Peter breathes, uncomfortably thinking back to the party and the way Bucky overtly complimented Tony’s body. “Like a.... like a sex thing? Did he cheat on you?”

“What? No.”

“Then what?”

Red strands whipping in the wind, his friend looks around to see if there is anyone nearby before leaning in to speak low. He leans in too, unabashedly curious.

“Do you remember when Bucky was having issues with his parents when school started?”

He nods, thinking back to the times Bucky slept over in the late days of summer and early weeks of the school year, once or twice a week to get away from the shouting in his own home.

Natasha continues.

“Don’t tell him I told you this, but he got really depressed and fell behind with his work and everything he was handing in was terrible. Danvers pulled him up and said if he didn’t get his grades up, he’d be risking his spot on the team. So Bucky paid Stark to write up a few assignments for him, apparently he was doing it for a few kids, like it was a thing.”

...Okay.

That was not good, and definitely disappointing, but -

“Rogers found out. He gave Bucky a warning, but with Stark he threatened to go to Fury.”

Peter thinks back to the fight between their captain and Stark and their fight not long ago. “That’s why they…”

“I’m told Stark snapped, but I don’t know. I found out about the whole paper thing after that and me and Buck fought about it. I just got so mad - he’s - he’s not stupid, you know?”

“I know.”

She exhales heavily through her nose. “He’s going to get himself kicked out of school and I’m so -- I could kill him. We’re supposed to graduate together and get away from our families and go to college, and then he does this.”

“I’m sorry, Tash, I didn’t know,” he hugs her, her body going stiff before relaxing in his hold. “That’s shitty. For both of you.”

“I’m sorry for thinking you were in on the loop.”

He smiles, self-deprecating.

“Nope, I’m as clueless as ever.”

“No, you’re just too good for that,” she shakes her head. “Look, I gotta go and blow off some steam. Please don’t tell anybody about all this.”

“I won't, I swear - but text me later, alright? Let me know you’re okay.”

She ruffles his hair before stepping back.

“You’re a bleeding heart, PP. Keep an eye on that, will you?”

Hearing a squeal of tyres, he whips his head around to the parking lot, the source of the noise. The Firebird squeals out of the lot and onto the road, the sound as angry, the glimpse Peter gets of Tony’s face, even angrier.

He turns back to Nat, but she’s already walked away. Which means she isn’t there to hear him mutter to himself.

“What are you getting into, Tony?”

----

His thumbs hover over his phone that night, as he writes i saw u with barnes today.

He quickly deletes that, not wanting Tony to think that he was following him or spying on him - or worse, thinking that Peter actually cares about what he does. He doesn’t. They’re not friends.

A dread settles in the spaces between his ribs, like thread trying to squeeze them together too tight, his lungs feeling compressed. Maybe it’s his asthma, or allergies.

It’s not and he knows it. He’s disappointed.

He rubs at his chest on his way home thinking about the scene they just saw and about what Natasha said. How is it that so many people in his orbit had this entire entanglement going on without Peter having any whiff of it? It really makes him wonder if they were they good at hiding it or was he just really fucking stupid. Stupid enough to think Bucky was doing okay, that Rogers wasn’t as sanctimonious as he appeared to be, and that Tony was --

Nevermind.

It’s none of his business and it’s not his place.

He knows better than to ask. It’s not as if he can forget all his own secrets that he clutches tightly to his chest, so tight it feels like he constantly walks through life with his fists clenched.

That and, like May, the real truth is that he can’t claim any entitlement to their trust. He eavesdropped in more ways than one these last two weeks. He tries to brush off that dry, sobering thought; it’s none of his business anyway and he has enough on his plate without getting involved.

When are you going to stop being such a goddamned martyr.

So then he thinks about the sheer fury on Tony’s face, how his - how he used to look at Peter the same way, and how Peter used to think that angry and bitter was Tony's default mood. That was that. The status quo.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair, was it. It was easier to dislike Tony when he was distant enough that Peter could pigeon-hole him into a stereotype.

Because Tony got into fights, sure, countless and petty, but he was the guy who pet puppies and snuck them food under the table. Not the guy who kicked them.

He looked like the puppy that was kicked, though.

Not angry.

Wounded.

And that’s what confuses Peter. Turns out he doesn’t really know anything about his friends.

Or Tony, it would seem.

----

May closes the drivers-side door and throws a packet of snacks into Peter’s face.

“Pretzels.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he adjusts his glasses where they'd been knocked askew.

“Sorry, I thought your reflexes were better,” she says, and by way of apology, lobs a packet of sour gummies more gracefully on his lap. “Your favorite.”

“Apology accepted.”

From a plastic bag she fishes out two cokes and places them in the centre console, a bag of red licorice and crackers follow, also making their way onto his lap. She always buys too much food.

Then they’re turning back onto the highway that leads them out of where they paused at Monticello, the radio jacked up loud enough to be heard over the tiny droplets of raindrops sporadically hitting the windshield.

They’ve left early enough that it’s still dark.

Fog still hangs low on the roadside, intangible pale wisps that seem to disintegrate upon crossing, the road dotted with other travellers, but not too crowded, enough so they can easily cruise the speed limit and sometimes over. The Bangles play on a cassette tape and, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, May looks so carefree, driving her sentimental car with the noisy engine, singing along to the same cassettes she’s had since she was his age.

Peter can’t bring himself to say what he wants to. About the letters. One in particular. He knows something isn't right but who is he to break the peace?

So, he doesn’t and they keep driving.

The fog lifts and the tunes continue, both of them singing familiar tunes from ABBA to George Michael and Peter let’s go of what he can’t control and loses himself in the buoyancy of nostalgia - neither of them can carry a tune for shit and it’s funny, and when he rolls his window down he sticks his hand out to feel the frigid air, it’s the most free he’s felt in a long time.

Football and his after-school duties and everything else just drifts away with the wind, at least for this moment.

It was like when he was a kid. The route itself is mostly dark and dull, and this time without Ben, but their usual car games of ‘dollar every time you spot a windmill’ and ‘how many minutes until the next town’ are fun and easily pass the time. This will be another memory that he will gloss over with fondness, how even the boring roads will seem like rapture.

When the sky starts to turn from black to grey they stop for early breakfast at a diner just slightly off their trail in Windsor, both of them famished despite the hoard of snacks and in dire need of coffee.

The car is beginning to emit pale plumes of smoke from under the hood as they arrive at Davis Grove, Otisco Lake in the early morning. The sun rises low over the horizon, a slow ascent that turns the sky grey and brushes wriggling streaks of color over the lake.

The house is exactly as Peter remembers it.

Panels painted slate blue, brown-tiled roof. Two-storeys with a wrap-around porch and a private dock only a short distance away from the entrance. A swinging chair on the lawn that comfortably fits three and a half people.

It looks exactly as it did when Peter first came here as a kid, plucked straight out of his memories in perfect form, like it was set in a liminal space that time refused to touch. A piece comes back to his being at this moment, something that he didn’t know was missing.

Aunt Margaret is already standing at the door when the pull up. She doesn’t look a day older than when Peter last saw her years ago.

“Oh, look at you,” she coos, wrapping Peter up in a tight hug, curls brushing his cheek, “my darling little Petey-pie.”

“Hey, Aunt Margaret,” he returns the hug.

“You’re so tall now, let me look at you,” she holds him at arm's length, warm eyes roving over his form. “Oh my goodness, haven’t you grown a handsome young man? Last time we met you only came up to my shoulders and had braces.” She turns her attention to May. “Isn’t he handsome?”

His aunt nods, smiling at them, both women gravitating into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, Peggy. Thanks for having us.”

“Our pleasure. You look even more beautiful than the last time.”

“Oh, stop,” May releases her, wiping at her eyes. “Look who’s talking.”

She tilts her head to the porch and takes May’s duffle from where she has dropped it to the ground. “Come on you two, inside. We’ve got the fire going and scrambled eggs on the table.”

Inside it smells like the best parts of his childhood. A burning fire and butterscotch and lingering musky-but-floral scent from the bowl of potpourri high on the mantel. Even the sounds are the same, the same coo of early birds in the burgeoning daylight, someone humming by the stove.

Margaret leads them into the living room, where her husband meets them halfway from the kitchen, oven mitts still on his hands when he spreads his arms wide to welcome them.

“My goodness,” he beams, “look what the cat dragged in.”

He wears a cravat at the same time he wears an apron, looking every bit the formal yet whimsical man Peter remembers him to be and a crushing wave of nostalgia comes over him so suddenly he can’t help but rush forward and embrace him.

“Welcome, Peter. It’s so good to have you here.”

“Thanks for having us, Uncle Ed.”

“What have you taught him,” he points his query to May as he releases Peter to hug her. “You know you can call me Jarvis.”

---

Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter and Edwin Jarvis had been young twenty-somethings when they first met. Both were born in England before moving to the US, but it wasn’t until they met at Margaret’s first college that their paths crossed. They worked in different departments, Peter thinks Ed was an engineer or something and Margaret an analyst, but the universe pulled them together eventually.

Margaret asked Ed out first and then a year later, May was the maid-of-honor at their wedding and Ben was reportedly a teary guest in the squeaky church pews.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

A photo of that day sits framed upon the mantle. May and Margaret have their arms around each other, Uncle Ben and Ed standing awkwardly at the sides of the frame, holding up flutes of champagne.

They look so young. Happy.

Peter observes the photo, smiling. He would have been a baby back then. Before his parents and Ben had -- well.

His mind does these weird calculations sometimes. Like, the May in this photo is only nine or so years older than how old he is now, and this moment, suspended in time, makes them closer than they have ever been, even though in real life they are over twenty years apart.

Looking at this picture, it makes him wonder how many people he knows now will live full lives and die of old age. How many people his age will stay forever young, and who will be in the future looking back at their time now, wistfully staring at pictures of those who only exist suspended in that time.

It’s funny, being a teenager. His peers are too young to die so they assume they won't. Even in their twenties and thirties or forties, death seems like an elusive thing that doesn’t apply to anybody until it does. It’s for the decrepit, the sick.

But in Peter’s case death comes like poorly aimed darts, always landing badly and scoring low. In his pockets, his hands turn in fists. He hopes the three people left alive in this picture get to grow old.

He smells her perfume before he sees her. Margaret approaches, bumping their hips together.

“This was a nice day,” she says softly, wistful. “I wish we’d kept more contact over these last few years.”

“Me too,” he smiles sadly, her expression reflecting his. With a hand on his back she leads him to the couch.

“Come on, munchkin, come sit. Tell me how you have been.”

---

“We weren’t planning on the big dinner,” Uncle Ed says as he finishes peeling a potato, handing it to Peter once he’s done. “But we’re so glad you two joined us. Neither of us have a lot of family here, you know.”

“Us neither,” Peter runs the peeled potato under running water to rid it of dirty residue before chopping it into quarters. “It’s really nice to see you again, it’s been way too long.”

“You really have grown into such a nice young man,” the man smiles. “Ben would be proud. Your parent’s, too.”

“Thank you.”

They haven’t got together like this since Ben died a couple years back. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Shit happened and it got harder to try. May got busier with looking after Peter full time and working more - and Uncle Ed quit his job and opened up a garage and Margaret lost a baby - all at the same time.

It was a lot for everyone. Even college best friends moved apart when fate put up walls at every turn.

It seems everyone in his circle is just does their best to survive. Or maybe that’s just what growing up is.

The remainder of their morning is spent eyeing the oven and skedaddling while Margaret prepares her pecan pie, ejecting them out of the kitchen with a forceful shoo.

“May says you’re playing football,” Ed says, leading him out to the lounge, passing him a can of soda. “How’d that happen? Last I checked you were doing splits over a pommel horse.”

Peter shrugs, tapping his can with his fingernails, idly paying attention to the football on the old TV. “Needed an extra-curricular, there was an opening and for some reason they accepted me.”

“You were so good at gymnastics,” Margaret comments from the kitchen, whisking away at her bowl. “I’m sure you’re exemplary in anything you do. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, sculling back the rest of his drink, bubbles burning down his throat. “Looks good on college applications in any case.”

“This kid,” May points to him with her beer bottle. “He does it all, I don’t even know how. He’s brilliant.”

I could do more, he thinks. He wonders again in that moment what it is that makes him so deficient that May couldn’t rely on him to accept the truth about their situation, that maybe he was just too naive. But he’s not. He’d drop his after-school activities and get a job in a hot second if he thought it would help. And for just a split-second he’s mad about that, about being kept in the dark.

But then he sees the strain around her eyes, how the bottle in her hands trembles ever so slightly, how much she makes the hard world soft around them. And it’s easy for him to let that feeling go.

“You’re still freelancing?” Peter asks Margaret, momentarily distracted when Ed’s phone lights up with a call.

“Excuse me, terribly sorry,” he says suddenly, picking up the phone and answering it, rising to his feet to converse in the adjacent room.

“Yes,” Margaret says, eyes lingering over where her husband has gone, his voice carrying over the walls in worried, muffled tones. “Well, consulting. I can work from home, which makes it easier to take care of all my non-existent children,” she gestures to the empty room around them.

“You could go work with Jarvis,” May retrieves a new bottle, popping the cap. “Look after the books, help him replace tyres.”

“Tempting,” Margaret says dully, rolling her eyes. “Can’t understand why I haven’t done that yet.”

Jarvis re-enters minutes later, hands held out apologetically; whispering to Margaret first before he addresses the room.

“Um, we have another guest coming up for dinner, if that’s alright,” he winces at their blank faces. “He works for me. Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite. You know how it gets over the holidays.”

Peter meets May’s eyes and shrugs. Anyone working under the business and is vouched for by his surrogate uncle is good by him.

“The more the merrier,” May raises her bottle.

After that, the kitchen needs his hands again.

---

The afternoon is spent preparing the sides, checking in on the truly gargantuan turkey and indulging their cat with nibbles and head scratches. May and Margaret spend the time drinking beer and cider, reminiscing their college years. It’s nice to hear the house full of laughter, given how somber the mood was when they were last all together.

“When did you get a cat?” Peter directs his question to Jarvis, accepting a peeler from him to attack the carrots.

The cat in question is completely black and delightfully plump, not overly so, but enough to indicate it’s decently fed but probably also a little lazy. Or maybe he just thinks that now that it lies tall on the peak on its scratching post, tail flicking idly while it watches them work tirelessly in the kitchen from above.

“Oh, about a year ago. Gives Peggy some company while I'm in the garage. She’s a sweetheart, this one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Friday the Thirteenth. Friday for short.”

“That’s, um, unique.”

“Was the day we adopted her,” Jarvis reaches up to scratch her. “And she’s a black cat, so, you know; spooky.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering it. “I like it.”

“Not bad, huh.”

“Yep. It’s a better name than Molly,” he mutters, shaking a slimy carrot shaving off his fingers.

Jarvis pauses. “As in Ringwald?”

Peter sighs and continues peeling.

----

“Did I ever tell you about the time May came to class in a bathing suit?”

“I don’t think they need to hear that --”

“So we have this exam,” Peggy says, ignoring May, “Super important. Fifty percent of our overall grade. She comes in late, dripping wet, the biggest hickey on her neck I have ever seen --”

“Peggy.”

“-- Only thing saving her modesty was Ben’s shirt over her shoulders. I had to lend her a pen so she could sit the exam.”

“Did you pass though,” Peter asks curiously, shovelling a large lump of mashed potato into his mouth.

“Top grades,” she winks at him.

“She sat there for two hours, dripping water onto the ground and got flying colors. Meanwhile I’m the idiot who studied for weeks and got marked down twenty points for --”

The end of her sentence gets cut off by the sound of a car approaching the property, headlights flashing through the windows.

Then, a knock at the door.

“Ah, that must be…” Ed trails off, wiping his hand on a napkin before standing. “Excuse me.”

He goes to answer the front door, Margaret continues her story albeit much more quietly until the voices of Ed and their guest filter through, becoming progressively louder.

“Sorry to intrude, I know it’s the holidays --”

Wait. That voice is familiar.

“Nonsense,” Ed interrupts, “you know you’re welcome anytime. You’re practically family, kid. Come in, we’re eating now, you’re just in time.”

Peter’s fork clangs loudly on his plate when he sees their visitor, unable to keep his grip on the utensil as his limbs start to tingle. He forgets how to breathe for a second, entire body going hot.

Ed’s arm is around Tony Stark and they’re approaching through the living room, heading right for them. There’s a fresh cut on his lip and an ugly, wreath of bruising around his jaw and neck, deeply purple, speckled spots of burst capillaries visible from even where he’s sitting.

The worst part isn’t the intrusion. It’s how Tony looks unlike himself; he looks small and skittish, gaze flicking nervously around the room, arms curled around his waist. Something in his chest starts to feel the closer he gets, weird, hot and unwieldy, burning, like a hot poker has been drawn across his sternum.

“You’re the best, Jar...vis,” Tony trails off when he spots the Parkers, eyes zeroing in on Peter.

“Um,” Peter says, sharing a surprised look with May, not knowing what else to say.

But then suddenly Tony is shaking his head, shrugging out of Ed’s embrace and backing up, the skittish look gone and replaced with anger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. No fucking way.”

Then he turns, and leaves.

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny, @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix, @cherrygoldlove @starkerflowers@starkeristheendgame @thewolffearsher @starkersugar , @starkerforlife6969, @css1992, @parkerrbitch, @fuckmemrstark, @blankblankityblank, @ilovemoreid, @blaquedecember, @killmylonelysoul, @notfor-temporaryuse, @arvaen, @chaos-with-a-pen, @notnormallaura, @portiamarie02, @bloodymisanthropist, @ser-no-tonin, @staticwhispersinthedark

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #ironspider #high school au

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oftenderweapons · 4 years ago

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Introducing the girlfriends: the looks.

Hello puppets! In this post I’d like to show how I imagine the OC Girlfriends in terms of face and looks, mostly in terms of fashion.

I won’t state how many times my self esteem abandoned the conversation as I made this post, so let me do a disclaimer before I make y’all suffer with me (sorry). These pictures come from my Pinterest board called “Simply incredible people”, which contains mostly photos of people that have very unique facial traits and that I use for reference. Now, ALL OF THESE ARE MODELS. They were photographed BECAUSE after hours of makeup and hair and clothes chosen perfectly for them, a set made up specifically to enhance their good looks, a fair bit of photoshop and unfairly good genetics they were put in the position of being beautified. Don’t think that these gorgeous folks are The Thing: I picked them because of specific reasons explained under each picture, and in my opinion all the guys are pretty far from dating perfect young women with perfectly symmetrical features and flawless complexion and... all of that. However, yes, in my mind they date regular, “unbeautified” versions of these women. If your self esteem can’t handle disgustingly beautiful models, then please, don’t open the “read more”. Also, you’re absolutely free to keep imagining your ideal girls and not check out this post, no hard feelings ✌��😘

However, if — like me — you are incredibly attracted to girls with pretty unique facial features, then do open. If you’ like girls, I’m sorry, you might have one (or more) new crush(es) after this post.

Now, all of the girls have Asian traits — because according to my plots and headcanons, (which you can find in my masterlist) the guys have always met their s/o while in Seoul/Korea and also because I’ve always imagined the girls Asian. However, I’m not saying that they like these specific types or looks, or that they’ll end up with a person with traditionally Asian traits: I am simply assuming in statistic terms. Also, since I write memberxFem!reader, they’re obviously all girls.

I only know two of the people inserted here (that is Vixen and Kitten). I might have accidentally inserted someone famous, however that was not my intention. Also, the girls have been chosen exclusively for facial features: there is no shipping going on between real people here.

After this lengthy introduction, let me move on to the real deal.

In case you need my masterlist, here it is! (Remember to vote for next prompt!!! Link in bio 🥰)

Enjoy✨💜

Vixen - (Namjoon)

— The face —

Baby face: yes

Doll lips: yes

Very intense, borderline scary, November-baby glance: yes.

This is Vixen, with her baby cheeks, her sharp, refined looks and a doll-like face that mixes innocence and seduction. Top that with deep red lipstick and artsy jewellery. Her eyes show ten thousand different feelings and her face is suitable for acting, being extremely expressive: every little sensation and emotion can be found in a quirk of the mouth or an arching of the eyebrow, a little curl of the nose or a pursing of her lips.

— The Look —

Total black winter look, basic and classy, thigh-high boots for her long legs, simple, plain bags and purses, and finally a long coat to keep her warm over her dresses usually characterised by a high neck and a generous slice of leg. But don’t let that fool you: her favourite looks are oversized sweaters stolen from Namjoon’s wardrobe — that obviously fit like dresses on her —, fluffy woolen tights or stockings and comfy shoes when they go on breakfast dates, but also thick jumpers, large jeans and comfy sneakers when they go for walks and bike trips.

Angel (Seokjin)

— The Face —

Traditional Korean Beauty: yes

Big eyes: yes

Soft pink lips: yes

Angel is the definition of Korean Beauty, looking young and innocent. She could easily have the face of an idol, with the purest of charms. And her cute bangs... yes.

— The Look —

Even though her job requires a total black look, which often means pretty flats, black trousers and a turtleneck, in her free time she likes wearing preppy looks, with lots of plaid prints and cute dresses that match Korean standards, with not-too-revealing necklines and a skirt that hits just above the knee. Match it all with cute, warm coats and small bags.

Kitten (Yoongi)

— The Face —

Intimidating look: yes

Angular jaw: yes

Plush lips: yes

Kitten has angular, almost aggressive facial features, characterised mostly by the rectangular shape of her face and her jaw, and quite jutting cheekbones. She has a rough, tough beauty which can be difficult to understand but absolutely charming to observe.

— The Look —

Another one with total black, but unlike Vixen, who likes coloured clothes once winter ends, Kitten keeps the black look all year round, inserting tiny splashes of colours with accessories and jackets. Expect a lot of turtlenecks and blazers for her work attire, but also fancy shirts for more elegant occasions, mostly silk blouses that offer a generous view of her bosom.

Giggles (Hoseok)

— The Face —

Strawberry blonde: yes

Freckles: yes

Too cute: yes

I’ve always imagined Giggles with a mop of messy reddish-blonde hair, may it be natural or dyed. I know the combo is pretty rare; still, she’s a fictional character so... a girl can dream.

— The Look —

A vintage mess of prints. She messes around with flowers and stripes and plaids and colours. You could most definitely spot her in a crowd. Even when she’s working (remember she’s a vet), she has very colourful scrubs and bright coloured clogs/nurse shoes. Overall too cute and tiny for her good, her being so small makes it easy for her to shop in the children department and find even more coloured, fancy prints.

Princess (Jimin)

— The Face —

Overall cute: yes

Gaze to command a photo shoot: yes

Borderline scary both in terms of beauty and power: yes

This small girl has the power to supervise everything, you can read it on her face (remember she works for a fashion magazine and organises photoshoots). Sheer calculating, organising force. And with a gaze like that, ready to make you wither and die were you to deny her, you see specifically why I chose her.

— The Look —

Smart attire, comfortable flats or slippers to dash from a place to another. Comfy, fashionable, practical. She’s always on a rush from an appointment to the other and she uses bags big enough to hold a skirt and a pair of heels in case she needs more elegant attire for a last-minute evening appointment in fashionable clubs and restaurants. She’s more than happy to play Barbie for Jimin, letting him choose how to dress her.

Lace (Taehyung)

— The Face —

Louder big dick energy than your ex: yes

A neck to die for: yes

Eclectic charm: yes

Honestly, I think Lace is too particular — strange even — to find someone who could possibly embody her. What made me pick this specific woman was her very incisive choice in clothing and accessories, but I’ll update her sooner or later, I think. As me and my friend said: you don’t find Lace, is Lace that finds you. (Also, if anyone has a Lace to suggest, please send links 💖)

— The Look —

Black tight dresses, all the time. Tight pencil skirts and anything that screams Fifties housewife; lots of robes, unusual cuts and premium fabrics — she is a designer and lingerie maker, after all. She doesn’t follow trends, she makes them. She is literally one of those people who looks good even with the most hideous, unfashionable things on. However, the moment she wears a silk slip dress, her power intensifies by a few thousand times — do not expect Taehyung not to get weak in the knees. In the house she’s absolutely comfortable wearing a robe with nothing underneath — and sometimes she doesn’t even tie it close. Taehyung is perfectly okay with that.

Candy (Jungkook)

— The Face —

Biggest smile: yes

Cutest lil nose: yes

Very squishable: yes

The small happy bean is a very gentle bean too. She is a graphic designer and a cartoon artist and it shows in her whole being, even in her facial features. I imagine her hair not too long, soft and wavy — though the most valuable asset to Jk is their scent. And look at those sweater(shirt) paws!!! Adorable.

— The Look —

First rule of Candy and Jk’s relationship is “my flannel shall be thy flannel”. Their wedding rings will probably be flannel shirts. Candy likes to pull them off with oversized sweats or coloured jeans. She also wears oversized sweaters — probably stolen from Jk’s wardrobe — together with leggins and mid-calf socks, especially since her workplace is not too strict with dresscode. She likes oversized and layered fits, using light cotton shirts and tank tops in the summer and fleece/flannel shirt and warm woolen turtlenecks in winter. Comfort always comes first. Expect her to use biker shorts and giant T-shirts and bulky shoes in the summer on her spare time.

An extra — since I’m sooooo gay for these two

Sora Choi and Yoon Young Bae are the two models that I immediately spotted respectively for Kitten and Vixen and the fact that they posed together made me super soft (I literally fell in love with both of them). Oh also!!! Yoon has posted on her insta the sweetest picture of her with a snow bear and it was like... a sign, but also so endearing and I’M SMITTEN, HEAD TO TOE IN LOVE WITH THIS SMALL CUTE LIL POTATO. She’s a cutie and Sora has the prettiest smile I swear to God I’d give the world for these two. *bisexuality upgrades*

Did you imagine them differently? Are there any of the girls that match or challenge your ideas? Leave your impressions in the comments!!! 😚☺️

#introducing the girlfriends #bts blog #bts headcanons #bts scenario #namjoon x vixen #jin x angel #yoongi x kitten #hoseok x giggles #jimin x princess #taehyung x lace #jungkook x candy

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narniaandplowmen · 4 years ago

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Such End True Lovers Have

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 1802 words.

Teen and Up Audiences / Major Character Death Complete

Part 3 of Half a Century of Poetry

Those bright soft clothes might have belonged to Jaskier, but they do not belong to Julian anymore. After Geralt's words, Jaskier gives up his life as a travelling bard and becomes a farmhand. Jaskier is no more, but a life without Geralt and a life without music is not one he is willing to live.

Jaskier looked down at the colourful doublets in his bag. They were soft and delicate and pretty and everything he was not feeling at that moment. That did not mean, however, that he wasn’t slightly startled every time he saw himself in a reflective surface. For the first time in his life, he was wearing dull brown and dusty white clothes, sown to fit a farmer, not a noble-born bard. For the first time in his life, the clothes on his back scratched and itched, and, for the first time in his life, they did not hide his surprisingly strong stature that did not match his usual frail, dandelion-like behaviour. But, regardless of the lack of comfort, the lack of tailoring, the lack of colour and brightness that had characterised Jaskier the Travelling Bard, these clothes fit.

The first time he had seen his own reflection after the words Geralt had thrown at him, was when he stumbled upon a clear brook whilst making his way down the mountain. He had followed the stream in the hope it would lead him to civilisation, and, after a while, he had noticed something red reflecting next to him. His own clothes, bright and happy and too excitable . The longer his reflection followed him, the more they felt like inches of red lead sinkers round his neck, cutting his oxygen, filling up the white inside and green around him with a choking noise. So he had tossed it out. He had taken off the precious, expensive jacket and thrown it in the mud behind him. The man who wore colours as bright as his smile was gone. He had died the moment Geralt had turned his back to him, and he would not be resurrected.

The tailor had been surprised, but at least he had been kind enough to attempt to hide it. It was not his fault Jaskier - no, he reminded himself, Julian - had grown up around politicians and nobles with more secrets to keep than grains of sand in the world, and noticed more than people knew. But, to the tailor’s credit, he had tried. And, to the tailor’s credit, he had paid Jask- Julian well. There were plenty of noblemen in Brughes who would be willing to buy them, after all. The fabric was a high quality, and it would not take many adjustments to make the doublets look brand new.

In a nearby village, Julian found a job at a local farm. He left the moment rumours started to spread of drowners terrorising the nearby stream.

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languish'd air,

By love are driv'n away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yew to deck my grave:

Such end true lovers have.

There seemed to be no place that had not heard of Jaskier the Bard and his muse, Geralt the Witcher. Jaskier- Julian had never thought he would regret being so talented. There was no town he could travel, village he could go without hearing some other singer butcher Toss a Coin or another one of his heroic retellings of Geralt’s contracts. There seemed to be no place on the entire Melitele-damned Continent that had not heard of the white-haired hero and the famous bard. With his shaved head and commoner’s clothes, the crowds had yet to make a connection between the stranger who had wandered into their town and the disappeared Master Bard, but it would only be a matter of time. There had to be some place on the Continent where nobody knew, where there were no monsters, no Witchers, no travelling bards reminding Julian what he had lost.

It had been foolish to fall in love with Geralt, Julian knew that. Not because of the whole ‘Witchers don’t have feelings’ bullshit, and not even because Geralt seemed to be completely straight, but because it was abundantly clear that it was never meant to be. Jaskier was a bright, loud, energetic nuisance in Geralt’s dark, stoic and straight-forward world, a weak mortal getting into messes he needed other people to solve. Witchers clean up messes, they don’t travel with them. And they certainly don’t fall in love with them. Yet, Julian had fallen in love with him anyway. One day, he had caught his own reflection in a puddle as he walked towards the cows to milk them, and he had barely recognised himself. The man staring up from him from the watery surface looked sad and tired and dead, a far cry from the young man in a bar in Posada, receiving one golden coin from a white-haired Witcher in exchange for his heart.

He didn't remember when exactly he had fallen in love. It might have been the first moment he saw the dark, brooding stranger with his long, white hair. Maybe it had been when Geralt had pleaded the elves to let Jaskier live. Maybe it had been after, when he had begrudgingly agreed to let Jaskier travel with him. Maybe it was all the little moments gathered together. Yet never, no matter what Jaskier did, had the Witcher given any sign that he knew of the bard's feelings, nor had he given any indication if the feelings were returned. So Jaskier had kept his distance. He had satisfied himself with singing the Witcher's praises, washing the Witcher's hair, defending the man's honour and reputation. He had had to make do with watching from a distance, closing his eyes as he bedded another woman or man and pretended the long hair brushing his skin, the strong hand grabbing his hips, the flesh causing the pressure inside him and around him was Geralt's, rather than the innkeeper's daughter, the blacksmith's son, the nobleman and, the next day, his wife. Geralt was not his, and, Jaskier knew, he would never be.

His face is fair as heav'n,

When springing buds unfold;

O why to him was't giv'n,

Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is love's all worship'd tomb,

Where all love's pilgrims come.

Julian thought that Jaskier had died the moment he had turned away from Geralt, but he had been wrong. Jaskier truly died when Julian and the other stablehands tried to capture and calm down a cow, panicked after a wolf, starving from a harsh winter, tried to attack her, and crushed Julian’s hand. Three fingers and his wrist were broken, and he would never be able to play the lute again. He wrote a formal letter to the University of Oxenfurt, informing them of Jaskier’s untimely demise after suffering from the Red Plague, granting his property to his sister and the rights to his songs to Essie. The letter was accompanied by a lute, leaving no doubt in the rector’s mind that the star student had, indeed, passed away. A day of mourning was announced, but any attempts at collecting Jaskier’s body to bury him in the Poet’s Corner turned out unsuccessful. The village the anonymous informer had said was the final resting place of the famous lyricist had created a mass grave to bury their dead, and any attempts at identifying which body belonged to Jaskier had been hopeless. Instead, a remembrance stone was resurrected in the University Garden.

Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Every day, every week, every month, every season, every year was the same and the same and the same. His hand had healed enough for him to be able to continue work on the farm, but the three broken fingers were permanently bent out of shape. When the weather got cold, his joints hurt.

Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Every day the same damn thing, the same damn routine, the same damn view, the same damn people, the same damn darkness, darkness, darkness inside him. When one day, a brown-haired, blue-eyed, brightly-clothed travelling bard performed in the village’s inn, Julian stood outside looking in and saw himself. If he squinted his eyes, Old Joe the blacksmith, with his long, grey hair, could almost look like Geralt. If he slightly closed his ears so the words were blurred, the bard’s song could almost sound like Jaskier’s. And if he ignored the pain in his joints, the pain in his back, the calluses on his fingers from years of hard work, he could almost imagine he was young again, back on the Path with Geralt, living a life of happiness and adventure. But when he opened his eyes and ears all of it was gone. His own reflection in the mirror stared back at him, but that body was not his. This life was not his. Nothing here was his, was him, was anything worth living for. Every day the same damn day, every week the same damn week, every month the same damn- Julian turned away and started walking.

The first frost of the season was yet to arrive, so the forest floor was soft and wet and pliant under his spade. The graveyard’s hill looked out on the entire village, bathing in the early Autumn sun. The yellow, red and brown leaves underneath Julian gathered to cover the bottom of the grave he had dug smelled of decay and ground and, when he lied down, of home. And when the steel - silver for monsters, steel for humans a distant voice in his head said - knife pierced his skin, grazed his rib, cut his lung and then, as the hand that would never play again moved, tore his heart in half, Julian welcomed the sharp pain over the numbness that had filled the years before.

The dead stablehand was found by the baker’s widow visiting her husband’s grave. A small funeral service was held, and the bard, who had stayed in the village overnight, would never know for whom his mourning song was sung. A stone with the initial J carved into it by the blacksmith marked the spot of the grave the inhabitant had dug for himself. The spade, tied to it a purse with a few silver coins and the note ‘payment for use’, was returned to its rightful owner. The people spoke about the man who had appeared in the village one day refusing to tell anything about his past and had now died for a little while, but he was soon forgotten in the busyness of day-to-day life. It was not until a storm dislodged a few roof tiles of the farm the stablehand had been living at that a strange poem was found, signed Jaskier , like the bard of old:

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding sheet;

When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat:

Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.

True love doth pass away!

#jaskier #the witcher #the witcher ff #tw: suicide #tw: depression #made by me #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #Such End True Lovers Have #written by me #geraskier ff #Half a Century of Poetry

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cheerysmores · 6 years ago

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I’m faraway stuck here

Previous part HERE

Getting his things to his new place doesn’t take as long as Yuuri first thought.

It starts out slowly: dropping off his spare gym bag when coming home from the rink, packing some old out of season clothes from the very back of his closet, boxing all the little trinkets he hastily threw into a suitcase while nervously staring at his one way plane ticket to St.Petersburg. They’re all things he theoretically doesn’t really need. Things he can live without should he choose to back out, choose to stay.

More than once he wavers on his decision. Packing some more of his clothes, he stops when his fingers brush the worn softness of an old red sweater. It takes him a second to realise that it isn’t his, that it’s the first piece of clothing he ever borrowed from Victor when he’d seen it mistakenly folded at the end of his bed. He stops himself as he goes to bury his face in the thick material, but the ghost of an old smell still brushes past his nose as he pulls it away. He recognises the cool scent of the ocean. Images of warm breezes and warmer smiles splash through his mind in dappled watercolours as he remembers quickly tugging it over his head on the last day of summer when the orange of the sunset had just started to sink below the horizon. He also remembers what happens after, the firmness of another hand in his, pulling him into the soft foam of the shallows as a dozen messy kisses were scattered like rose petals across his cheeks.

He stuffs it back into Victors side of the closet and quickly slams the door.

Like sand slipping through an hourglass, slowly more and more of his belongings make their way to the small apartment in a mess of disorganised piles. Each new box he carries through the door, carries a little piece of his heart with it. The sound of packing tape ripping is what he imagines his soul breaking might sound like as well.

He knows the route by heart. It’s much further away from the rink then he would have liked, but right now, this is all he can afford. Some shitty one bed with a cold breeze and colder looks in the eyes of the other tenants in a neighbourhood that almost scares him when he walks through it at night.

But doesn’t scare him as much as what he thinks might happen if he stays.

Part of him is almost glad he’s so far away, that they’re coming from opposite directions to train, that he can’t just accidentally end back at his old place when running.

Victor’s place he mentally corrects himself.

It bites whenever he thinks like that. Deep down he knows that once it was his place too. That for a while, even just a short while, they had a life here- together. He also knows that that safety and warmth haven’t been present between those four walls for what feels like an eternity at this point, it’s no longer the environment to nurture life and love.

It’s that thought that has him collecting the remnants of his livelihood and hiding them between four flimsy cardboard sides.

He knows he’s being a coward, finding the cheapest place he could in secret, packing when Victor isn’t home, keeping his words short and robotic at the rink. He wants to say that this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he just can’t. He knows this is what he needs to try and set his mind in some kind of order. Every time he thinks of stopping, the same cold sharp reasoning screams loudly in his mind.

He’s tried everything to fix this, tried time and time again to get Victor to talk to him, tried with all the warmth he could to break through the chilled wall of silence the other man had erected between them and at this point… frankly he’s just sick of being the only one putting in any effort to try and salvage whatever they are.

He knows he isn’t stupid. He can see Victor is hurting, that something is wearing down his spirit until all the brightness of his inspiration had dulled like stone tossed about in a stormy ocean, but nothing he had been doing had helped.

Until Victor has the willpower to actually tell him what’s wrong, there’s nothing else he can do to try and cement the cracks between them.

And he certainly doesn’t want to dwell on the fact that it was starting to feel like the other man just doesn’t care anymore.

And so the last of his things get carefully wrapped and slowly driven over to his new place.

He thinks about telling Yuri. Despite the sharpness that characterises the teenagers tongue, Yuuri knows that he cares, knows that he’s basically family at this point. Knows that this is hurting him too. He mocked and rolled his eyes whenever Victor and him were more than a little affectionate, but it was nothing compared to the quiver of fear Yuuri can see flash in his eyes as the indifference between Victor and everyone around him grew.

Unlike himself, Yuuri isn’t sure if yuri actually knows how to be silent. He’d asked about it, hanging around after training and pointedly asking “what the hell is with you and the old man?” Yuuri didn’t have the energy to try and paint a rosier picture.

“He’s hurting. He’s hurting about something and he won’t tell me what,” he’d replied, trying to get round him so he could pick up the keys to his new apartment.

“It’s hurting you too isn’t it.” It’s not a question.

Yuri’s words had caught him slightly off guard. He knew he hasn’t been hiding his feelings that well at the rink, everytime Victor had given a less than enthusiastic comment, his whispered curses hadn’t been subtle, but Yuri wasn’t someone he expected to comment.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried and tried and tried and he just won’t- talk to me.” The words were gushing past his lips before he could stop himself, the fact that someone was finally acknowledging this breaking the lock he’d put around all this. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his gaze dropped from Yuri’s. “I’ve tried to help but it’s like he won’t let me.”

“So don’t then.” He held up a hand when Yuuri’s eyes had shot back up in surprise. “Look, I want him to go back to his normal oh-my-god-will-you-stop-talking-for-five-seconds self as much as you. He’s useless to everyone here right now.” Yuri folded his arms and leaned forward a little, tone hushed. “But if he’s not going to take the help he’s freely being given by those who care, take it away and see what he does then.”

“It sounds so harsh when you put it like that.”

The teenager just shrugged at the comment. “Put yourself first for once. Believe it or not, you’re not here solely because of him.” He took another step forward, the blade of his expression suddenly softer. “It’s because you fought to be better.”

For the first time in weeks, Yuuri felt the smallest sliver of hope break through the thick bricks of doubt in his mind. He’d actually smiled as he started walking again, Yuri keeping up as he went. “I never expected to hear that from you.”

“Tell anyone and I’ll skate over your throat.” The words were blunt, but Yuuri could hear the slight playfulness behind them. “But I don’t think being around him is good for you right now.”

They’d continued the rest of the walk to Yuri’s place in a comfortable silence until he started to wave the younger man off.

“Hey, Yurio.” He’d stuffed a small piece of paper in his hand before he could question. “It’s my new address. I’m moving in next week.”

It had felt good to do that. Finally telling someone about everything that was playing on his mind, giving him the push to finish what he started.

There’s just one last thing he needs to do. Something that he knows is going to hurt more than the thousand heartbreaks he’s felt splinter in his chest every time he’d been swatted down when he tried to reach out.

He has to tell Victor.

He wants to be surprised that Victor hasn’t mentioned Yuuri’s disappearing things but with how much he’s been sleepwalking through his days like a zombie and collapsing in the guest room when getting home late that he really isn’t.

It’s almost a relief, but it still hurts just that little bit more. How his things, his life can just vanish from the place they both called home and it not feel any emptier.

It’s the purpled dusk of a steely March evening when Yuuri finally gathers his courage.

He sits on the very edge of the sofa, wringing his hands together until his skin aches as he stares at the front door. The last box of his possessions are open at his feet. His skates are deliberately placed on top, next to his olympic jacket which is carefully pressed and folded. He hopes the image alone will be enough to convey what’s happening when Victor walks through the door.

He’s already rehearsed what he’s going to say. He’s had weeks to think about how Victor might react to the news, had more than a dozen sleepless night to play out every scenario in his head, but even now he knows that the minute he sees the realisation dawn in Victor’s eyes that all his words will most likely disintegrate in his mouth.

But still, he can’t run from this. Even if Victor might want to.

Every minute feels like it’s being dragged through syrup as it passes. The light fades ever so slowly through the window until the shifting shadows gradually engulf the room in an unkind darkness. Yuuri uncrosses his legs and shifts on the couch as he watches the clock in the corner tick from nine to ten to eleven, the worry in his gut only pulsing more strongly as each hour passes.

It’s past midnight when he finally breaks.

Either Victor was pushing himself at stupid hours of the night, or he somehow knew what was coming, either way Yuuri is done hanging on for him. In any situation.

Exhaling slowly, he grabs a notepad from across the table and just starts writing. Everything he wanted to say for the past few weeks feels like it’s bleeding from his pen as he writes. All his anger, his love and his hurt spills onto the paper like the flow of so many of his tears as he goes, not stopping until everything he ever thought about the whole situation is stabbed into the pad in messy black and white.

Ripping the sheets from the notebook, he feels some of the weight also rip out from his chest as he throws the pen across the room. He doesn’t reread it, just turns the paper over and rubs his temples.

It’s not the closure he wanted. But it’s done. If Victor reads it, then he’ll finally know exactly what he’s doing to himself. To both of them.

It’s the final thing he’s going to do for Victor. At least until he deigns to reach out to him for once.

He knows he’s being bitter. Knows that if at last years GPF he could see what he was doing now, he’d scream that that wasn’t him. That he could never do that to Victor. That he’d find a way to make it work, yelling and crying that Victor would never do that to him.

He fights the ghostly burn of old tears at the thought.

He’d tried staying and it had done nothing. Maybe space was the only thing left that could heal the chilled air between them. It’s all he has left to try at this point.

He leaves a letter left folded on top of the coffee table as he leans down to pick up the box at his feet.

He feels his body lock up a little as the ring on his finger glints softly in the low light.

It’s the one thing he’d refused to pack, refused to put away despite the fact it felt like it was getting heavier and heavier with the weight of old memories as each day passed. He twists it on his finger until the gold burns his skin raw as he stares at the paper in front of him. Eventually he takes it off and lets the warmed metal sits in the palm, the warped view of his own eyes staring back at him on the mirrored surface.

He dreams about the day he bought it almost nightly, vividly reliving the nervous buzz in his stomach as he slid the matching band onto Victor’s finger while the cold December air bit into his cheeks. When he’d passed his credit card across the counter, he really hadn’t known exactly what he wanted, just that he needed to do something to show how much Victor’s support and love really meant to him.

Things he hasn’t felt for what feels like a lifetime at this point.

He feels something catch in his throat when he spins the ring between his fingers and catches the half snowflake still intricately etched inside. If there was one thing that kept him wavering it was how he knows Victor still has his on. He’d seen him twisting and rubbing it whenever the stress got too much, sometimes pressing the metal against his forehead like it could somehow draw out pain if he tried hard enough.

The rings were two halves. Two puzzle pieces made to be together. Golden wedding rings he’d bought in the hope he could hold onto the similarly golden joy that burst through his mind every time Victor took his hand.

They aren’t memories he’s willing to cut off just yet.

He puts it back on, carefully placing his keys to this apartment by the note instead.

Shutting the door behind him, he’s surprised by how easy it is to walk away now, even with the weight of their commitment still burning prominently and solid on his finger.

He’ll have to face Victor at the rink at some point, have to face whatever it is he might say, but that can wait for another time. He has a few days rest now, maybe he can use the time to figure out a new future.

Five World Championships was what he promised. It might be time to carve out a more realistic goal. One for both of them.

Collapsing into the single cot in his new place, he sleeps with his phone upturned by his face. He knows Victor probably won’t reach out immediately, maybe won’t even notice that he isn’t there when he finally comes home, but that doesn’t stop him turning up the ringer to full volume.

Just in case.

AO3

#yuri on ice #yoi #victuuri #victor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #angst #my writing #I'm sorry

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georgiecarrfilmreview · 5 years ago

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The Highwaymen

This review originally appeared in Ghoul Magazine:

https://www.ghoulmagazine.com/home/2019/5/31/the-highwaymen

Die! In the name of the law! This is the engine that drives The Highwaymen, Netflix’s retelling of the exploits of Depression era bank-robbers, Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, and the men who killed them. The Highwaymen follows two ex-Texas Rangers, Frank Hamer (Kevin Costner) and Maney Gault (Woody Harrelson) who are brought out of retirement by the no-nonsense state Governor, Ma Ferguson (Kathy Bates), for one last job - the extrajudicial execution of outlaws deemed too famous and too violent to be brought to justice any other way.

The Highwaymen is constructed, from its opening shots, around symbols of American Opportunity - vast space, straight roads, Ford cars. The dust of the dirt track and the vintage car show that this is an America of the past, nostalgically rendered through long, loving shots of Ford emblems on car bonnets. Both the outlaws and the law drive Fords - one stolen at gunpoint, one bought with hard-earned pay from a job in private security. The opening song of the soundtrack, composed for the film by Thomas Newman, is called ‘Ford V-8 Deluxe’. The outlaws drive recklessly, switching cars to avoid detection. Hamer’s car is sleek, the dark paintwork reflecting the sky above, almost always in motion. Hamer cares for his car - as he sets out his wife’s parting words are, ‘If you're covering miles, keep oil in her’. By contrast the Barrow Gang cars are brash cherry red and often sit, unnaturally still, waiting in lure for policemen, the sinister score confirming the sense that these cars have been mispurposed or misused. Who, the film asks, has the right to drive this most American commodity and how does this define their relationship with the state? The film, after all, is Based On A True Story, set in actually existing America. Hamer and Gault track the Barrow Gang across the country:

‘North to Kansas or Iowa,

east to Illinois or Indiana,

south to Arkansas.

Then right back to Texas

to start over again.

We got no jurisdiction north of Red River.

Maybe Hoover will take 'em up there.

Carthage.

Carthage...

Carthage, Missouri.’

Hamer and Gault discuss a lead in Bienville Parish, East of Shreveport. Seconds later, a title card - the Ford draws in to - ‘Bienville Parish, East of Shreveport. Kansas’. This verisimilitude established between the historical narrative and its cinematic representation lends the film a documentary weight, a realism. It also creates a of logic of believability in which the accuracy of small things - dates and place names - suggests, by extension, the authenticity of bigger things - the character of Hamer and Gault, the evil of Bonnie and Clyde and the ideological integrity of their mission.

The tightly scripted geographic references also link The Highwaymen to the Western genre - to cowboys and cattle drives to Missouri and the Red River. The film is attuned to this, Gault remarking, ‘I don’t remember a saddle being as hard on a man’s ass as these seats’. In typical Western tradition Hamer and Gault are old men positioned against progress, washed-up and beat, who ‘might go to hell’ for what they have done - their hard justice set against the softer sensibilities of the modernising police force who believe that the time ‘to put a pair of man-killers on the trail and let them do their job’ has passed. This is a recurring Western motif, personified in the clash between James Stewart and John Wayne in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance wherein lethal violence is discounted as Old West, soft and dangerously out of date - until someone comes along too evil to be stopped by sensitive, modern means. Violent and scored into American geography - the history of the Western genre is replete with gun-toting double-acts: John Wayne and Walter Brennan in Rio Bravo, or Paul Newman and Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. These partnerships work because of contrasts between the characters - their differences and their attempts to bridge these are often the source of humour or poignancy. In The Highwaymen, however, Hamer and Gault are both firmly characterised as gruff curmudgeons, their monosyllables providing little space to riff off one another. There are attempts to add lightness to their characters - Hamer has a pet boar (Porky), Gault has bladder issues. But these grueling additions to the script are a side-note to the main focus: their damaged Old West masculinity which can only be redeemed through a job well done. The Texas Rangers (founded during colonial expansion into Mexico, historically both a police force and patriotic militia, and symbolic of state power at home and abroad) have been disbanded by Ma Ferguson - the time of the violent cowboys is past. Instead Hamer and Gault must work on ‘special assignment’ - as Highwaymen. But under whatever modern bureaucratic aegis they are assigned, Hamer and Gault are cowboys in their mind’s eye. Figuratively, they pick up their sheriff’s star from the dust, pin it ceremoniously back to their jacket and saddle up.

The film works hard to characterise Hamer and Guilt as inherently good, whilst Bonnie and Clyde are intrinsically bad. The faces of the outlaws are hidden throughout. In place of a character for Bonnie we see only an immaculately stockinged and shod foot (the violence thus eroticised and gendered) as she blasts cops’ heads with a sawn off shotgun. Any scenes which might go somewhere to explain the lawlessness of Clyde and Parker or flesh out their characters are set up to damn rather than mitigate. Clyde’s first brush with the law, we learn, was to ‘steal a goddamn chicken’. But in the black and white logic of good and evil this is proof enough of bad character; in a climactic line Hamer asks ‘You ever think maybe there was something in Clyde that made him steal that chicken in the first place?’ Assertions of their immorality take the form of rhetorical questions, barked at anyone who might defend the gang. They must not be romanticised. As Ma Ferguson asks, ‘Did Robin Hood ever shoot a gas station attendant point-blank in the head for four dollars and a tank of gas?’ Bit Characters line up to confirm the justice of the death sentence. Ma Ferguson, the Texas police force, Clyde’s Father and Hamer’s wife confirm that ‘there is only one way this is going to end’. These are reasonable people - adults, property owners, elected officials - conferring reasonableness and a humanitarian drive to their mission. On the afternoon before the execution Hamer and Gault undertake a pre-killing cleanse - shave, fresh suits - bathed in beautiful white dusky light. Killing may be dirty and distasteful but they will be wearing crisp white shirts when they pull the trigger. And my god, when they pull the trigger - over 167 bullets are fired into Bonnie and Clyde’s car, ripping the outlaws, and their 1934 Ford Deluxe, to bits.

But how does the film want us to see these deaths? At times the message seems confused. Sad music plays as the hail of bullets come to an end. We see Bonnie and Clyde’s faces just once - terror-stricken - as Hamer and Gault must have seen them as they opened fire. A tragedy has occurred. But whose tragedy? The lingering shots on Hamer and Gault’s careworn faces assure us that it is theirs. This scene is the most dramatic encapsulation of the film’s aim - a new telling of an old story from the other side of the law. The credits underscore this idea of a story re-told for different tragic emphasis. We are shown black and white 1930s photographs of Hamer and Gault and the Texas police force, the chromatic colouring asserting their everyday heroism and the historical truth of the drama. In monochrome lettering suggestive of Objective Historical Fact (rather than Carefully Selected Fact) we are told that Clyde and Parker’s funeral attracted 35,000 mourners. They, at least, were celebrated. Hamer and Gault, by contrast, return to relative obscurity as unsung heroes. But the final title card informs us that an even greater justice resulted from Hamer and Gault’s success - the full restoration of the Texas Rangers Department, justifying the central argument of the film and of policing practice; that sometimes, people have to die.

#the highwaymen #kevin costner #bonnie and clyde #woody harrelson

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artificialqueens · 8 years ago

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Bees and Butterflies (Katya-centric Katlaska) - Cactus

A/N – WARNING: Super-long author’s note. Can’t be bothered to read? Just get the bit in bold to see the warnings.

Hi guys! My name is Cactus – new writer, long-time reader. This is just a one-shot to get me started, for now.

In this universe, Katya and Alaska are both boys – Brian and Justin. Brian is a trans man (FTM), and Justin is cis – I’m a trans guy myself, and a lot of the feelings/experiences Brian has here are things I or people I’m close to have dealt with –disclaimer that this isn’t everyone’s experience of being trans; I don’t speak for everyone. The boys are both in college and for the context of this fic, Brian is younger than Justin, which I know isn’t reality but meh, that’s what ended up happening.

Pronouns: He/him for Justin throughout. Brian is he/him, but she/her is sometimes used in his own internal monologues. You’ll see what I mean – I hope it makes sense.

This one isn’t the most cheerful – a fair bit of angst / hurt/comfort, although there’s some fluff in the middle to keep everyone going. So in the spirit of that - CONTENT WARNINGS: Gender dysphoria / misgendering (this is the big one, that’s a theme throughout), mention of self-harm/suicidal ideation (very very brief), drug/alcohol use mention, mention of death (very brief), transphobia. I’ve tagged these, and I’m being conservative with them because I don’t want to trigger/upset anyone, so even the slightest mention earns itself a tag.

This one is super Katya-centric, but let me know what you think, especially RE: Characterisation because it’s my first time writing these characters. I’m keen to continue with this universe and write fluffier/happier things within it as well, and I’m keen to explore Justin’s perspective more if people would be interested.

Enjoy! Cactus

Eyes up. Head forward. Breathe.

You’ve got this.

So goes Brian’s daily shower mantra.

And if the shower edges to the wrong side of scalding, an attempt to burn all the wrong in him and on him away; and if he scrubs at his skin a little too long and a little too hard, some part of him hoping that the she, the her, would slip away down the drain with the swipe of a washcloth; and if a cocktail of shampoo and tears set his eyes on fire each time pruning hands brush over breasts, the lies his body persists in telling protruding from his aching chest –

If these things happen, then nobody is there to see it.

These are the minutes of Brian’s day which make bile burn in the back of his throat – the minutes in which he can’t bind and pack and dress his body into a story that’s his.

No matter what he tries, these minutes are always her’s, and her body echoes with the ripples of everything that he isn’t, and some nights he showers sitting down, tears and water merging through palms pressed to his eyes until he sees stars.

And some nights his eyes linger a moment too long on the razors that his roommate leaves on the bathroom counter, as if he could carve an escape map on his arms and his thighs and leave this lying skeleton behind – but he refuses to die in her body. He can’t stomach the concept of lying under a gravestone dedicated to a phantom that never truly existed.

And some nights he sings, loud and off-key and awful over the drone of the shower, a futile attempt to drown out the voice in his head which slips up and calls him she more often than he’ll own up to (because if he can’t get this pronoun thing down, how the fuck can he expect anyone else to?).

And some nights he thanks every deity he gave up on years ago, that the bathroom mirror fogs over before he steps out of the shower – grateful not a strong enough word when he isn’t confronted with his face on her traitorous body.

But some nights, a hand will reach to wipe away the fog (small, dainty, too much hers and not enough his) and Brian will force himself to take stock of his body – to take inventory of the house he’s grown up in, that he so often dreams of burning to the ground.

(This is invariably a mistake. These nights are the worst nights. These are the nights when sobs threaten to shake his body apart at the joints, to scatter him across the white tile floor).

Some nights, showering is hard, and other nights it’s worse, the skin he’s forced to share with her crawling as he exposes himself, but he clings to the hope of one day it won’t be like this like a life raft.

(And if this is a life raft then someone’s punched some holes in the fucking thing, because it never keeps him buoyant for long.)

On the first day of class, his freshman year of college, there are icebreakers which elicit a unanimous groan rippling around the room as they are asked to share their name, major, and one thing they hate.

(‘That always provides more interesting answers than ‘something you love’ – I don’t give a damn about your dog, or your grandma, or your favourite TV show’ clips the teacher, face wrinkled and folded and faded like torn edges of a weathered road map).

‘Brian, performance art major, and I hate showering more than anything in the world. If I could, I’d find a way to remain clean indefinitely without ever having to shower’ draws laughter from his classmates for the conviction behind his answer, punctuated with staccato hand movements and an open palm slapped on his desk.

The best jokes bloom from seeds of pain.

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

Brian gets dressed in the dark.

The irony of this, given his penchant for problem patterns and clashing colours which cause friends and (very fucking rude, thank-you-very-much) strangers alike to jibe that he looked like he was dressed by a colour-blind six-year-old with ADHD, thank you Trixie, is not lost on him.

It isn’t – contrary to popular opinion – that he doesn’t care what he looks like; he is, in fact, pathologically particular about his clothing and general appearance.

He spends eons agonising over what to wear, bony fingers grazing back and forth amongst shirts and pants in his closet which he pulls out in endless combinations, finding fault with each in turn with expert precision.

A teal tank top – No. Won’t hide his binder.

A red plaid shirt that he’d fallen in love with in the store – Won’t make his chest look flat enough. No way.

A green floral jacket, garish and ugly and bright and perfectly him; it had been the first piece of “men’s clothing” he’d ever bought (although last he’d checked, none of his clothes had a penis or a vagina, and therefore gendering of clothing was archaic fucking bullshit), and a smile had itched at the corners of his lips the whole walk home, persisting even through the traitorous I’m sorry, ma’am of the man who’d bumped into him on the pavement.

He aches to wear it – to slip it over too-narrow shoulders and walk out the door with every ounce of the Pride that he sees in others, but can’t seem to dredge out of the gutters of his own veins.

But garish and ugly and bright is certain to elicit stares of strangers – and staring strangers means people who will look through him to find the her he’s choking back, staring strangers means not even Justin’s hand dwarfing his own can quell the rolling of his stomach, staring strangers at best means yes ma’am, means young lady, means the ladies’ bathroom’s that way, aimed at him like needles in the soft skin behind his knees, and at worst –

The blazer joins the pile of discarded clothes on his bed.

One day.

Glancing at his phone and realising he has – motherfucker, he only has twenty minutes before he needs to leave to meet Justin, and absolutely positively in no way can he be late, Barbara – he settles on black skinny jeans and a graphic T shirt that’s both loose and high-necked enough to conceal his binder.

Not what he would choose, necessarily, but the clinging denim and nylon are enough to choke the rattling breath out of her for the evening.

He reaches out and flicks the switch; plunges the room into darkness by the time his towel hits the floor. The dark won’t – can’t – smother her. But at least he won’t have to see it.

Lights off – clothes on.

This will do – for now.

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

Leaning against the wall of the movie theatre, casual in a way that’s calculated and intentional, Brian waits for Justin. He’d bit the inside of his cheeks to swallow a wry smile and feigned annoyance at the ‘I’m so sorry I’m going to be late – I’ll buy you popcorn to make up for it! 😊” that had popped up on his phone ten minutes previously, honestly expecting nothing less of his boyfriend (and holy shit it felt so good to be able to call Justin that).

Pulling his jacket tighter across his shoulders, bitten fingernails drum residual tension out into the bricks behind him.

Beneath the carefully constructed calm façade, his brain vibrates dully with the bees humming at the edges of his skull, wings beating out a dirge of keep your shoulders back it’ll make them look broader and don’t pop your hip it makes you look feminine, with stand up straighter it’ll make you look taller and that guy at the bus stop has looked over here five times now does this mean I don’t pass?

The bees are something which he can, if not ignore, relegate to the back of his mind on most days; a disquieting, discordant constant that underscore his existence. On some days, the days he doesn’t talk about, the wings beat themselves into a flurry, swarming and swooping and stinging him in places he tries to numb with pills and booze and blunts and Justin.

Justin.

And the sight reaches inside him and pulls laughter out from way down deep, and for once he doesn’t care that it’s too high too feminine too her, because Justin is fifteen minutes late and still walking the pavement like it’s a runway, slow and yet purposeful, all hip and leg and sass like a high-fashion giraffe, and the bees’ wings scratching at his temples slow a little as Brian pushes himself off the wall and crouches, miming taking pictures like a photographer at one of the fashion shows Justin makes them watch together.

And Justin is hamming it up, twirling and pouting and posing, and when he reaches Brian they both glance left right left and behind them for unkind prying eyes before you’re so fucking stupid is breathed from one set of lips against another between quiet chuckles and Justin tastes like vanilla and home.

And “sorry I’m late” and “you owe me popcorn, Brenda” is as good as I love you for both of them.

And a hand clasping his as they walk inside, homophobes be damned, and the casual ‘hey, boyfriend? You look handsome’ said like it’s nothing when it’s everything, turns the bees in Brian’s brain into butterflies for a while.

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

When they’re buying tickets inside, and the young girl behind the desk (fumbling and awkward, smudged glasses slipping down her nose as she prints their tickets) smiles sweetly and asks Justin if he and his girlfriend will be paying for tickets together or separately, it feels like someone’s taken scissors and sliced across every muscle and tendon that holds him upright, he wants to origami himself invisible because she said girlfriend, so he looks like a girl, because who is he kidding he’ll always be a girl, and Justin deserves the type of real man that shots and scalpels and sheer fucking will won’t – can’t – make him, and –

And the pad of Justin’s thumb presses itself in an arch across the back of Brian’s shoulder, firm and there and as reassuring as if the other man had pulled him into an embrace, as he looks the woman in the eye and informs her that yes, he and his boyfriend will pay together.

And the reply is polite, and it’s courteous, and Justin’s smiling as it passes his lips in a Sahara-dry drawl, lips snagging and dragging on every vowel, but it’s laced with conviction and with don’t fucking question this, bitch and the girl’s owl-eyes, impossibly larger behind coke-bottle lenses, widen as she takes their cash, grins an enjoy the movie, sirs, and watches them walk away.

And Brian exhales, her fingers unfurling as sweating palms wipe against his jeans.

And Justin’s lips are quirked lopsided as he walks beside him taking Snapchat selfies, trying every filter and guffawing unashamedly as they distort his face, showing Brian every one and saving the most wonderfully heinous to his Camera Roll.

(And it will take three kisses and a joint, later that evening, for Justin to convince Brian to take a selfie with him, and when he relents Justin glows enough to make Brian wish he’d agreed an hour ago, and they take about 50 in Brian’s bedroom before there’s one they’re both happy with, and Justin captions it “Effortlessly photogenic boyfriends” with a clown emoji and puts it on Instagram, and 112 people like it.)

There’s a bounce in Brian’s step as they ascend the stairs to the movie theatre, and he’s all wide mouth and crinkling eyes as he turns to Justin, mirth in his voice.

“Did you hear her? She called me sir!”

And the other man laughs, honest and joyful, locks his fingers through Brian’s where they’re clasping his arm in excitement.

“Damn right she did, sweetheart!”

Sometimes it’s the little things.

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

The movie – some saccharine, vapid rom-com, because finals week is approaching like a freight train down a steep hill with broken brakes and neither of them have the mental capacity to cope with anything heavier at this point – is simultaneously fucking terrible and worth every penny.

There isn’t much in the way of plot, and what plot there is they struggle to follow, too busy furnishing elaborate and so-implausible-they-could-come-true backstories for every character on screen. They decide that the heroine is really a Latvian supermodel who teaches disabled cows gymnastics in her spare time, and the hero a retired circus clown now working for MI5, and Justin is laughing so hard he almost chokes on the popcorn that he’s eaten about 97% of despite the fact that he’d bought it for Brian as an apology for being late a-fucking-gain, asshole, and Brian, when he realises, grabs one of the strawberry laces that taste more like a chemical plant than anything resembling strawberries, and feigns choking Justin with it.

And Justin – the fucking drama queen – is so over-enthusiastic in faking his death that he slips off his chair onto the sugar-sticky linoleum floor, then, deciding it’s more comfortable, remains there for the rest of the movie, periodically throwing popcorn kernels at his boyfriend.

And Brian thinks three things simultaneously:

1) How in the ever-loving hell is this overgrown, beautiful 21-year-old goddamn toddler about to graduate college?

2) The three other people who’ve got little enough common sense to have actually paid to see this shit, must really hate us by now.

3) Finals are clearly turning both of our brains into a vat of cold, lumpy mashed potato between our ears, that’s being stamped on by an elderly man with sweat problems comparable to Brian’s. And athlete’s foot.

Then the credits roll, Justin hoists himself back into his chair as the house lights come on, and neither of them could tell you the first thing about what the fuck they just watched because they’re both too far into a spiral of giggles to know why they’re laughing anymore beyond why the fuck not. Because their lips are loose and happy like rubber bands that have been stretched too far and Brian’s fishing popcorn kernels out of his hair as they walk out to dirty looks from other movie-goers, and Justin almost knocks an unsuspecting ten-year-old flying because he’s talking with his whole body about how he could give a tortoise on Benadryl an etch-a-sketch and it would probably be able to write a more captivating storyline than that and Brian’s wheezing because Justin has so many opinions on a movie he just fully didn’t watch.

Brian smokes outside while they wait for the bus, half-slumped against the taller man (and damn, he hates being short sometimes, but it feels so good to be enveloped in Justin), and Justin’s eyeing his cigarette pointedly like he wants a drag, but Brian smirks softly and doesn’t relent, laughing ‘You already took my fucking popcorn, jackass’, and blowing smoke-clouds in his face when the other man flips him off.

They find themselves sitting perched up on the same wall, the buses as consistent in their lateness as they tend to be, silent and soft and feet swinging, stealing glances back and forth and periodically tilting their phones towards one another to share gorgeous makeup on Instagram, or a funny meme on Facebook, breathy chuckles and throaty hums of appreciation the only noises to perforate this bubble in which Brian feels unequivocally himself.

Then a man comes jogging through the double doors of the movie theatre – leaves them swinging behind him as he spots the pair of them and ambles over.

Excuse me, ma’am? You left your jacket inside.

And Justin’s hand is on Brian’s in a second, tightening imperceptibly as he drawls ‘Oh, Brian, you did forget your jacket’, eyes locked like a sniper on the stranger before them the whole time.

The man stiffens, and the jacket in question discarded quickly – strewn haphazardly over the wall next to them as the man turns sharply on his heel back towards the building.

It’s as he’s walking away that they hear it – thrown under his breath out into the early summer breeze, it turns the air at once stagnant and hot.

Fucking tranny.

And Justin at once makes to stand, to go after the stranger, to – to do what, exactly, Brian has no earthly idea, because Justin Honard is a twig, a high-fashion giraffe, built like Slenderman ready for a runway; he’d (quite possibly literally) be slaughtered.

And Brian may or may not have drunk his own blood in high school (because nobody can prove it and it’s therefore pure hearsay) but he prefers his boyfriend alive, thank-you-very-much, and so with quaking hands he grips Justin’s shirt, a murmured “please – just don’t” breaking past his lips, and he’s inclined to write a personal letter of thanks to whoever the fuck is in charge of public transport in this city when their bus arrives just at that moment.

The funny thing about bees? You don’t notice they’re gone, until they come back.

And when they come back, they come back louder.

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

He feels intangible, like he’s not even really there, as Justin grasps his hand impossibly tight and leads him onto the bus, his long face a paradox of clenched jaw and soft eyes that never leave his boyfriend.

Brian’s aware of the small things – his saliva thick and viscous against his tongue, his pulse throbbing one two one two in the soles of his feet, and before he’s fully aware of anything beyond fucking tranny fucking tranny fucking tranny a soft kiss that says both too much and not enough is pressed to his temple and he’s pulled down into the itchy-scratchy stained seats of the bus.

His face buried in the pale nape of his boyfriend’s neck, Justin’s fingers tracing silent affirmations into his spine, Brian breathes – shudderingly steady.

He doesn’t cry. Wants to, sure. Arguably deserves to.

But doesn’t.

It’s as though whatever part of him can express emotion – can do anything other than breathe right now – has shut itself down, locked itself away, and Brian is stuck in a shell – her shell.

And so he breathes, Justin a buoy that he clings to in a vacuum – Justin’s fingers on his spine, Justin’s scent in every inhale, his soft voice a lighthouse as he speaks aimlessly of nothing much at all as they drive through the city, expecting no response. Asking nothing of Brian at all.

Brian breathes.

Justin lets him.

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

This isn’t blunt-force trauma; no bullets ripping through him, no knife-wound in his chest.

His blood doesn’t stain the seats – doesn’t seep down into the once-red-now-browning-orange fabric.

This won’t kill him.

It’s not a speeding car, 70 miles per hour downhill late at night, blowing her body into the air as a careless breeze carries autumn-burnt leaves.

(And those cars have, and do, and will, come for so many others like him, so many beautiful people whose minds and bodies, like oil and water, couldn’t ever mix, and the thought of all those others, all those graves he uses as stepping stones across this world he doesn’t quite fit into, all the bones of those who come before him that he ties together to build himself bridges, makes his breath catch a little even now.)

This is the bruise that blooms like violet bouquets on dirty elementary-school knees, the child crying more from the shock than the pain of the fall.

This is a papercut across the thumb – the pain greater than the wound, the sort of injury that’s met with rolled eyes and you’ll live, but stinging sweet and sharp.

No sirens; no drama.

He’ll live.

He’ll pull back into place the Jenga-bricks of his soul that shake and scatter themselves loose far too often and far too quickly.

(And some will chip, and some will crack, and more than he’ll own up to are stained and misshapen by now, and he’ll duct-tape them together – until next time.)

He’ll dissolve himself back into his reality; pull himself back to the surface by the thready rope of Justin’s voice.

Justin won’t ask are you okay? – knows this isn’t the sort of thing that is ever okay – and he’ll notice, but won’t mention, the way Brian’s attempt at a smile pulls too tight at reddened lips to be genuine.

As they step back off the bus, into a world whose acceptance of the who and what and why of him – of them – is tempered at every turn with qualifications, Brian watches his ungainly boyfriend swing himself around on a lamppost, singing snippets of showtunes that the other man neither knows nor cares to learn as he wiggles caterpillar brows in time, refusing to stop until he makes his boyfriend laugh.

It doesn’t take long. It’s not quite natural – not yet – as it bursts forth, scratching against his teeth. But it’s there – piercing the dark.

Refusing laughter only snowballs stigma, so they’ll rub humour on the bee stings till they hurt a little less.

With Justin by his side, this will never kill him.

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

The intent had been for both men to return to their respective dorms for the evening; with finals approaching, and it being Justin’s senior year, both had to study, as well as navigate relationships with roommates whose begrudging acceptance of their impromptu sleepovers could only be stretched so far.

But Justin sends a text, and then he’s firing excuses one then the next at Brian, citing I need you to read over my French paper and You left your sweater at mine last week and It’s getting late, anyway one after another as reasons that Brian should come back to his dorm, barely pausing for breath between them.

Brian doesn’t take much convincing; neither man wants to end this evening with the slur of a stranger and a sombre bus ride, and Justin knows and trusts that Brian is okay, within the relative confines of the term (knows, from what Brian has said, and what he hasn’t, that he has heard, and does hear, so much worse than that), but, just for tonight, would rather his love was okay with him and not without him.

Nobody should have to make themselves okay alone.

A note pinned to the door, as they arrive, written hurriedly in a lazy scrawl, makes Brian crane his neck to pull Justin into a kiss.

JH -

You owe me one, dude – I’ll take beer or pizza as my payment (jk).

Staying with Tuck – back @ 7am to grab my shit.

Hope ur boy is okay.

Lucas

“You exiled your roommate for me? For the third time this week?! No wonder the guy hates me, Justin!”

“He’ll get over it, he’s a big boy. And he does not hate you, I’ve told you this!”

“Lies, mother, it’s all lies…”

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

They share a joint sitting propped up by pillows in Justin’s bed – drag from it what they both need. Brian pulls calm, dispels the low hum of latent anxiety that still nestles itself under the surface of his skin; Justin, peace, to relax the muscles that still pull themselves taut with protective anger at the thought of someone making Bri feel anything less than wonderful perfect amazing beautiful man.

Between episodes of Golden Girls that Brian knows almost as well as Justin by now, ugly selfies, and languid conversation about innocuous topics that somehow feel sacred because it’s them, they build themselves a fortress away from the rest of the world.

Here, nobody can touch them – even she is banished with one word from his lips.

Eventually, with hearts much lighter but eyelids now-too-heavy, lights are turned out and both wait to let sleep claim them.

Between bedsheets too thick for the season (because what self-respecting college student owns more than one set of bedsheets?) Brian clings to Justin.

Clings to him like the other man is the only thing tethering him to earth; pulls him close as though he wants to sink into his bones, crawl inside his skin and feel what it feels like to be born into a body that’s your own.

And Justin presses kisses, smooth like pebbles beaten by waves, into his lover’s shoulders, you are all the man I need you to be caught in a phantom breath between pursed lips.

And in the dark, they dress each other in armour, with closed-mouth kisses and cold feet pressed against another’s legs.

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

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