#kent parson for ts

[thinbottomedcauldron]

was just thinking about how peace by TS is a Kent Parson coded song, in his feels about how Bitty can give Jack peace which he can never do…and then I had an image of him presenting Kit for the line “give you a child”

[tiptoe39]

for prompt Kent/Tater, Holiday:

Kent turns to sit sideways on the couch, snuggling into his boyfriend’s side, and pulled out his phone to check the calendar. “Crap. I don’t think we can get together for Christmas.”

Tater looks down at Kent, a little puzzled. “Why not?”

Kent taps the phone a couple times, double-checking the Aces’ and Falconers’ schedule. “We’ve got home games on opposite sides of the country on December 24th and 26th. Makes getting together for the 25th a little awkward.”

Tater lets out a little laugh. “No big. We get together for *real* Christmas.”

Kent looks up at Tater, a little annoyed. “Yeah. Real Christmas. December 25. Baby Jesus and Santa.”

Tater runs his fingers through Kent’s hair, fussing a bit with the cowlick. “No. Real Christmas. Russian Christmas. January 7. Baby Jesus and Snow Maidens. When I have home game and Aces are playing Bruins.” A kiss to the top of Kent’s head. “Father Frost can leave present for you at my house, and we eat my Babushka’s pirozhki.”

Kent turns around, looking up at Tater. “I’m not completely sure what that is, but I can do weird Russian Christmas things if it means I get to see you.”

Tater snorts. “Is not weird. Is little meat pie. So, good plan, yes? We get together then?”

Kent nods. “Absolutely.” And he eases himself into Tater’s lap. “In the meantime, we’re together now…”

[stufftippywrote]

he likes to read

(this wants with all its heart to be a multichapter fic but i need instant gratification sooo)

He likes to read.

He likes to read and Kent likes him, and he really doesn't know what to do about this fact.

Kent ran into him -- well, ran past him, really -- on a morning jog, in a usually deserted area of the community park where trees have been planted and are carefully watered to give the appearance of a verdant, lush grove in the middle of sunny, dusty Nevada. He was standing against a tree and reading, and when Kent jogged back to ask what he was doing, the man laughed and pointed to his book. Walden.

Kent's never read it. The man shrugs. "It's about a man who gave up his whole life to go live in the woods," he says. "I used to go to Walden Pond and re-read it once a summer. But now I'm here and, well... this is as close to the woods as I can get."

His name is James. He's a high school English teacher. He shakes Kent's sweaty hand and asks his name, what he does for a living.

Kent blinks at him hard. "You..." he starts. He was about to say, you don't know?

"Me? You do me?" James cracks a smile. "Is that a pick-up line?"

His smile is sunny, and Kent breaks a little bit inside. He finds himself quickly enough to say, "Would it work?"

**

Which is how he finds himself on a dinner date with a Massachusetts transplant who wears reading glasses to look at the menu. James is carefully put together, vest and jacket and groomed hair, but with one curl that hangs down over the center of his forehead like Superman. Kent wants to rake his fingers through that hair until it's going every which way. He wants to slide his hands under that vest, unbutton James' carefully done-up white blouse, and turn that entirely too proper outfit into a pile of wrinkled fabric and a pair of cast-off glasses on his bedroom floor.

Appetizers, and James tells him about teaching high school. It's the sort of subject Kent shouldn't find fascinating, but he does, and he doesn't know why. Maybe it's just the timbre of James' voice as he talks about shaping young minds, the way he talks with his hands. Maybe it's the way his cheeks pink that makes Kent want to understand why a profession without glamour, without fame, inspires such passion.

Over the main course, James turns the tables on Kent. "It's not fair, you know," he chides. "I've told you all about my job and my students. You haven't told me a thing. What do you do?"

"I, uh." Kent realizes with some alarm that he doesn't feel like bragging. "I'm an athlete."

"Oh." James looks him over with some appreciation. Kent wants to drown in that look. "Like a personal trainer?"

"Something like that," Kent says. He finds himself not wanting to say more. There's something about the way James looks at him that will change if he explains, and Kent's really enjoying being looked at like that just for himself, not for anything else.

"I'd think you'd be more buff," James says, and then flushes. "I mean, all the trainers I've ever seen were all muscle. You look more... well-rounded."

"I've got muscles," Kent protests.

"Oh." James looks him over one more time, a look like a wave of heat, sweeping over Kent. "In that case, you can show me later."

Kent nearly calls for the check right then.

**

They're kissing too hard for James to find his apartment keys; they laugh as he tries to fish them out of his pocket without breaking the kiss. An old woman down the hall comes out to toss out her garbage and tsks at them as she passes by. It doesn't stop them. Kent barely sees the interior of James' apartment. He has a fleeting look at a living room full of books before he's being pulled through a bedroom door and down onto the bed.

**

James is a good boyfriend; he doesn't push too hard for Kent to be openly demonstrative, simply saying he understands what it's like to not be ready to show the world. They spend a lot of afternoons in. James reads. Occasionally he'll read a passage out loud to Kent, and Kent will let the words wash over him in James' smooth baritone voice, like music. He closes his eyes, and James will curl close to him on the couch and read words closer and closer to his ear until they're whispered against his skin. And then they stop being words altogether.

Kent is starting to think James really is Superman; he's unusually comfortable with leading a double life, and takes it in stride that Kent has to do the same. When Kent has to disappear to training camps in July, James is curious but not overly so. He knows that Kent's physical condition is important to maintain for his profession, so he takes it in stride that Kent's off to some sort of "fitness retreat," and kisses him goodbye with a wink and a promise to behave himself while Kent is gone.

Kent misses him. They have long phone conversations late at night. James makes him salacious promises. The guys at camp whistle at Kent's pinked cheeks.

In August, Kent's back at the practice rink working with the boys and new prospects; James is fashioning lesson plans for when his kids return in September. They're busy and don't see each other much, but when they talk it's about the future. Kent wants to do a weekend before school starts, take James to Aspen for some summer skiing. James laughs and asks him if they'll be staying the chalet with all the celebrities. Kent avoids answering that question.

Kent is stunned at how much he misses James. It's not just the sex; James is just the right outlet for Kent in so many ways. He's warm, he's giving. He has a sense of humor altogether different from Kent's own, and he knows so much about so many things that conversation with him is always full of surprises. And, of course, he doesn't ask too many questions.

So the phone call, early in the morning hours of late August, is unexpected.

**

"Kent," James says, his voice low with some barely controlled emotion.

"What's up? What time is it?" Kent manages through a yawn.

"You could have told me," James says. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

Kent blinks, rubs his eyes. "What the--"

"I googled you," James says.

Sleep falls away and Kent bolts upright in bed. "You what?"

"I googled you. I was at a happy hour tonight with some of the other teachers and it was pointed out to me--" he stabs the words pointed out like they're the points of scissors -- "that I don't know where you live or what you do or anything real about you. I said I didn't mind, but then it got late and I got to thinking, and I googled you. Did you know there's a Tumblr dedicated to your cowlick? Did you know there's a website called Parseaholics.com?"

His voice is rising, rage simmering, and Kent struggles for words to gain control of the situation. "So I didn't tell you everything. So what? None... none of that stuff matters. Doesn't change anything."

"Are you haing an affair with Mila Kunis?" James asks. "The Enquirer thinks you're having an affair with Mila Kunis."

"The ... the fuck I am!" Kent bursts out. "That's garbage, Jesus, James, you should know that shit's garbage."

"I don't know," James says. "I don't know a lot, apparently."

Kent's panic boils over. "Look, are you at home?" he bursts out. "Stay right there. I'll come get you. I'll tell you everything. I'll show you everything. Just don't... just stay right there."

**

He peels out of his driveway in the Porsche and speeds toward James' apartment building in the low light of dawn. To his credit, James is there, and when Kent pleads with him to just come outside, James follows. He's cool and aloof right up until he sees the car. Then his eyes blow wide and he stares at Kent, then at the car, then at Kent again.

"Shit," he mutters. "Shit, it's true. It's all true, isn't it?"

"Come on," Kent urges him, and opens the passenger side door.

**

The first place Kent takes him is the rink. Not the stadium, where they play, but the practice rink. Kent takes him in the business-side doors and pulls him through the halls to the locker room. James blinks and squints, sans reading glasses, at the name on Kent's stall. Then he shakes his head, closes his eyes for a long time, and frowns, as though he's trying to puzzle out some mystery.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, at last.

"I... I don't know." And Kent really doesn't. Or, at least, he doesn't know how to say it. "It didn't ... it didn't really seem to matter."

"This?" James sweeps his arm out, a gesture taking in the entirety of the locker room, all the logos and stalls and jerseys and everything. "All of this, and it didn't matter?"

"It didn't," Kent repeats emphatically. "Yeah, it's a lot, I know. It's my whole life. But ... it just didn't matter. We were ... we were having a good time, and you ... you looked at me like you did and ... and none of it mattered."

James blinks. "I don't know what to do with that, Kent. I really don't know."

"There's nothing to do," Kent tells him. "So now you know. Doesn't make anything different. You and me ... that's still the same. I still." He bites his lip. "I still want you to read to me. I still want to hit Aspen with you someday, man. Just ... now you'll know why I wear hoodies so much. Why I can't hold your hand in public. Yet." He says it again, leans on the word. "Yet."

James runs a hand through his hair. That Superman curl wobbles from side to side. "So you're famous?" he says. "Like, really, really famous. A star."

"I guess." Kent shrugs. "I mean, sure. I'm still me."

"What do I do with that?" James asks him. "What do we do next?"

"Well," Kent says, "do you know how to skate?"

**

A few minutes later, James is wrapped in a Kent Parson jersey, wearing defenseman Carter Bell's spare skates (Belly will never know), and taking a slow, awkward lap around the rink with Kent by his side. "I can't believe this," he keeps saying. Kent turns, skates backwards, watches his face. He's always enjoyed James' flush, and in the cold of the rink it's everpresent. And maybe, just a little bit, Kent is thrilling at getting to brag about himself to James at last.

As they're getting out of their skates, some of the early morning crew is starting to arrive. They wave to Kent. Kent greets them as always. "Wow," James murmurs, and for the first time since Kent picked him up, he looks like he might smile. Kent takes it as a good sign.

**

Kent takes him to the stadium next. The ice is covered with flooring; there was a concert the night before. James stands in the middle of the rows of folding chairs and breathes in low and slow. "And you play here."

"Yeah," Kent says. "When we're not on the road. It's pretty sweet... you know ... when the crowd's cheering and stuff."

"You like that?" James looks at him sideways. "You don't get nervous?"

Kent shrugs. "I mean, I've been doing it my whole life, so. No. Not really."

"I'd get nervous." James cracks a half-smile. "I still get nervous on the first day of school every year."

"You do?" Kent finds this unbearably adorable. And he's relieved to see James smile. He coughs, clears his throat. "So. Um, are we.... are we good, then?"

James turns, looks at him. "I don't know, Kent. I hope so. I want us to be good. But there's so much I'm realizing I don't know."

Kent grabs his hand. It's early, there's no one there, there's no one to see, and for the first time Kent deeply regrets he has to think of these things at all. "I'll tell you anything, man. Whatever you want to know. I'm not... I'm not fucking letting you go, okay?"

There's a sadness in James' eyes. "That's not your choice to make."

"Yeah." Kent looks at the floor, but he squeezes James' hand tighter. "Yeah, I know."

The stadium, where Kent is used to hearing a hundred decibels of screaming fans, is silent then, and it's cavernous around the two of them. James' footfall echoes as he takes a step toward Kent.

"Show me where you live," he says.

**

When James is done goggling at the size of Kent's house, and Kent leads him through the doorway, the distance between them drops to nothing again. They kiss, they hold each other, and Kent's sure of one thing: there's nothing he wants to hold back from James, not anymore.

James says once more, "You're really not having an affair with Mila Kunis?"

"For fuck's sake," Kent laughs, pressing his face into James' neck. "I'm in love with you, dumbass."

He can feel James' smile against his cheek. Kent pulls away, lobs a smile back, and leads James upstairs.

[heeyjuuuude]

i really love that everyone has agreed that almost all of taylor swift’s songs are written for kent parson and kent parson only

[labelleizzy]

Humans are complicated. Healing is complicated. And healing is not linear. Which means that stories and art about humanity, to be properly representative OF humanity, are going to be complicated, messy, not always resolve tidily or to everyone's satisfaction.

But read more stories. Sometimes, try to read a story that makes you uncomfortable, and just remember that for SOMEONE, that story feels true. It might not be your experience, but it's still an experience that EXISTS which is why the STORY exists. None of this "your story is valid" stuff applies. Quit judging VALIDITY and just go, oh, that's a thing that exists and makes me uncomfortable.

*huffing out in frustration* some of the BEST stories make us all extremely uncomfortable. And we can read for escapism, we can read to learn and understand and grow. Now those are valid CHOICES and I'm not judging anyone for them.

Tell more stories. Read more stories. Because you will unexpectedly find yourself in some of them, and that's the point: you can't know ALL of yourself easily, other people who hold up the mirror are invaluable.

Thanks @ngoziu for this universe.

I’m working through an excellent Kent Parson fic that’s been on my to-read list foreeeeever (@fozmeadows’ Scar Tissue (That I Wish You Saw)) which is… in broad strokes very much the same story I want to tell about Kent. Same sort of trauma, and healing through Kit and the general acquisition of friends and people who listen to his jokes about his childhood and say, “That’s… not normal.”) It made me think about my own fic, both written and in progress, and some of the overall points I want to work into them. 

Alas, this is navelgazing, and not a rec post. (BUT I LIKE FOZ’S FIC) It’s me asking: why do I write Kent the way I do?

 I’ve been really impacted as a psychotherapist by a theory called Narrative Therapy. Its essential premise is that humans make meanings in order to understand our lives and survive. We tell stories about who we are and what happens to us. We also tell stories about other people, create group stories, and listen to the stories other people tell about us.

Our heads are full of narratives, hundreds of them, all jostling for place—What the Weather’s Been Like, and Me Missing the Bus All Week, and Politics These Days, and Why My Mother Never Loved Me, and That Friend Who Always Texts Me Kittens. There are so many different stories, in part because the reality of life is so diverse it’s incredible.

And these stories get prioritized, internally and externally. Schools rarely care about the story of How Kind You Are to Stray Cats, but can give the story of Your GPA This Semester monumental importance. A sympathetic friend might tell you that School’s All Bullshit Anyway, and Let’s Be Musicians Instead. And you might be preoccupied all the time instead with the story of You’re So Fucking Sad Nothing Else Matters. Eventually the mix of stories you choose, like a curated playlist of music, becomes your story of yourself—the basic narratives, beliefs, and prioritized experiences that dominate your experience of yourself. 

I’m also pretty influenced by Dialectical Behaviour Therapy, which is very much about balancing opposing forces, so when I think about stories I sort a few major problems people can run into like this:

A story so full of problems it has no room for growth, strength, or healing

A story that fails to fully address the scope of the problems that need to be dealt with

A story so dominated by external narratives and other people’s opinions that the person living it has little power to control or change it

A story so rigid and narrowly focused that it refuses to admit outside perspectives, new information, or the possibility of alternatives or change.

1 and 2 are kind of the opposite ends of a spectrum, and so are 3 and 4. But it’s my observation that if people have a problem on one end of a spectrum, they frequently have its opposite also. The spectrum is like a the pole a tightrope walker holds for balance; if one end tips up, the other goes down. Sometimes this means bouncing back and forth between extremes in an impulsive and reckless fashion. In other cases, some areas of their life will be positively problem-saturated, but have islands where they blissfully deny the very real issues in play. Or some will be totally externally controlled in some areas of thought, but won’t admit any outside influence in others.

That’s because the issue isn’t whether or not they’ve necessarily achieved The Perfect Balance, but rather that they struggle with the intrinsic act of deciding how much is enough. In therapy we spend a lot of time talking about trusting your judgment but also testing your reality. About being gentle with yourself, letting yourself make mistakes instead of hurrying to overbalance them and slam back out to the far end of one of the spectrums. Some people learn this intuitively, and become masters at dissecting and manipulating stories; others learn it slowly and laboriously because it’s not natural but they have to due to the nature of their peoblem; others leave thinking they’ve learned A New Correct Way to Think, and only the dimmest awareness that if this mode of thought proves unsatisfactory in the future, they can haul it back to a therapist and have it tinkered with yet again.

And meanwhile, in a new arena of bullshit, our society has all these absolutist and contradictory narratives about mental illness and trauma, like:

If you’re Very Traumatized the rest of your life has to be suffering and pain, and you’re never allowed to be happy or have friends, and if you ever laugh then it never happened at all

If you’re surrounded by good things and your life is good then you should be happy and live in the moment and not let anything from the past bother you

If you have a mental illness then you should be totally debilitated and being able to accomplish anything means you’re not really mentally ill

If you want to be better you should never show symptoms because they’re always bad and you should be cheerful and focus on the positives

Which leaves those of us expected to live those stories out royally fucked over, because it is IMPOSSIBLE to do all those things at once!

So what we often do, and what I myself struggled to do a lot when I was younger, was to create a single, coherent, satisfying story of my illness, by choosing one side of the dichotomy and totally ignoring the other.

FUCK POSITIVITY, I railed. I’M SICK. I’M TRAUMATIZED. I’LL BE AS SAD AS I WANT TO BE. And then I’d have a good minute, or hour, or day, and wonder: Does that cancel it all out? Am I failing at being damaged?

Or sometimes I’d be open to the love of my friends and the beauty of life and the joy all around me—and still feel like my chest was gapingly empty—and wonder: Am I being ungrateful? How could I look at my amazing, supportive friends and suspect them of acting like the people who traumatized me? How can I be so cold and unfeeling as to fail to appreciate the good things in life?

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: It’s all true. All of it. The same way a piano has 88 keys, all distinct, we contain all our stories, even the bullshit ones. (A thing is real if it is real in its consequences. Even if it’s real bullshit.) And the important thing is not the final choice of One Correct Story; it’s the ability to understand and change and fix our stories. The ability to tell a really rich, detailed, useful, and accurate story of ourselves in our heads. 

So I really want to keep contrasting Kent’s simultaneous periods of being absolutely desolate with loneliness, and surrounded by friends, not because one of them is false and one of them is true; but because the truth is the juxtaposition. The truth is, even when it feels like the pain will kill you, your cat is still really cute. The struggle isn’t deciding which story is the real one, but expressing them both—that even though you love the people around you, there’s someone else you miss so bad you feel like you’re gonna die. It’s learning to hold all of it, to accept the truth of the problem while also grasping for the seeds of hope and change.

I sometimes struggle with fics about Kent that want to cancel one story out, or the other. Either he’s with Swoops/Alexei/Fry Guy now, so Jack Zimmermann who? That doesn’t bother him at all! He’s moved on! Or, on the other hand, he spent the last five years in a barren wasteland, loving and being loved by nobody, and only after he gets the absolute closure of Jack rejecting him does he take the very first step towards healing. It frustrates me because it feels like having to choose.

Also, in my experience—healing takes a LONG time and a LOT of work. I could say, roughly, that my traumatization ended at 11 and I reached a state where I felt “healed” from it at 24—and those were 13 years of intense journalling and internal work and 8 years of therapy. I had years where my entire progress amounted to being able to say “hello” to strangers I’d previously been silent around. And even now at 30, I’m not a Totally Healthy Normal Adult. I’ll never get the chance to be who I could have been if the trauma never happened. I’m still anxious and shy and have cognitive deficits and am definitely just weird in more than a few ways. I’m just… better able to be happy and feel capable and do the things that are important to me. When days show up when I feel the way I did back at the very beginning of my recovery, I know how to handle them.

So the other thing I wanted, which is largely a nitpicky personal peeve, was something that would show just how much time would have to pass for Kent to make real, meaningful progress. Which is why it’s almost two years from the time Andy hands him her shrink’s business card to him booking his first therapy appointment. (I actually had a supervisor in grad school who claimed that it took the average person ten to twenty years before they were ready to really process a trauma and do the deep work to put it to rest. I’m not 100% sure she’s right, but I’ve also learned that it’s wise to view it as a long process)

The media primes us to expect quick, dramatic change; but actually for a lot of people mental illnesses are a coping strategy, and it can be dangerous to rip those supports away before there’s something new to replace them, and new habits and ways of living are like languages or music or dance: it takes years of repeated daily practice to truly master them.

(And yes, if you were going to ask: I flipping LOVED @tiptoe39‘s Careful the Tale You Tell)

[mmmmbop]

iconic 2009 songs that hadn’t even been released before the NHL draft (aka songs that kent hears for the first time after jack almost dies) (aka songs that jack doesn’t hear at all, because he doesn’t listen to pop music without kent)

fallin’ for you by colbie caillat comes out the day of the draft

party in the usa 😞😞 

fireflies by owl city

love drunk by boys like girls

3 by britney spears

bonus: i gotta feeling comes out 3 days before the draft. it’s a good song, for those 3 days.

[mikerichrds]

                                                               didja miss me ? 

[ariesisms]

bitty's ts album is fearless, holster's is 1989, kent parson's is red.

[songsofkentparson]

I got scars from a pocket knife Where you carved your heart into me

[tiptoe39]

kent: grumble grumble abominable snowman.

tater: what was that?

kent: i said, you're the fucking abominable snowman.

tater: I am abdominal what now?

kent: YETI. YOU'RE A FUCKING YETI, TATE.

tater: and you are tiny snow mouse, come out now and play.

kent: i hate you.

tater: that not what you said last night.

kent: IT'S WHAT I MEANT.

(inspiration)

(set in careful the tale you tell verse)

[stufftippywrote]

forever starts right now.

For Patater Week. Set in Careful the Tale You Tell verse.

It's about two months into their relationship. (Their proper relationship, not the year of fumbling that led them there.) Kent's bugging Alexei about his stuff taking up too much room in Kent's dresser drawers. "Can't we, like, pick a drawer that's yours and you can have that one, so your shit isn't all messed up with mine?"

"You're wanting to share drawers?" Alexei says, merrily putting a pair of pants in right next to Kent's pants, god damn it.

"At least can we fucking talk about it?"

"Pff. No, too early. We talk about it when we get married," Alexei says breezily.

Kent nearly trips face first over his own dropped jaw.

And from then on, it turns into a thing.

"You ate my pie," Alexei says one day after peering into the refrigerator. His face is still stuck behind the door, but the pout is obvious in his voice.

"Hey, this marriage is 50/50," Kent says, smacking his ass as he goes by. "Next time, read the pre-nup."

Another time, they're out on Alexei's boat, and Kent's quietly watching the horizon. "Nice view," he murmurs as Alexei puts an arm around him.

"Yes," Alexei agrees. "Is reminding me of our honeymoon."

Kent snorts a laugh. "Right, where was that again?"

Alexei mocks hurt. "Don't telling me now you're forgetting!" Kent swats him so hard it nearly knocks him overboard.

A few months later, Kent's indecisive about where to go for dinner. "You don't care, you don't care," Alexei echoes him. "How we ever decide on wedding cake, you don't even care about food?"

"The wedding cake is chocolate," Kent replies evenly. He's slumping on the couch in his living room, Alexei pacing behind him.

"Chocolate!?" Alexei's mortally offended.

"Yeah, what's wrong with chocolate?"

Alexei sniffs. "Wedding cakes are white."

"Yeah, to match your dress," Kent fires back.

"You're saying that, but I'm looking beautiful in my wedding dress." Alexei rounds the couch and promptly sits on him.

Kent yelps. "Yeah, your fucking pure white dress because you're a fucking blushing virgin. Get the fuck off me, Tate."

"Your wedding dress is bright red?" Alexei somehow manages to turn on top of Kent without ever letting up on crushing him. He sits atop Kent's knees, tucking his own knees forward to straddle him.

"I'm not wearing a... fucking... wedding dress," Kent manages between fruitless wiggles. "The hell are you made of, lead?"

"Oh!" Alexei's face lights up. "You're getting married naked."

Kent gives up the struggle. "Yeah, maybe I am." He tilts his head, giving Alexei a grin he knows is irresistible. "Wanna run upstairs and elope?"

The joke grows legs. By the second year of their relationship, Kent and Alexei are not only "married," they've got five kids and three dogs (and Kit, of course). Alexei ribs Kent about being a terrible role model to their children. Kent tells Alexei to stop spoiling them rotten. Bitty and Jack, when they're finally ready to double date, look at each other with expressions of utter confusion as the back-and-forth about the Parson-Mashkov fantasy family gets a little too long.

And then it's the All-Star Break, two seasons later, and Kent's up in Alexei's hotel room after a day of media and star sighting.

"You coming back to stay this summer?" Kent says. His hand cradles Alexei's, and Kent hefts it, feeling the weight of Alexei's palm balanced on his own.

"Or you come stay with me." It's a usual point of contention with them by now. Kent spent last summer in Providence; the previous one they split down the middle.

"Yeah, but if we're in Vegas," Kent starts.

"If we're in Vegas we're both melting," Alexei fills in. He curls his free hand around Kent's waist and nuzzles at his hair. "Come back, we're taking the boat up to Vineyard and relaxing."

"Tate." The word comes out a half-sigh. Alexei's pressing little kisses to his hairline now, and the shell of his ear, and it's hard to keep his train of thought. "I'm serious."

"I'm serious, too." Alexei's mouth quests downward, and his body's a solid line of warmth against Kent's. "What we're doing in Vegas we can't do in Providence? Hm?"

"Well, for one," Kent murmurs, "we could get married."

Alexei laughs. "Again?"

"For real." Kent turns to face him, to be serious, but he just gets Alexei's mouth on his for his trouble. The kiss is deep and bone-meltingly good. Kent has to take a breath to ground himself. "No, listen. I mean it. We could sneak off and get married and nobody'd know."

"Nobody excepting our five kids," Alexei says.

"Would you cut it out?" Kent pushes at him, and the shove is serious enough that Alexei sits back and looks at him anew. "Come on. We talk about it enough. Why don't we just get hitched already? It'd be cheap, and sure, we couldn't tell anyone, but... why not?"

"Ken." Alexei runs his fingertips over Kent's hairline. "You're being serious?"

"I just said I was, Jesus Christ," Kent says, trying to summon up a little frustration, but right now he's looking at Alexei and he's saying these words and it's a little scary how much he means them. "C'mon, Alexei. Alyosha," he tries, experimentally, even though the name never feels half as intimate as "Tate" does. "Lemme make an honest man of you."

Alexei looks a little puzzled at the expression, but if he's inclined to question it, he pushes the inclination aside. "Why you want to do this now?"

And isn't that the seven-million-dollar question, because Kent has no idea. The concept of getting married -- really getting married -- occurred to him months ago, when they had their first meetup of the season and Kent spent a good twenty minutes just staring at Alexei's face pressed into his pillow. Since then, Kent's been nursing the sentiment, like a secret child, telling nobody but his psychiatrist that he was even considering it. To her credit, Eleanor said she thought it was a good impulse, so long as Kent didn't let it become a fantasy that consumed him. It hasn't -- at least, he doesn't think it has -- but it's something that makes his heart smile every time he thinks of it.

And now that he's said it out loud, it feels three times as scary and ten times as right.

"I don't--" he starts, and rewinds. "I don't think I'm the kind of guy who's gonna have a bunch of relationships in my life, you know? I mean, you know me, you know how long it took me to get past--" He shakes his head, because there's no reason to bring up the names of ghosts. "And you and I, we've been what, two years now? Almost?" It's closer to a year and a half, if he doesn’t count the nearly a year it took them to get there. "I ... just don't think there's gonna be anyone else for me." He pauses. "I don't want there to be anyone else for me, is my point."

"Ken." Alexei's lost even the pretense of mirth in his face by now. His lips are pursed, and his hand is a gentle presence at the side of Kent's face, thumb stroking gently over his jaw.

"You're the best thing in my life, Tate." Kent's a little surprised to hear his own voice break, but he pushes forward. "And, you know... sue me, but I just want to know you're mine. I want it to be official. That we..." and Jesus, it makes him embarrassed every time he says it, but it needs saying. "That we love each other. That we want to be together, even if we can't be all the time."

"You're really wanting this," Alexei says, his voice low and careful. "You're wanting to marry me."

Fuck, Kent won't get misty, he doesn't get misty, but... "Yeah. Yeah, Tate. I'm... really wanting to marry you."

There's a moment, a terrifying moment, where Kent doesn't know what's going to happen. Whether Alexei's face will light up or curl into a skeptical frown. Where it feels like once again he's put his entire soul on the line, with no guarantees and no safety net, and maybe he'll just go crashing through to the ground.

But in the next moment Alexei's kissing him, and there's a smile curling at his pursed lips.

"Okay," Alexei tells him. "Okay, Kent Parson. Let's get married."

"Tate..." escapes Kent's lips. And then the tears escape his eyes, and he surges forward to throw his arms around Alexei. Shit, this feels good, it feels so good, with Alexei in his arms, those big hands on his back, and Alexei's "okay" ringing in his ears. Okay, then. Okay. He's going to spend the rest of his life with Alexei. They'll be tied to each other forever. Every inch of Kent's sensibility wants to find that terrifying, and he just can't. He's happy. He's so goddamn happy.

"But," Alexei says with that damned lilt in his voice, "we can still be married in Providence."

Kent shoves him. "You fucker," he says, "that's where we'll get divorced."

But he's grinning the whole time.

And the early-morning trip to the jewelers the next morning means that as they battle each other in the skills competition that night, they're wearing matching rings threaded onto gold chains beneath their uniforms. When Kent scores, the ring thumps against his chest and gives him a thrill. Forever, he thinks, starts right now.

[heeyjuuuude]

i am not ashamed to say that i’m a little bit in love with taylor swift’s new album. like oh my god it’s good

[sadquebecois]

as an apology for having been completely gone for a month (everything is fine, tumblr just takes a backseat to some other stuff going on in my life rn), i’m doing a thing @dazeli (<3) tagged me in and i’m tagging 10 random followers bc i missed y’all.

How old are you? 22

What’s your current job? being a depressed piece of shit (specifically, an unemployed depressed piece of shit)

What’s your aesthetic? pastels and deep neutrals. florals and microprints where applicable. clean, simple lines.

Do you collect anything? sentimental trash (literally: old ticket stubs, labels from candy, pretty wrapping paper from presents from good friends. that kind of thing)

What’s a topic you always talk about? hockey, dungeons and dragons, critical role (if you have 100+ hours of your life to waste, i highly recommend watching it), my own unrelenting queerness

What’s one pet peeve of yours?  when people buy into the sports-rivalry mentality for no other reason than “i’m an x fan, of course i hate y.” like, whatever, it’s normal not to like a rival team bc the nature of sports is that your success is contingent on their failure that’s chill. but if you’re belligerently screaming “fuck the [redacted]s” into the void for no other reason than you think you have to to be a good fan, you’ve got some personal things to reflect upon, my friend.

Good advice to give? don’t be afraid to have hard conversations with people you love. even if it’s hard and even if it sucks, it’s better to be brave and clear the air. if something’s bothering you and this person cares about you, odds are they want to know so they can help.

Three songs you would recommend? frustrated - r.lum.r (x) when i’m away - the colourist (x) who do you think of - m.o (x)

Nickname? keylee (my actual name but also technically a nickname), keychain (it’s finally catching on!!!!), and (reluctantly) keys

Last thing you googled?  “frustrated r.lum.r lyrics” that’s some relatable shit right there my pal

Fave music artist? i don’t have one.

Song stuck in your head? all of me - big gigantic ft. logic and rozes (x)

Last movie you watched? the replacements aka an american football movie starring keanu reeves ft. an all-male ensemble and compulsory heterosexuality that STILL MANAGES TO BE ONE OF MY FAVS EVER? the heart wants what it wants.

Last tv show you watched? if hockey counts, then i watched the pens/caps bloodbath. if not, then it was cooks vs. cons which i liked WAY BETTER when i thought it was abt former convicts with culinary careers.

What are you wearing right now? black pants and a gold blouse that is officially no longer bad luck.

When did you create your blog? i made this blog in september 2015

What kind of stuff do you post? mostly real hockey, a smattering of check please, and an even smaller smattering of miscellaneous personal stuff/funny stuff/things i posted to the wrong blog.

Do you get asks regularly? eh? about once a week or so. less recently since i haven’t posted in so long.

Why did you choose your url? because at the time, jack zimmermann was an incredibly sad quebecois gentleman and i identified a lot with him

Gender? none gender with left femme

Hogwarts house? ravenclaw with hufflepuff aspirations

Pokemon team? valor

Fave color? i recently found out my favorite color is pink but i always thought it was orange.

Average hours of sleep? anywhere from four to twelve. the average of which is eight, so i guess i’m doing alright.

Lucky number? 16, 27, 42, 87 (shut up), numbers that are divisible by five especially if they are also divisible by four.

Fave characters? derek nurse, camilla collins, kent parson, and justin oluransi. characters from other media include: lady kima and shaun gilmore (npcs in critical role) and clifford franklin (the replacements)

How many blankets do you sleep with? always one. in the winter it’s a comforter and in the summer it’s a sheet to protect me from monsters.

Dream job? one where my crippling mental illness won’t be an issue.

Following? somewhere around 100. it stresses me out if i can’t tell who’s who on my dash so i try really hard to keep my follow count on the low side.

i’m tagging: @existentialtango @acesirius @connor-mcbaevid @bistevexual @imaginegorgons @dadtrick @floraljaws @heckpls @lordcow @im-only-joking

if you decide to do this questionnaire, tag me in your post! if you don’t want to do the thing then that’s cool too!

[mmmmbop]

a kent parson playlist but it’s just the song “my own worst enemy” 14 times in a row

[lexpistachio]

so that last anon got me thinking about OMGCP and mental health and I realized that the comic only every really explored mental health when it affected Jack. When Jack's anxiety was still affecting him and his actions we saw all sides of it how it both hurt Jack, his call with his dad and backstory, and how it hurt others, Jack being a jerk to Bitty as a response to stress. No other character's mental health was handled like this, Ransom's anxiety was only ever a joke, (1/2)

Bitty’s issues are only brought up to make him look sad/vulnerable or as a set up to wacky hi jinks (the jam). Bitty’s issues only hurt him and he suffers through most of it quietly he has never lashed out like Jack or inconvenienced someone else even by accident. He has only acted on his issues when his secret relationship with Jack made him want to break up. He was at his most proactive with his mental health when it affected Jack. And then there’s Kent who the author has said needs therapy

And I first became really interested in OMGCP because Jack during year 1 was a sort of “bad victim.” He had mental health issues and he wasn’t a saint or a demon. We were meant to condemn his bad behavior and still love him as a person and want him to succeed and grow. Jack isn’t that person anymore his anxiety hasn’t been mentioned once, even as a means for other characters to remark on his growth. This to me is one example of the “erasure of an issue that was present at the beginning”

YES.

First, regarding Jack, yes yes yes. Like, if you’ve read the Hardy script mentioned in the previous anon, which was supposedly CP’s progenitor, you’ll know it’s about this undrafted hockey guy who’s on the brink of overdosing on Percocet, has anxiety, and had feelings with a capital f for his best friend Joe. It’s interesting that N kept on comparing Bitty with this eponymous character because it’s obvious Hardy’s who Jack evolved from while Joe is Kent. I think what I’m saying is, the whole Having a Plethora of Isues was relegated to Jack, and that’s what made me interested in CP in the first place too. CP is Jack’s story overcoming his adversities and whether or not he gets his goal in the end. Because CP gave so much in exploring how his issues affected his life and his game, it’s Jack’s story that garners investment.

Bitty’s supposedly this ~compassionate~ character that will fix your sadness with pies, and i’m…….. not really fond of that idea to begin with. Regardless, if you look at how his character is written, it’s never really delved on how his supposed issues affect him; they’re mentioned, but not explored. They aren’t character flaws but quirks that make him cute endearing, and this, coupled with the fact that he’s loved by everyone and can fix every situation with pies or whatever, makes him… something like a flat character, for me. And in the trajectory that the story has gone, Bitty was most crucial when he was going to prop up Jack’s character development–will Jack get over his jerkiness and acknowledge that people are allowed to score GWGs other than him and that hockey is a TEAM SPORT? will Jack be revealed to be gay so that he can finally return Bitty’s crush? will Jack choose a (months-old) love that will potentially endanger his career? On the other hand, Bitty has had no other discernible goals. He had no discernible wants to begin with. If your character has no discernible wants, they faff around aimlessly and that is what Bitty does, and that’s why his personal achievements fall flat as well. 

That’s just me. But I believe this comics has a problem with writing issues into its characters without totally villainizing them, as if it’s afraid of portraying its main characters as unlikable or something. Or maybe that has something to do with fan reception? That’s something to think about, but in any case, we have no real discussion of mental health issues aside from Jack’s, and that has been postponed until further notice.

Anyhoww, I’m sure Jack’s anxiety will make an appearance soon via the playoffs. But god, you’re right, it would’ve been nice to see an acknowledgment of Jack’s anxiety while transitioning in the NHL, or affecting his decisions rather than the token mentions thereof. Or Ransom having healthier coping mechanisms. But we can’t have that, yo, it’s fluff, so we’re just going to have to deal with it, apparently.

[nomorelonelydays]

Patater Week - Day 4

Feb. 9 - Alternate Universe – Soulmate AU, 2.4K (everyone has their soulmate’s first thought about them on their skin – both still in NHL - coda of sorts to Dot Your Ts and Cross Your Is) 

“You’re in a good mood today,” Jack comments, as slides in next to Tater in the nook. “Mhm,” Tater hums and chews his sandwich. “I find soulmate,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. Snowy and Thirdy look up from their breakfast, and Marty nearly snorts out his cereal. Guy pats him on the back a little harder than necessary. “You found your soulmate, Tater?” Poots asks carefully. “Like, the one who said ‘You’re tall and hot, I want to die,’ that soulmate?” Almost everyone’s seen that particular marking in the locker room, and though no one actually voiced it, a large majority of the team had covered up their jealousy with chirps. Who doesn’t want a confidence booster like that as a soulmark? Tater simply nods, and Thirdy flies up, excited.

“That’s great, man!” he crows. “Who’s the lucky girl? Did you meet her at a bar? Was it after the game against the Aces?” “You should bring her around sometime,” Marty comments. “I want to meet the person who has to put up with you and your snoring all the time now.” The table laughs, echoing their assent. “I’m happy for you,” Jack says, and Tater glows. “So who is she?” Marty asks. “Yeah, Tater, is she hot?” Thirdy adds. “Yeah,” Tater says casually, and takes another huge bite. “He is very hot. He also make this sandwich before I’m leaving.” The crowd of catcallers fall silent almost immediately. Snowy’s mouth falls open and a toast crumb falls out. Jack’s eyes widen as he stares at Tater’s expression, which has not changed from his previous, besotted look. “He is not good at making sandwich. Next time I go to kitchen and see how he do it,” Tater admits as he shrugs. “It’s thought that count.” There’s another awkward moment, but Marty’s already leaning in and taking a huge bite, quick as anything. “Hey!” “Chicken salad’s kind of dry,” he comments. “Tell him to use more mayo.” “Wait, man, no fair, I want to try,” Thirdy complains as he leans his weight on the table towards Tater. “Don’t be stingy.” “Get your own,” Tater guffaws, then tries to stuff the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and almost chokes. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever seen Snowy laugh this hard before. Or like, at all. Jack doesn’t know if it’s happy giddiness he’s feeling as he watches the table start teasing Tater good-naturedly, or if he’s lightheaded because he almost has to Heimlich maneuver the dry chicken and bread chunk from Tater’s throat, but he gets a quick flash of introducing Bitty, his own soulmate, to the Falconers. They’d love him to pieces, Jack thinks. Bitty will feed them even more pie, Poots is going to cry.   “What’s his name?” Jack asks, after Tater isn’t in danger of suffocating anymore. “Kent Parson,” Tater answers. “He is Captain of Las Vegas Aces.” Tater smacks his lips, then adds, “How long does chicken salad keep in fridge? Kenny says a week, but Google say 5 days.” Initially, Jack thinks his internal screaming is him actually screaming in reality, but then he realizes that it’s just Thirdy and Marty and the rest of the Falconers present roaring their lungs out simultaneously, with Poots in the background going, “Tater, you have to get me his autograph you’re my only hope.” Jack thinks he might’ve heard a “Boo, traitor, Parson sucks” from Snowy, but he’s not really sure of anything anymore.  

Kent doesn’t visit until 6 months after Tater’s announcement, but Tater seems determined to make up for it by talking to Kent on Skype every chance he gets. He goes to Vegas three months before Kent’s visit and returns starry-eyed and insufferably dopey. He also starts talking about Kent to the Falconers. Whether it’s about the Aces’ most recent win or Kent murdering a new recipe, the Falconers locker room has heard each one at least twice. They’re all happy for Tater (Poots is practically frothing at the mouth when Tater tells him that Kent had agreed to sign his jersey— “Why didn’t you just bring a jersey back?” Poots groans, and Tater just holds up his arms and says apologetically, “I forget! Next time! Maybe.” And all that just ignites another round of chirping). Tater and Kent apparently had taken to each other like an old, decrepit house on fire, in the most sickeningly romantic way possible. Once Tater boasts that he sent flowers to Kent for Valentine’s Day as a surprise, and that Kent had called him so fast Tater had thought Kent had been mad, but he’d really just been crying since the arrangement that’d been delivered was so excessive and it’s absolutely like Tater to go all out. Tater’s always staring at his phone and smiling at every new message Kent sends, and they seem to talk to each other on Skype every single day. He’s getting worse than Jack, Marty had once commented, and Jack, seeing how ridiculously happy Tater is, cannot bring himself to ask whether Tater knew about Kent and himself. They’ve somewhat made their peace by now; Kent phoned him one night, sounding exhausted, and stammered out an apology. It’d been terse, and while Jack had accepted his apology as sincere, neither of them have ever been good with words. He wonders if Kent is the same as before. He doesn’t forget how Kent had crowded him against the door of his own room in Samwell that night, his eyes decidedly fierce as he spits venom when Jack wrestles him off. “I miss you, okay? I miss you,” Kent had said, his face slack with desperation, then frustration. His grip on Jack’s shirt loosens, and for a moment the hurt cracks through and Kent looks like Kenny from the summer before the draft, with his fingers grasping at a love he never had. But Tater looks so happy when he’s on the phone with Kent before a game. It’s his new little ritual. Kent always takes the time to make a five-minute phone call, and Tater does it for Kent’s games as well, apparently. Tater sits in the locker room, phone pressed against his ear as he whispers things like, “Thank you. I miss you, too. We bring Kit to Providence next month, too? No? Haha…” It’s incredible how the same words that had slashed Jack in half can brighten Tater’s entire day. He doesn’t tell Bitty, either, because he hates for Bitty to be anxious for him, even if Jack knows that Bitty will, without a doubt, drop everything and hop on the train to Providence if Jack ever needed him. He wants to tell the world he loves Bitty, so very, very much, and even though he’s comforted by the fact that his teammates won’t react negatively, especially after Tater’s announcement, he wants to keep Bitty’s sleep-tousled hair and smile to himself for just a short while longer. “How was your day?” he asks Bitty again that night through Skype, as he always does. He says nothing of Kent, only that Tater’s soulmate is a man, and that they seem to be very happy together. Bitty eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t voice what they’re both thinking. “I love you,” Bitty says, as Jack lets his soulmate’s drawl slow the beats of his thundering heart until his head is quiet again. “So much, sweetheart.”

They pick up Kent at the airport two months later, after a game that they win (but the latter is just a coincidence). The ‘they’ in question includes Jack, because Tater had pulled him aside before the game and asked if he could accompany him. “Wouldn’t Poots be more excited to go with you?” Jack said automatically, gripping his stick like a weapon before relaxing. “Not that I don’t…want to…” He doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t want to say no to Tater, either, when all Tater’s been doing the past few months is rave about how wonderful and fantastic his boyfriend is. “Is surprise,” Tater says conspiratorially. “Tomorrow, team come to my house. We celebrate win, and I bring Kenny.” “The game hasn’t even started,” Jack says wryly. “You’re going to jinx us.” “No,” Tater shrugs. “Team win, come over to drink. Team lose, everyone still drink. No jinx. Will be fun.” He nudges Jack with his gloved fist lightly. “Beside, you my rookie. I’m need emotional support. Please.” Jack’s pretty sure that’s an excuse Tater made up on the spot, but they get ushered out to meet the ice then, and Jack finds that he can’t refuse Tater’s earnest expression. “Okay,” Jack croaks out. “Good,” Tater says gratefully. “Kenny so small and funny. Used to be so sad and angry.” “Did he tell you that?” Jack asks, alarmed. “Is he still—?” “No,” Tater says, then leaves it at that. 

Tater picks him up from his apartment the next day in the afternoon, and Jack can see that Tater is thrumming with energy the entire ride to the airport. He talks about Kent and their daily Skype calls, and how Kent tried to bring them breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the cat instead. Jack just makes a bunch of noncommittal noises like “Hm” and “Ah” as he casually grips the armrest handle like Tater’s driving isn’t the most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced. They’re in the lobby now, with Tater craning his neck to see over the other travelers and checking his phone every once in a while. Jack clears his throat. It was now or never. “Um, Tater?” “Mm?” Tater’s still looking at the gate expectantly, like if he looked away even for a second, he’ll surely miss Kent. “How much, uh, do you know about me? Like, I mean, about me before. In the Q?” Jack never talks about it. He didn’t figure he had to, not with the headlines everywhere from back the proclaiming his teenage decline as Bob Zimmermann’s legacy. “Little bit, here and there,” Tater says absently. “Hear things, but not much. Respect privacy, so…” He shrugs, still absently scanning the crowd. And it’s sweet to hear, for a change. Jack hadn’t expected that. “But you—Kent and I—did Kent ever tell you—” “See him!” Tater exclaims suddenly, and Jack is jolted from his thoughts. “He’s here! He’s—” Jack sees doesn’t see anyone that looks like Kent, but Tater’s already maneuvering Jack’s shoulder so he’s facing him. “Do I look okay? Smell my breath.” Then he actually huffs on Jack like he’s six and Jack’s his mom checking if he brushed his teeth. Jack laughs, despite his nervousness, and pushes him off. “You’re fine. Get off of me.” And just like that, Tater bolts ahead, sidestepping the families and tourists until Jack sees that he’s heading for a man dressed in a grey hoodie and headphones. Tater’s waving his arms like a hooligan, and when Kent finally turns in Tater’s direction, even Jack can see that Kent’s mouth is falling open as he rips his earphones out, and the grin is so bright Jack would’ve been able to spy it from a mile away. It’s like a scene ripped from a bad romance flick. Kent picks up his bag and makes a mad dash for Tater, and Tater nearly loses his balance trying to go around some businessman’s luggage. They slow to a stop about a feet before they actually touch, and Jack sees Kent’s mouth form a very small “Hi.” Kent’s bottom lip is wavering as he schools his composure, but Jack’s well aware that he’s definitely looked at Bitty with that exact same expression many times over. Tater’s examining Kent like he can’t believe Kent’s corporeal, which is borderline ridiculous because there hasn’t ever been a missed night of Skyping. He breathes, “Kenny—” And it’s like a trigger is switched. Once Kent hears the nickname, he literally drops his duffel bag and jumps into Tater’s arms like he’s scrambling up a tree. His hoodie flies back as he buries his head in the crook of the taller man’s neck, his legs wound around Tater’s waist. Tater catches him like they’ve been doing it for years, and it’s heartwarming and sickening sweet but they’ve never looked happier. They’re hesitant when Kent bends his head down for a kiss, their noses bumping. Kent giggles, and Tater hardly notices as they fall into the next kiss, a real, proper one, like they’ve been aching for it for ages. When Tater finally lowers Kent, Kent’s expression is so open and laid bare that Jack is taken aback for a second. It’s love, Jack can see. Pure, unfiltered love. The kind that makes you want to smile beyond the confines of your face. The kind of love that surges over Jack whenever he looks at a text or good luck note from Bitty telling him that he believes in him, and that he is needed.  “I missed you,” he says breathlessly. One of Tater’s slides over to Kent’s forearm, where Kent’s soulmark is, and Kent’s hand hovers over Tater’s ribs reflexively. “Did you—?” “Yes. Every day,” Tater says as-matter-of-factly, still smiling like a fool as Kent just about melts. After about ten seconds of this, he seems to remember that Jack is now standing behind him awkwardly. “Oh, Kenny, I bring—” “Zimms,” Kent says. He sounds a little surprised, but not unhappy, either. “I—” “Hey, Parse,” Jack says. Kent seems at a loss for words, and he’s shuffling. Tater’s hold on his waist tightens, as he glances at Kent then back at Jack. “I—God, Zimms, I’m…” Kent looks dumbstruck. “It’s so good to see you again,” he finishes. “It’s been a while,” Jack agrees. “You look happy.” And Kent beams at as he leans into Tater, who rubs his shoulder with a sure hand. Jack hasn’t seen that gentle, quiet smile on Kent in years. “Come on,” Kent says softly. “I want to meet the rest of your team properly.” “You mean off the ice and not where you could get beat up?” Jack chirps automatically. He’s a little surprised at how easy it is to get back into the same rhythm with Kent.   “Yep,” Kent says, not missing a beat. “Unless the Falconers are hitting financial rock bottom and can only afford you and Zimms.” They’re still a long way from being alright, but without the dread of the draft or a summer with a deadline looming over their heads anymore, they start over, and they take it slow. So they go.