#lost count of how many stitches i had so 3 of these squares have 1 less stitch

[shapeshiftinterest]

colors: vanilla, mocha, olive, waterfall

i made a bigger adult blanket!

really liked these colors but they only came in the large size so i decided to make a blanket a little smaller than the size of my bed

didn’t feel like making granny squares this time, wanted something i wouldn’t have to join afterwards

my dad says it would have made a cool shawl or i could have put a hood on it when i was around halfway done diagonally; he was right but my original goal was blanket so i kept going lol

@crazy-fangirl-probs-rants suggested blocking it (steaming the ends that were curling to flatten them out)

learned from THIS video and THIS video

[mainstreettalk]

My Top 5 Disneyland Attractions

Disneyland is home to many fun attractions and rides for guests of all walks of life. When you go to Disneyland, one of the hardest decisions to make during your trip is choosing which attractions to visit first and which attractions you’ll have to skip on. So, here are the attractions that I personally deem are the top 5 attractions that every guest should experience at least once during their trip.

5. Mickey and the Magical Map

Image by D23

It’s important to note that though many guests go to Disneyland to enjoy the rides and food, the live shows really should not be skipped out on. Mickey and the Magical Map is a musical live theatre show located at Fantasyland Theatre near the back of Disneyland park. This show features the titular icon of the Walt Disney Company, Mickey Mouse, but also incorporates some of Disney’s most popular characters, including Rapunzel, Mulan, Stitch, and many others. I could go on and on about how much I love this show, but there are a few distinct characteristics that make this one stand out above the rest. The fact that so many of Disney’s most recognized ballads and anthems are performed by live actors and singers really makes you feel like you’re immersed in Disney canon. The dancers have incredibly creative routines and perform them flawlessly. The show uses a visually stunning blend of live characters and set pieces as well as a digital background that’s really able to capture the magic that Walt Disney had originally intended for all guests of his park to experience. This show runs only about 20 minutes long and it’s a great place to just sit down, relax, and keep yourself entertained. Personally, I think this is the best live show at the park, even topping the live Frozen show at the Hyperion Theater in DCA. Mickey and the Magical Map is definitely worth your short amount of time to go visit and watch and it will really help round out your whole Disney experience.

4. Storybook Land Canal Boats

Image by Disney

The next attraction on this list is one of the original 13 attractions that debuted on July 17, 1955 when Walt Disney first opened the gates to Disneyland park. The Storybook Land Canal Boats take the guests through a calm, narrated boat ride on a river that winds through various detailed dioramas of iconic buildings, scenes, and sets from Disney films. Some of my personal favorites are Pinnochio’s village, the sultan’s palace from Aladdin, and a London-set park from Peter Pan. Though the ride starts with the boats entering Monstro the whale’s mouth, it’s all smooth sailing from then on. It’s sad to see that many of the original 13 rides that Walt himself had a hand in creating- including these canal boats- have lost their popularity to the newer, flashier rides at the park. However, this is a ride that guests shouldn’t sweep under the rug just because it isn’t thrilling; the lines are usually short and move fast and the ride itself is a substantial length, so there’s no worries about you or your children getting antsy waiting in line. This attraction is especially a must-ride for couples- there is a beautiful fairy-light adorned overhang that the boats pass through that is notably stunning when it gets darker outside, and the overall ambiance of the ride itself is very romantic. The Storybook Land Canal Boats is honestly my favorite ride when I just want to sit, rest my feet, and enjoy that nostalgic old-timey Disney feeling you get when you ride classics like these.

3. The Haunted Mansion

Image by Disney

Now we’re finally getting to the E-Ticket attractions. The Haunted Mansion is a celebrated fan favorite attraction at Disneyland, and this is reflected by its often extensive wait times. The thing that makes this attraction- and the next 2 picks- so fun to ride is the level of in-depth immersiveness that the theming of the ride gives to the guests. The exterior facade of this ride is quite possibly the best themed facade in the entire park. It just fits perfectly in the land that it’s in (New Orleans Square) and the antebellum-style of the mansion accurately emulates the large manors of the old South. When guests are taken in, they are immediately thrown into the story of the Mansion before the ride even begins. The guests are placed into what is known as the “stretch room,” where the walls of the room, by an optical illusion (I’ll talk about this in a future post), look to stretch up vertically to show the morbid demises of the portraits hung up on the walls. While this is happening, the prologue of the story is presented by the Ghost Host, who reveals that he himself is the spirit of a corpse that is hanging from the ceiling of the room. It should be noted that the Ghost Host’s voice is done by Paul Frees, a voice actor that is legendary for lending his voice to other Disney attractions like Pirates of the Caribbean, and Adventure Thru Inner Space. After the stretch room, guests are ushered down the hallway that has portraits hung up on the walls that look to be changing or following them. The ride itself includes some of the best of Disney Imagineering, and each scene makes great use of Disney’s animatronics system as well as hybrid-projections. One of the most famous Disneyland characters, the Hat Box Ghost, is from this ride. The Haunted Mansion is a prime example of how perfect theming, memorable characters, and an invigorating story can truly immerse the guests in the fantasy world that it has created. This attraction would be higher up on this list if not for the fact the next two rides are not just my favorite attractions at Disneyland, but are likely my two favorite rides ever.

2. Splash Mountain

Image by Disney

Ever since it debuted in 1989, Splash Mountain has been one of the most popular E-Ticket attractions at the park. Splash Mountain takes the guests on a log-flume ride through “The Laughing Place” and the woods where the Br‘er animals live. The story is based off of the controversial live action Disney film Song of the South (again, I’ll go over the controversy in a future article), and the charming woodland creatures are some of the most entertaining animatronics at the park. The joke, they dance, they sing, and the light-hearted tone of the characters really balances with the scarier, darker part of the ride (The Laughing Place), as well as the large drop down the waterfall. Speaking of the drop, I believe this drop is the biggest drop at Disneyland (not counting DCA) at a height of 52.5 feet, a 45-47 degree angle, and up to 40 miles per hour. Personally, Splash Mountain is far and away my favorite “mountain” at the park, beating out Space Mountain, Big Thunder Mountain, and the Matterhorn. This is objectively the most physically thrilling attraction at Disneyland. Funny personal story about the Splash Mountain ride- I hadn’t ridden this attraction until about a year or two ago since, before that, I was too young/scared to get in line. However, I unknowingly already cherished a part of the ride from a young age- the “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” scene during the Disneyland Railroad was my favorite scene during the train ride and I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was actually a scene from Splash Mountain. Disclaimer- this ride will get you wet. I tend to enjoy this attraction the most in the middle of a particularly hot day, and I try to avoid it at night or on colder mornings.

1. Pirates of the Caribbean

Image by Disney

For my number one, absolute top favorite pick of the attractions at Disneyland, the Pirates of the Caribbean ride was a no-brainer for me. Pirates of the Caribbean is often the first ride I’ll run to as soon as I enter the park, and the last one I’ll visit before I leave. There are not enough words to say all the good things that I want to say about this attraction. Aside from being an iconic, classic attraction at Disneyland, PotC features some of the most impressive and quality animatronics to ever come out of Disney Imagineers. It has one of the largest collections of advanced animatronics at any given theme park and has beautifully designed set pieces. The guests are taken on a boat ride through a Louisiana bayou, passing by an old man on his banjo, before being dropped down a waterfall and transported back in time to an era where pirates openly ruled the high seas. The attention to detail in every single scene of this attraction is what truly makes it, in my opinion, the most immersive ride at Disneyland. The guest is truly made to feel as if they are experiencing the battles of the pirates on Isla Tesoro. From the moment you step foot onto the cobblestone pathways of the queue, you instantly feel the connection to the adventure that you’re about to embark on with the characters. The song “Yo Ho (A Pirate’s Life for Me)” plays every now and then during the attraction and, like “It’s a Small World,” it’s a catchy tune that guests will find themselves whistling as they spend the rest of their day at the park. Another thing to note about this attraction is the immediate wave of smell the guests notice when they walk into the building. The famously dubbed “pirate water” scent is one that was so popular that it is one of the things that guests remember about the ride, if nothing else. It truly makes the guest feel as if they are sailing the seas with the crew (although technically, the smell of the pirate water is actually the cleansing chemical Disney puts in their water attractions called bromine). A great thing about the PotC ride is that the ride vehicles are constantly moving and seat approximately 20 guests (5 rows of 4) and sends through about 3,400 guests per hour. This means that the line is consistently moving so you and your young ones will never get too antsy. Though it seems as if I’ve exhausted this attraction of all it could offer, there’s actually one more notable feature about this attraction that makes it stand out from the rest- built right into the attraction is the Blue Bayou restaurant, which is one of the best dining options at the park (and very expensive at that). Though this isn’t a necessity by any means, it is just another unique characteristic of this attraction that makes me love it so much. Though I’m always sad when my day ends at the park, I’m comforted by the fact that I can end the day right by riding Pirates one more time and then, if it’s early enough, grab a snack from the Mint Julep Bar right beside it.

So there you go guys, my top 5 Disneyland attractions of all time. Let me know if you agree, disagree, or if you just want to talk about anything Disney parks related with me!

*Revised 2 Oct 2019

[whentommymetalfie]

Gun in my hand, chapter five 

A/N: I. Am. A. Pile. Of. Mush. That’s all. Oh, and also, this is the last chapter, but there’ll be a oneshot epilogue/sequel to deal with more of the fall out. Now. that’s all. 

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter summary: Tommy is left to deal with the aftermath. 

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Warnings: Descriptions of insomnia/sleep deprivation and injury. Discussions and thoughts about death. 

Wordcount: 7100. (I KNOW!!! WHAT???) 

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313621/chapters/35168402

Tommy is still surrounded by darkness. He thought he’d finally escaped, but now he’s drowning in it again. It fills his mouth and lungs like ice cold water- There are hands everywhere, tearing at him, hurting him, and he can’t hide from them.

He wakes up at the sound of someone screaming.

“Shh, it’s okay Tom, calm down.” Gentle hands grab his shoulders, holding him down and Tommy thrashes against them. “You’re going to hurt yourself. It’s just me. Just Arthur.”

He opens his eyes, convinced he’ll see nothing but the dark interiors of the cellar again, and blinks dazedly as the brightness in the room stings his eyes.

He’s lying in a bed, and Arthur is seated on the edge of it. Tommy scrambles to get his mind working. Why is he here? Blurry memories are resurfacing, disjointed and fragmented… Alfie lying on the warehouse floor, bleeding out in his arms. The ride to the hospital. Pacing the corridor as they rushed Alfie off to surgery.

Alfie.

“Where’s Alfie?” he rasps out, the words tearing a rattling cough from his lungs. Arthur holds a glass of water to his mouth, and the cool liquid soothes his burning throat. A shadow comes over Arthur's face.

“Tommy…”

“Where is Alfie?” he repeats, sitting up despite the pain that shoots through his ribcage.

Arthur’s answer comes after far too long. “He’s… resting.”

“But he’ll be okay? He’s… he’s just resting?” Tommy isn’t sure if this is a question or something he tries to state to himself. The delay in Arthur’s response causes his heart to sink in his chest.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. The bullet didn’t hit any internal organs but…” Arthur runs a hand over his mouth. “They say that if he wakes up from the anesthesia he’s got a fighting chance. But it’s hard to tell. Until he does.”

If he wakes up. Cold sweat breaks out over his entire body as he fights the nausea that overwhelms him. If he wakes up. You’re going to lose him. And it’s your fault…  

The voices have followed him from the cellar.

“I need to see him,” Tommy says in an attempt to drown them out. Clutching his bandaged chest, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Arthur catches him gently by the arms.

“You need to stay in bed.” He tries to guide Tommy back down onto the mattress. “Can’t have you passing out again. You’ve got enough bruises already.”

A vague memory flutters by in his mind: wandering back and forth in the hallway, looking down at his blood soaked hands as he ignored every concerned nurse trying to get him to lie down. The blood is gone now, and his hands are wrapped in gauze. Did he injure them somehow? He can’t remember.  

It's not important

Completely ignoring his older brother’s protests, Tommy gets out of bed on unsteady feet. The second his feet touch the cold stone, he nearly crumples to the floor as the pain makes his vision go white. It’s as if his entire body has been crushed and is held together by just a few remaining tendrils of bone.

Arthur’s arms are around him again, but this time they just hold him upright. Tommy leans into the touch.

“Easy there, Tom. Not really in shape to be walking around, I think. Pretty sure you bashed your head a bit when you fainted.”

“I have to-“

Arthur nods and lets out a defeated sigh. “Sure, sure. I’ll help you.”

They make their way out in the corridor, Arthur supporting almost his entire weight against his side. Tommy tries not to breathe, the expansion of his ribcage is too painful.

“Where’s John?” A blurry image of his younger brother being there in the car floats up from somewhere in the back of his mind. But he disappeared once they reached the hospital. Tommy can’t remember how.

“They had to stitch him back up a bit,” Arthur explains as he leads Tommy down the too bright hallway. “A little scratch on the upper arm.” Tommy’s knees give up for a moment and he bites back a sob in pain as Arthur tightens the grip around his waist to keep him upright. “The bullet went straight through. No bones hit or anything. He’s just supposed to be lying down so he doesn’t rip the stitches.”

This is all your fault.  

He stares down at the floor, focuses all his attention on putting one foot in front of the other until Arthur finally stops by an anonymous looking door.

A nurse comes to meet them just as Arthur is about to reach out for the door handle.

”Only family allowed, I’m afraid,” she says gently, furrowing her brow as she looks Tommy up and down. “What is your relationship with Mister Solomons?”

Tommy sways on his feet, wrapping the free arm around his stomach to keep it from shaking. Her voice seems to come from so far away. And the question catches him off guard

“He’s, he’s…” What is he supposed to say?

How is he supposed to explain, when he knows nothing he says will be good enough for them?

“Who are you?” the nurse wonders, still with that questioning expression on her face. “A friend? Brother?”

“I’m…” There’s nothing he can say. Nothing that will make her understand. It doesn’t count, what they have. Not to the rest of the world. If he dies, you won’t even get to bury him. “No-one,” he finally says, choking out the words. “I’m… no-one.”

Arthur’s arms are strong around him, and his voice is firm as he speaks up.  

“He’s Thomas Shelby, and we’re going in there whether you fucking like it or not. Send the doctor my way if he’s got any objections.”

With that, Arthur leads him past the nurse, and into a room furnished with a single bed, two  chairs, and a small bedside table. A bleak sun is shining in through the window, washing the already indistinct colours out to a light grey.  

Tommy barely recognizes the pale figure lying in the bed. It can’t be Alfie… Alfie, with his constant hand gestures and bright smile and loud voice… who is so full of life that it just seeps into everything around him. The person in the bed can’t be him.

But it is. And it’s Tommy’s fault he’s there.

His knees feel weak, but Arthur holds him upright, carefully helping him limp up to the bed and sit down in the chair next to it. Tommy can’t tear his eyes from Alfie. If he just keeps looking at him… If he just keeps looking at him, Alfie will wake up. He knows that Tommy needs him. He’ll feel it, and wake up.

“Tom, it’s going to be alright.” Arthur crouches down in front of him. “He’ll pull through, the stubborn bastard. And you’ll be back to… giving me gray hair in no time.”

Tommy nods. Because he has to.

Silence fills the room. It’s a loud silence, somehow. Deafening. Tommy listens to Alfie’s almost inaudible breaths, struggling to hear them through the sound of his own heartbeat, and too loud breathing. His own breaths rattle in his chest.  

“I’ll just go check on John,” Arthur tells him. “But I’ll be back in a second.” He gets up, and runs a hand through Tommy’s hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. It somehow makes Tommy realise he must look like an absolute wreck.

Arthur leaves.

Then it’s just him.  

He feels lost. Unsure what to do now. So he just sits there on the chair, staring at Alfie’s unmoving frame.

How could you let this happen?

After several minutes of hesitation, he reaches out to take Alfie’s hand, terrified that he’ll find it cold. It’s not. Not as warm as it usually is either, but still warm. They've removed the rings, and the jewelry is lined up neatly on the nightstand. Picking the rings up, Tommy gently slides them back onto Alfie’s fingers, carefully making sure they are in their normal spots -the wide gold band on his thumb, the one with square shaped plate on his index… One by one. Until it’s Alfie’s hand again. Tommy pulls the chair as close to Alfie’s bedside as possible, clutching the hand like a lifeline. As long as Tommy stays by his side, Alfie can’t die. He’ll wake up. And everything will be okay again.

He just has to stay here.

He does. For the entire day. Hours pass –the passage of time is only apparent because people constantly come to bother him. A nurse comes in several times to see if there’s any change in Alfie’s condition, but there never is. A doctor does the same, writing things on a clipboard as he hums to himself. They try to make him leave the chair, go lie down, eat, drink- all these useless things.

Eventually they all turn to an indistinguishable chorus of voices, meaningless and droning. There are so many voices in his head already, a few more make no difference.

At some point, the nurse puts a tray of food on the nightstand, and Tommy forces himself to drink the water. But he doesn’t touch the food.

Eventually she comes to carry it away.

“You really should be in bed, Mister Shelby.”

He ignores the voice. Partly because he doesn’t know what to say. His throat has closed up completely, making it impossible to speak.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he flinches at the touch.

“You are severely dehydrated and sleep deprived. And-“

The voice goes on. How can they talk about Tommy when Alfie is just lying in that bed, looking as if he’s moments away from fading way completely?  

When the hand on his shoulder wraps around his upper arm and gently tries to pull him up from the chair, Tommy tears himself loose. Finally giving up, the nurse leaves him alone.

Arthur comes instead, pulling up a chair next to him. Tommy looks at the steady rise and fall of Alfie’s chest. In and out. He’s still alive. Just resting. In and out-

“Hey, Tommy, I know you want to be here with Alfie alright, but you need to rest.”

He doesn’t want them to talk, because then he can’t hear Alfie’s breathing. He clings to that, just the way he clings to the warmth of his hand, to every little sign that he’s still alive -just resting, just resting, and he’ll wake up, and everything will be okay again-  

In and out. Slowly. Everything will be okay.

“You hear me?”

If he just stays silent, Arthur will go away. They will all go away and leave him alone here with Alfie. He tries to breathe in the same rhythm as Alfie, but it’s hard- every breath makes him painfully aware of his broken ribs.

In and out. He’s just resting. Everything will be okay. You just have to stay here…

Finally, Arthur says something about stretching his legs, and disappears from the chair.

...

The sun sets outside the window, and the exhaustion weighs heavily on his shoulders, willing him to rest his head on the mattress for a while. But he resists the urge, sitting up straighter instead.

He’s stayed awake through countless of nights. What’s one more?  

It would be impossible to sleep anyway, with the state his head is in. The guilt is gnawing at his insides, chipping away at him piece by piece. This is his fault. He should’ve seen this coming miles away. Should’ve kept more weapons in the house. Should’ve made sure they moved to a safer location. Should’ve fought back harder-

If he hadn’t gotten caught up in this-

If he’d been quicker, if he’d shot the man earlier, Alfie wouldn’t be lying here.

You can’t do anything right, can you?

How is he going to live with himself if Alfie dies?

The nurse comes in again, placing a new tray of food on the table. Tommy can feel her gaze, but he ignores it.

Arthur returns not long thereafter, and gives the tray a weary look, fingers digging into his eye sockets. “Could you at least tryto eat?” The irritation in his voice is palpable now.

Tommy can’t eat. If he opens his mouth he’s afraid his insides will just decide to start pouring out of it. The mere thought of having to force down food makes his gut churn.

“You’re fucking… wasting away.” With a deep sigh, Arthur slumps down on the chair. “What’s Alfie gonna say, eh? When he wakes up and sees you.”

“He’s not going to wake up,” Tommy says numbly, finally unable to keep the thought away. Blinking in surprise, Arthur stares dumbly at him for a moment.

“Sure he is-“

The anger bubbles up suddenly, red-hot and uncontrollable. No one understands a single fucking thing.

“No, he’s not,” Tommy cuts him off. “He’s going to die- and- and I’ll just have to fucking sit here and watch it happen.” He coughs. “And all you fucking do is pester me about all these useless bloody things-“ The room spins around him when he gets to his feet.  

“Tommy-“ Arthur stands too, and Tommy backs away, trying to put himself out of reach.

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters, don’t you see that?” Arthur comes towards him, hands outstretched as if approaching a skittish horse. “Tommy, you need rest. Or it won’t matter if Alfie pulls through or not. Because you sure as hell won’t. Have you seen yourself? You look about one second from keeling over.“

Tommy stumbles backwards until he hits the wall.

“Stop fucking telling me to rest and eat and all this fucking bullshit,” he spits venomously. ”I’ve spent the latest years trying to keep you off the fucking ledge, while you’ve just been spiraling. And now you want to play the big brother?”

Arthur clenches his jaw and swallows. “All I’m asking is that you lie down for a while.”

When Tommy resorts to just shaking his head, Arthur grabs him gently by the shoulders. Tommy pushes him, doing little to budge his larger frame. He hasn’t realized how weak his limbs are until now. But Arthur takes a step back nonetheless.

“Get out.” Tommy pushes him again, ignoring the sharp pain it sends up his arms. “Get the fuck out and leave me alone.” He stares wildly at Arthur.  “Go back to snorting coke and behaving like an unhinged basket-case. You’re better at that.”

A flash of hurt comes across Arthur’s face and he takes another step back.

For a moment, the words hang in the air between them as they stare each other down. Arthur is the one to break the silence.

“Fine, I’ll go. Whatever you say.”

Tommy sways on his feet, chest heaving in frantic breaths as he watches the door slam shut. The air gets caught in his throat, and he begins to cough, clutching the windowsill for support as  the pain shoots like knives through his ribs. White lights dance behind his closed eyelids as he fights to regain his bearings and when the cough finally subsides, he just barely makes it to the chair by Alfie’s bedside  before his knees buckle. He leans forward, head cradled in his hands, and swallows the bile that rises in the back of his throat.

The room seems a lot darker when he straightens up again, and he huddles a bit closer to the side of Alfie’s bed, reaching out to take his hand again.

If he just stays here, everything will be okay. Alfie can’t die while Tommy is sitting here, waiting for him to wake up.

He just has to stay here.

But Alfie looks so pale…

He’s dying. You know that, right? And there’s nothing you can do to change that.

The voices become louder as the night drags on.

You don’t deserve him. That’s why this is happening.

He tries to think of something happy, something that will shine a bit of light in the dark and chase the shadows away, drown out the voices. Alfie is the first thing that comes to his mind: Alfie smiling at him when they’re lying in bed. The safe feeling of his strong arms around Tommy’s back. His mouth right next to Tommy’s ear, whispering hushed reassurances when he needs it the most: ‘You deserve to be loved. Wish I could make you see that.’

You deserve nothing. No, but Alfie said-Alfie is going to die because of you. and you have the gall to believe you deserve him?  

He can see shadows moving in the corners, creeping closer with each passing hour. It’s just like the walls in the cellar. His eyes drift to the door. What if it’s locked? What if he can’t get out? He's overwhelmed by an almost irresistible urge to open it, but ends up just sitting frozen on the chair, alternating between looking at Alfie’s unconscious form and the door. Walking that far through the darkness is impossible…

A white figure appears in the room, and he’s certain it only exists in his head- but then it walks up to the bed and leans over Alfie. Instantly tensing up, Tommy stares wide eyed at it.

“It’s alright, I’m just checking on him,” the figure says and he realises it’s one of the nurses. A different one this time. “Can I get you anything, love? A blanket maybe? You look awfully cold.”

He shakes his head and a soft smile crosses her lips. She has kind eyes.

“Well, I’ll get you one anyway. If you change your mind.” When she leaves the room, she doesn’t close the door fully.

The nurse returns, carrying a blanket and a lamp that burns with a warm, dim light. He can breathe a little easier, suddenly.

“So you don’t have to sit here in the dark,” she explains and places it on the bedside table. “I’ll just leave this here,” she adds and puts the folded blanket on the foot of Alfie’s bed.

Then she leaves.

Tommy can’t bring himself to reach out for the blanket, even though he's forgotten what it feels like, to be warm. But the cold keeps him from falling asleep.

The small lamp has created a tiny pool of yellow light around him. The darkness can’t get to him here.

He stays in that pool of light, watching over Alfie for the rest of the night. Trying to ignore the shadows towering over him. They don’t disappear until the morning sun breaks through the thin, white curtains.

Around him, he vaguely hears the hospital coming to life, filling with distant conversation, footsteps, clattering of trays being carried to the different rooms. Tommy blinks, fighting desperately against his heavy eyelids. The steady rise and fall of Alfie’s chest is still there, no change for the worse. But there’s no change for the better either.

Footsteps are approaching him, but he doesn’t look up to see who it is. It doesn’t matter.

“Mister Shelby, I must insist that you return to your bed-“ He recognizes the voice from the day before. One of the nurses.  

Why won’t they leave him alone?  

“Or I’ll be forced to have you escorted there.”

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he shies away from the touch, tensing up. After a dejected sigh, the voice and the footsteps disappear out the door.

Tommy smooths out a wrinkle in the duvet and lets his hand brush over Alfie’s cheek in passing. He allows himself to linger, tracing the delicate skin under his eye with his thumb. If he tries hard enough, he can almost imagine they’re at home, in their own bed. Alfie is just sleeping peacefully, and any second now he’ll wake up and look at Tommy that way only he can… as if he’s the most precious thing in the entire world. And it’s almost enough to make Tommy believe him for a moment… He’ll smile, say something stupid and sweet that causes Tommy blush and call him a fucking sap, even as he basks in the feeling of being wanted by someone… and by someone like Alfie, who could have his pick of far less dysfunctional people…

His blissful little fantasy is interrupted when two looming figures appear in front of him. Large hands take a firm grip on his upper arms, attempting to lift him out of the chair. It’s two white clad men. The fear surges through him, shocking his body into action and he struggles against them.

“Please calm yourself. You need to rest-“ They try to explain things again. Say that he’s got a concussion, broken bones, is sleep deprived- not thinking clear. Why are they behaving like any of that matters when Alfie is-

As long as Tommy is there by his side, Alfie can’t die. He promised he’d never leave. And now they’re trying to take him away-

Helpless against the strong hands in his weakened state, Tommy finds himself pulled to his feet and dragged away from Alfie’s bed. His heart races in his chest.

They will lock him up somewhere. And he’ll be alone in the dark again. Alone, and cold-

He fights. The piece of glass is gone, and he’s got nothing to defend himself with, but he fights nonetheless, squirming and kicking as best he can with his damaged limbs. When It doesn’t help, he screams, a wordless, desperate cry that rips from his throat. Then finally, the hands lose their grip, and his knees hit the floor. He curls inwards on himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he clasps his arms over his head- making himself small, so small that he becomes nothing and they can’t take him away... can’t hurt him, can’t take him back to the darkness.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Arthur.

“He really must lie down-“

“And you figured this was a good way to get him to do that? Thought you were supposed to be professionals here. Bloody hell, don’t need no fucking schooling to see he’s fucking terrified.  

“Sir-“

“Just get the fuck out of here. Fuck’s sake. I’ve got this.”

He feels the presence of a body next to him.

“Tom, it’s okay, you’re safe. I've got you, alright?” Arthur’s voice is soft and reassuring. Something warm is draped over his shoulders, and he’s enveloped by a familiar scent of rum. “There we go. Got Alfie’s coat cleaned for you.” As Arthur is talking he carefully pries Tommy’s arms away from on his head and guides his hands into the coat sleeves. “Guess you’ll have to stitch that hole up. But Alfie can probably do that… Good at that sort of thing I imagine…

Arthur helps him up, carrying more than leading him back to the chair. Steadier than he’s been in years. Tommy reaches out and takes Alfie’s hand again to keep his own from shaking, before settling back in his chair, sinking deep into the warmth of the coat. He buries his nose in the thick collar and breathes the scent into his nose, wishing it could fill him up completely, replace the fear seeping like icy water through his veins. It smells like Alfie. Like home.

Something scrapes against the floor, and Arthur heaves a sigh as he sits down on the chair, opposite him. But it’s not followed by another comment on how he should get some rest, ore eat… He just silently stays by his side.

Arthur sits with him as another night begins to fall, and the shadows in the room grow longer again. He still doesn’t tell him to sleep. And no one else comes to force him to do it either.

The realisation doesn’t hit him suddenly. It creeps up on him. With each passing hour, he can feel the lump in his throat grow bigger, feel his chest tighten and the hand clenched around his insides hold them a bit harder.

Arthur is snoring in his chair, and the room is dark.

The nurse comes in just briefly, giving them a onceover, before leaving again.

Alfie is going to die. That’s why they’re not bothering him anymore, because they all know, and finally understand how pointless everything else is.

For a moment, Tommy is certain he’s back in that warehouse, his ribcage caving in under the brutal force of steel pounding against it.  

He’s breaking into a thousand pieces.

All the cracks that Alfie spent so much time trying to mend, to make him a little less broken… all those jagged edges he smoothed out so he wouldn’t always hurt anyone who came too close… It’s all for nothing right at that moment. He can feel himself falling apart, piece by piece.

The tears seeping down his cheeks are not accompanied by any sobs. They just silently fall, painting burning hot trails over his cold skin.

Hands still clasped around Alfie’s, Tommy rests his forehead against his knuckles and prays. For a miracle. For just one fucking miracle, even if he doesn’t deserve it. He prayed sometimes in the tunnels, and it should’ve taught him that it’s no use. God doesn’t listen to people like him. But he does it, still, for Alfie.

Alfie deserves a miracle.

Please let him wake up. Please let him be okay. Please don’t take him away from me, because I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I’ll do anything…

The God he was raised to believe in won’t listen. But maybe Alfie’s God will.

...

The night has faded into another dawn, a grey, rainy one. Tommy raises his head to watch the droplets whip against the windowpane, eyes stinging. A grunt is heard from the chair next to him as Arthur begins to stir. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes and blinking sluggishly a few times, he turns his attention to Tommy, eyes shifting between him and Alfie. His mouth falls open to ask a question, but he apparently figures out the answer before finding the right words.

“Just going to see if John’s allowed out of bed yet,” Arthur says and gets up from the chair, rolling his shoulders. “He might start biting the nurses otherwise.”  

Alone once again, Tommy finds himself unable to fight the weariness weighing down on his shoulders. It’s no use. Before he can make a conscious decision, his body just gives up and slumps forward. He lays his head down on the mattress, closing his eyes to will the nausea away. His muscles refuses to support him any longer, and he remains there.

They’ll have to carry him away when they come to fetch Alfie’s body.

When the hand he’s holding shifts slightly, fingers gripping weakly around his, he is certain he’s imagining it. But he straightens up nonetheless, using some unknown source of strength.

The lack of sleep has finally gotten to him, and now he’s seeing things.

“Alfie?” His voice is raspy from disuse, but he manages to get the word out.

Alfie looks at him through a veil of lashes, mouth twitching under the beard.

“Morning, love. Been waiting here for long?”    

It takes a few unfathomably long seconds before he finally pulls himself out of the stupor. Then he pitches forward and kisses Alfie, cradling his face between his bandaged hands.

The relief flooding his chest is unlike anything he’s felt in his entire life, and the tears come before he can stop them, filling his eyes and seeping down his cheeks. The lips under his are warm and undeniably real and Alfie is alive everything will be okay now…

“I love you,” he breathes out. “God, I love you so much.” It’s all he manages to say. And right at that moment, it’s all he needs to say.

When a choked sob escapes him, Tommy quickly straightens up and wipes the tears away, swallowing down the ones threatening to well his eyes. Alfie shouldn’t have to see him cry the first thing he does.

“Oh, it’s alright sweetheart,” Alfie mutters wearily, looking up at him with soft eyes. “Better to let it out. ”

No. He can’t just fall apart now. Alfie needs him. Biting the inside of his cheek, he takes strained breaths in through his nose until he’s regained his bearings enough to speak.

“How are you feeling?”

“Just peachy.” Alfie grimaces in pain as he shifts slightly on the mattress, eliminating any credibility the words may have had.

“I’ll get a nurse.” Tommy makes a move to stand, ignoring his entire body protesting violently by sending a wave of pain through all his limbs. Alfie tightens the grip around his hand slightly.

“Stay.”

“Just to let them know you’re awake,” he promises. He can feel himself slurring, struggling against his uncooperative tongue. “So they can give you something for the pain.” Alfie lets out sigh, releasing his hand.

The floor is rocking under him as he unsteadily makes his way over to the door, clutching the frame for support as he scans the hallway. Arthur and John are stood a little ways down, and the second they see him, they both come walking in his direction.  

“You look like you should be in the fucking morgue,” John exclaims and earns a sharp elbow in the ribs from Arthur.

“Alfie’s awake,” Tommy says, grasping for words as he ignores this comment.. “Could -“ Fuck, he can’t even string a sentence together. “A nurse. Could you get a nurse?”

“I’m on it,” John states and marches off, while Arthur ushers Tommy back into the room and towards the chair right in time before his legs give up.

“Look at you, you stubborn bastard.” Arthur beams at Alfie, slapping his shoulder and earning a sharp glare from Tommy. “Just knew I wouldn’t get rid of you that easily.” Alfie lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Well, I was standing there by the pearly gates and all, but then I said to myself: who will pester Arthur, then?”

“Easy with the talking.” Tommy brushes a stray hair away from Alfie’s forehead. “You need to rest.”

“But I’ve got several days’ worth of it, love.” Alfie smiles at him. It’s faint, and tired, but it still makes Tommy’s heart swell in his chest. “’Least I think so. How long-“ he makes a pause, taking a pained breath. “How long was I out for?”

Tommy looks to Arthur for an answer. It’s all just been a daze.

“Three days,” Arthur tells him. “Was about time you decided to wake up. I’ve been left to run things all on my own here.”

John enters with a nurse and a doctor in tow. Tommy is pretty sure they’ve both been in there before, but he can’t remember when.

“Solomons! You look like shit, mate,” John exclaims and gives Alfie a bright grin, walking up to the bed. This time, Tommy manages to stop him before any unnecessarily violent slaps of affection are handed out. “And you didn’t even get to hear the shit that went down! Do I have a story for you. Me and Ishmael, we’re hiding behind this crate, right, when we see these blokes, definitely not ours, come in through the back door so we-”

When John is relieved, he rambles. So for a while, the room descends in a rather pleasant kind of chaos, as the doctor tries to ask Alfie questions, Alfie tries to answer them, John talks about the shootout with Changretta’s men, Arthur does the same, and the poor nurse just does her best trying to hush them.

Tommy sits quietly in his chair and watches the whole thing unfold, still caught in some confusing mixture of disbelief and dizzying happiness.

“Well, Mister Solomons. As long as we steer clear of infections, I recon you will be quite alright after a good few weeks of rest-” The doctor puts great emphasis on this as he talks about the recovery process ahead, resting. Tommy needs to remember that.  

The doctor leaves, and after giving a few admonishing comments to both John and Arthur concerning the volume, the nurse states she’ll come back with something to eat, before following suit.

John can’t stop talking, it would seem. On any other occasion, Tommy would tell him to shut up, but he can’t bring himself to do so now.

“Know what, John, think we should leave these two alone,” Arthur finally says and grabs his shoulder. “If I know them right they need to stare longingly into each other’s eyes for at least half an hour now.”

John grins and lets himself be dragged towards the door

“We should call Pol,” he declares. “Give her the absolutely devastating news that she’ll just have to continue putting up you.” And with that, they close the door, and peace settles in the room again  

Tommy runs a hand through Alfie’s hair, noticing the a tension around his eyes

“You sure you don’t want any morphine?”

“Nah…” Alfie mutters. “Like to keep me wits about me. ‘s just a bit of pain.”

Tommy nods tightly.

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” Alfie stretches out his arm gingerly in an inviting gesture. “Looks like you could use some rest.” Tommy wants nothing more than to take him up on the offer.  

“What about the-“ the nurses, the doctor, fucking everyone…

“Fuck’em,” Alfie huffs, immediately wincing in pain. “Get in here.”

Tommy carefully climbs into bed next to him, stretching his aching legs out. The pain in his side keeps him from doing anything but lie perfectly still on his back, but he feels the warmth of Alfie’s body next to his, and soon enough, their fingers are laced together under the duvet.

“You okay?” Alfie squeezes his hand. “What sort of things did he do to you, eh? Changretta.”

Tommy keeps his eyes fixed on the duvet.

“I was just locked up somewhere. Nothing to worry about.”

When Alfie opens his mouth to protest, Tommy turns his head to capture his lips in a soft kiss instead.

“We’ll talk when you’re feeling better. Just rest now. You heard the doctor.” He settles his head back onto the pillow. They’re not going to talk about the cellar.  “And then we’re also going to talk about that incredibly stupid fucking plan of yours.”    

For once, Alfie’s stubbornness can’t help him; he resorts to running his thumb over Tommy's knuckles, before closing his eyes and announcing that he’s just going to sleep for a bit.

“You should too, love.”

What Tommy really should do is stay awake and make sure that Alfie wakes up this time-

He’s asleep before he can finish the thought.

...

When Tommy wakes up again, confused but not quite as terrified as the last time, he much to his surprise finds Polly is sitting in the same chair he’s been occupying the past few days. Arthur and John are seated by the opposite wall, engaged in a conversation of unknown nature and at an uncharacteristically reasonable volume.

“What are you doing here?” he rasps out. Polly smiles and reaches out to stroke his cheek.

“Had to look after my boys, didn’t I?” she says. “And not a minute too soon, it would seem. You look awful.”

“Oh, don’t listen to her, love,” Alfie’s voice comes from above him, a fraction stronger than the last time he heard it. He’s sitting leaned against the pillows and looking down at Tommy with a fond smile. “Just a little pale. Some food and another week of sleep and you’ll be as radiant as ever.”

His fingers rake against the nape of Tommy’s neck, and Tommy furrows his brow, still rather confused. Outside the window, the rain has turned into a steady snowfall, and the gray light gives no indication of what hour of the day it is.

“How long have I been sleeping?”  

“Little over a day, the good doctor told me,” Alfie says. “Was out myself for a bit of it too, so I had to check.”

With some help from Polly, Tommy also manages to sit up, and is just about to ask who is taking care of things at home, who’s looking after Finn, when the question answers itself.

“You’re awake!” Finn comes rushing into the room, and Polly just barely manages to stop him from throwing himself over Tommy. Behind him, Ada and Esme appear in the doorway.

“You’re… all here?” Tommy asks dumbly.

“We commandeered a boat!” Ada tells him with a grin. “We figured women and children would just have to step in and make sure you lot didn’t get yourself killed.”

“I’m mostly here for the sights,” Esme shrugs, but the vase of flowers in her arms contradict this statement.

This is all a bit too much to take in, and Tommy can’t quite come up with a response. Luckily he doesn’t have to, because Finn is as usual full of them.

“I’ve been looking after the horses.” He seats himself on the edge of the bed. “They got very scared when I told them you were missing, but now they’re happy again, so don’t worry.” Without hesitation, he digs up Tommy’s bandaged hand from under the cover and very gently takes it between his smaller ones, patting it carefully. “I went to the stables every day. Because horses sense a lot of things, so I figured it was better to just be upfront with them.” Tommy has a feeling this has more to do with Finn than the horses.

“These are for you,” Esme tells Alfie and puts the flowers down on the nightstand.  “Better get back on your feet quickly,” she adds with a rare smile. “I’ve gotten used to having help in the kitchen. Would be a shame if we lost the only decent man in the household. ”

“Recon John can step in,” Alfie gives a pointed look in his direction, and John takes great offence.    

“I’m severely injured!”

“Indoor voices, please,” Polly says sternly, before turning her attention to Alfie. “If you need me to escort this lot out of here, just say the word.”

Alfie sinks a little deeper into the pillows, giving her a dismissive wave. “It’s fine.”

“Well, this is what life in the Shelby family is like.” Ada shakes her head and seats herself on the edge of the bed next to Finn. “Constant chaos. Always. In any situation. No mercy.” She reaches out to pat the general area on the duvet where Alfie’s knee presumably is. “And now you’re stuck with us. Congratulations.

Tommy glances up at Alfie to make sure this virtual storm of impressions isn’t too much. Granted, he still looks quite pale and exhausted, but a smile is hidden behind the beard, and his eyes are bright.

He rests his head lightly on Alfie’s shoulder and hugs the arm close to his chest, twining their fingers together. Alfie gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Soon, the family has made themselves comfortable in different spots around and on the bed, filling the room with a chaos only comparable to the one usually reigning over their dinner table. Alfie gives Tommy a piece of bread from the tray on the nightstand with the comment:

“Saved this for you love. Figured you hadn’t eaten in a while.” And curled up against Alfie’s warm body, Tommy manages to eat. Slowly. And only one tiny bite at the time. But still.

Finn is talking constantly. It’s his first time in London, so obviously just the walk to the hospital has given him about a million things to reflect upon. And much like John, he’s incapable of being quiet whenever he’s overcome by some strong emotion.

“And there are so many tall houses? I saw one- one with a clock. There’s a picture of that house my history book in school, but someone has drawn all over it so you can’t see it that well-“

It’s impossible for the Shelby family to be in one room together without trying to all talk at the same time, and despite the welcomed contrast from the last few days’ crippling loneliness, Tommy begins to worry it’s going to tire Alfie out.

“Just tell me if you need to rest,” Tommy whispers softly into his ear, as to not let Finn hear him. “They won’t mind.”  

“Was just about to tell you the same, love,” Alfie answers in the same quiet voice. The rest of the family seem quite unaware of this exchange, currently listening to Finn describe what could be Buckingham palace, or simply any other large building. “I don’t mind.”

Tommy relaxes against his side, the familiar atmosphere enveloping him in blissful safety. He’s still wearing Alfie’s coat, so the cold he thought had permanently settled in his bones has finally melted away. And suddenly, the past days just feel like a distant nightmare. Even the memories from the cellar, the musty air, the darkness, seem far away at that moment. He’s not alone now.

“I recon I could swim across that river!”

“No, Finn!“

Tommy glances down at the bandages covering Alfie’s stomach, and a jolt of guilt twists his gut. He hugs the arm a little tighter and tears his eyes away from the injury, shifting them to Alfie’s face instead, and the happy expression that still lingers under the veil of exhaustion.

“Everything okay?” Alfie mutters into his hair as he kisses the top of his head and Tommy gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Alfie is alive. He’s here with Tommy, and that’s all that matters right now.

“Yeah. Everything’s okay."

[ddpej]

Hello! Could you explain how you manage your marker stitches without the stitchens on the front of the aida looking slightly off/not as clean as the other stitches, please? Because I stitched a pattern that went zig zag and when I changed direction it sometimes looked off in the front (I frogged the whole leaf I did last year because it looked unclean). Or is this because of 14ct aida and 2ply, if I did it outside of kits with 16 or 18ct and 2ply, would it look better?

(ask refers to the stitch variation shown in this post)

Hi!  This is going to get a bit long, I’m afraid, but hopefully something of it is helpful to you!

Since I can’t actually look at the offending stitches you had, I did some experimenting with counts and plys to see if there was any particular difference.  I grabbed a representative sample of fabrics from 14ct to 22ct, including some looser evenweaves in 18 and 16, and tried plys of 1 and up depending on the counts (1 and 2 for all, 3 for 14ct through 18ct, and even 4 ply on the 14ct).  I also tried a few stitching variations in 14ct with 2 ply, at the end, as stitching technique can affect stitch evenness as well.  All of that testing is shown below the cut in as fine a detail as my camera can manage.  In each test row shown, the sixth stitch is a single marker and the tenth and eleven stitches are double markers.

[Image: the test stitch rows, with marker stitches indicated and fabric count + thread ply labels.]

I do want to note, first of all and more for anyone else reading this, that there is always going to be some variation between stitches.  Usually it’s going to be pretty minor, but fabric is never quite perfectly even and ply thickness varies along each strand even if your stitching itself is flawless.  That sort of thing is really, really hard to avoid and for the most part no one’s going to notice or care in the slightest.  So not every oddball little thing needs to be taken out and redone, necessarily.  Even if you know it’s there, anyone else looking at the piece is going to be seeing the whole big forest rather than a stray vine here or there within it.  Messiness within a mass of stitches tends to vanish within the whole, and a simple backstitch outline can do wonders to hide messiness along the edges of a piece.  And again, truly, not many people even have the experience to identify what seems to the stitcher a blatant mistake.  Perfection is, on the whole, overrated.

(This is a really hard thing to internalize, to be sure.  I used to pull out a lot more stitches than I do now because I couldn’t stand it, and saw everything as a flaw.  Nowadays I tend to fix things on the fly with weird thread tricks/whatever comes to mind, or adjust the pattern to suit if it’s a wrong color/too many stitches issue, and that habit really honestly just came with time and the realization that for me adaptation is faster and easier than frogging for what is effectively the same result.)

Anyway.  My experience, both previously and repeated in these tests, is that it is easier to get clean stitches in general with a thread ply count that suits the fabric count.  22ct can be done with 2 ply for better coverage/bulkier stitches, but 1 ply will be cleaner.  18ct and 16ct do well with 2 ply, in terms of uniformity, and 14ct plays best with either 2 or 3 ply.  This is not to say that you shouldn’t play with plys, by any means!  Varied plys can create some very fun texture and visual effects when used well.  But it’s worth knowing, if uniform stitches are your preference.

Other factors that can affect stitch cleanliness, both in general and with marker stitches in particular, are:

Fabric style – a loose fabric, like some types of evenweave or an Aida that has lost its starch, will allow more variation in stitch appearance than stiffer fabrics.  Marker stitches change the direction of the line of tension in the thread, and if your squares have give to them this might show up more.

Stitch tension – quite tight and quite loose both tend to showcase stitch differences.  With marker stitches, high tension will tug your fabric weave out of line, allowing changes in thread tension direction to be more obvious; low tension won’t affect your fabric but eaves the thread itself loose enough to curve into the line of tension rather than laying straight across each square.  In the bottom row of my 14ct testing, I pulled the left side tightly and kept the right side very loose.

Needle positioning – when inserting a needle from the back through a hole with a horizontal thread already in place (such as with a marker stitch), there are three options.  You can insert the needle inside the horizontal thread, which tends to tuck the top leg of that cross under the bottom leg of the previous one and therefore not look quite right; you can insert the needle straight through the horizontal thread, which splits the ply and almost always makes the corner look messy; or you can insert the needle outside the horizontal thread, which keeps the horizontal threads tight to the square and usually looks cleanest.

Having said all that, I will note that a multitude of stitch direction changes, especially stacked top to bottom as can happen with zigzags and diagonal lines, is more likely to result in messy stitching than just a marker stitch here or there.  The more horizontal threads you have stacked on top of each other on the backside, the more that will show in the stitches themselves.  It’s just the way physics works, I’m afraid – any thread that goes outward from a stitch rather than inward across it is a thread that breaks the square and might cause trouble when another stitch needs to share the corner.  So you may well just be running into that, in which case an adjustment of your technique might be worthwhile for future zigzags.

Specifically, when I have a lot of diagonals or zigzags involved in a project, I often prefer to adjust my stitching so that no outward horizontals are used on the back – only verticals, diagonals, or inward horizontals.  If stitching one by one, as you might do with a variegated floss, it means that in one row the stitches all start from the bottom left, then in the next row the stitches all start from the top right instead.  If stitching down the row and back, as is typical with solid-colored floss, it means that I can cross horizontally back to the right to start a new row, but if I need to go to the left I’ll go vertically instead and then horizontally across the bottom of the new stitch to continue the row.  (It’s a horizontal stitch in the same place as it would have been otherwise, which can make the intricacy a little hard to see at first.  The difference between the two is that going horizontally immediately takes you from one row to the next, pulling the thread diagonally across the hole and therefore muddying the lines for other stitches at that corner, whereas going horizontal after placing the first leg of the new row pulls the thread exactly horizontally across and back up within the row, leaving the corner accessible.)

This method can be a little weird to get used to if you’re only used to doing stitches one way, and does require a little more attention to what you’re doing, but I find that it both keeps the stitches neater and also helps prevent the stitches from warping my fabric if I’m using a high ply for the count.

I hope something in this ramble was useful!  Feel free to poke me if you would like clarification or visuals for anything – words can be hard to translate into sense sometimes. ^_^

[beepbeeprichiellc]

Stealing Second

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is the best player in all of Derry, there is only one problem. He plays for a Catholic school where being gay is the absolute biggest sin. Baseball is his ticket out of  his shitty town but as he batters up against Derry High, a smart mouth boy pulls his attention away from the game.

A/N: Wow, how long has it been? I was going to update Pink Lemonade but I decided to do this one first! Still can’t believe this has a following, lol. Y'all crazy.

Word Count: 3488

Masterlist

Part (1) (2) 3

“Can you just hold this for me? Fuck, help a kid out.”

Bill scowled, grabbing hold of the sign with a huff. “Th-this is literally for another team, why do yuh-you even have this Richie?” Stan smirked from beside him, Beverly’s hushed voice saying something that couldn’t be heard from the trunk of the car.

“Oh calm you tits Billy.” Richie joked, pulling out another piece of cardboard with their school colors. “We made one for you and your lover too.”

“Watch it.” Stan warned, eyeing his friend. “You better keep your mouth shut if we are going to watch Mike and Eddie with you, last thing we need is an altercation.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut this time.” Richie replied, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Unless I have to fight some homophobic parent, then all bets are off.”

“Behave.” Beverly nipped, “You fuck up another of Eddie’s games and he will never forgive you.” Richie flinched at her words, the reality of the situation seeping deep. He shrugged, having lost his charm, and closed his trunk with an eye roll.

“So when is your first game again?” Beverly asked, pulling the schedule out of her back pocket with a frown. “I can never read these bracket things.”

“Out game is in an hour, so we will probably only be able to watch about half of their first match before we have to warm up, but we should be able to catch all of the next one.” Bill explained, the group beginning to make their way to the field where multiple schools had scattered around, figuring out where they stood in the tournament. “I mean if they make it to the next bracket, if they win.”

“They will.” Stan muttered, “They’ve got the best player in the league, I guarantee they win the entire thing just like they do every year.”

Bill led them to the bleachers where Ben was already waiting, his warm and inviting smile washing over his new friends. “Hey guys, long time no see.”

Beverly beamed, sitting next to the stout boy who blushed at their closeness. “We told you guys last week we’d watch the match, we even made signs.”

“That’s nice of you.” Ben commented, looking over the poster that Richie held. “I know they are going to love it.”

Mike and Eddie were already out on the field warming up when they finally found their place in the bleachers. Richie couldn’t help but allow his eyes to rake over the boy with the number twelve stitched into his back, his uniform leaving very little to his imagination. His heart swelled when Eddie caught a glimpse of the group, a smile growing on his face as he pointed and spoke to his teammate who turned around.

They jogged the short distance to the edge of the field, slipping though the entrance and heading towards their friends. Before they were able to make it to where the others were a large player wearing the same colors rudely threw his shoulder into Eddie’s as he passed by, making the shorter boy stumble. As the two turned to inspect who had initiated the encounter the other kid hissed, “You better watch where you’re going faggot. Wouldn’t want you fucking up another game.”

Richie watched Eddie’s face twist in disgust, the slur etching hatred into those who had begun to watch the encounter. Mike’s hand lifted to hold onto the shorter boy’s shoulder, weather it was for support or as a silent warning, it seemed to work because Eddie shook his head and turned to leave. This infuriated the other kid who pushed on Eddie’s back, sending him into the dirt.

“What the fuck!” Richie hissed, standing from his seat. He felt a hand grab hold of his wrist, stilling his actions. Looking down he saw Beverly who shook her head as a warning. More than anything he wanted to rip himself away and beat that asshat to a pulp, he wanted to drive his smug face in to the dirt and make him eat shit but he knew that was an overreaction. The interaction ended when Mike pulled Eddie to his feet, the other kid laughing as he walked out on to the field.

“It’s fine.” Eddie whispered to his teammate, shaking his head. “I’m fine.” Mike only nodded, dropping the subject when they finally made it to where the rest of them were. Eddie smirked, eyeing Richie who could only offer a sheepish smile as he sat back down.

“Well look who the cat dragged in.” Mike jeered, nodding at Bill and Stan. “You two here to see how a real game is played.”

Stan snorted, a playful grin dancing on his face. “Yeah, here to watch Eddie carry your team Hanlon. Try and keep up.”

Mike laughed, biting his bottom lip in amusement. “Oh I could run circles around you Uris, guaranteed.”

“Alright, that’s enough testosterone.” Beverly cut, rolling her eyes. “Look at what we made you guys!” Richie recognized his cue, holding up the poster. “See, so you know how annoying your friends are!”

“Dude, that’s awesome!” Mike beamed, grabbing hold of the bottom of the sign to inspect it closer. “You really didn’t have to do this, it looks like it took a long time.”

“Nonsense, ‘twas nothing.” Richie retorted, “We figured we might as well root for a winning team for once.”

“H-hey now.” Bill nipped, shooting his friend a crude glance. “N-no need for th-that.”

Richie shrugged him off, jumping from his spot on the bleacher to nearly shove the poster in to Eddie’s face, his pride getting the best of him. “Whatcha think Eds, pretty awesome right? Bev and I worked all night and-“He paused, noticing the confusing look on his friends face, making his heart drop. Tears? Why were there tears? “What? You don’t like it?”

Eddie laughed, shaking his head shyly. “I love it Rich, it’s just-uh well-“Whipping his eyes he looked up to Beverly and smiled before returning his gaze back to the trashmouth. “No one has ever made me a sign before, hell the only person who shows up for my games is Ben. I just don't know what to say.”

There was a pull in Richie’s chest, his stomach twisting in to a tight not. “We’re friends remember? You don’t have to say anything, it’s what friends do.”

The shorter boy opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the coach calling the two players names, demanding they return back to the field. Eddie nodded, giving Richie one last look before heading back with Mike. The trashmouth watched him leave before returning back to his seat, the lingering buzz from Eddie’s smile dancing on his skin.

The game was quite a sight. Richie gaped as Eddie took the pitching mound, fire dancing behind his eyes. There was a quick rush of air as his pitch slipped past the batter, landing squarely into the catcher’s glove. It had been a blur, and if he had blinked he would have missed the entire thing. Ben chuckled, nudging him playfully. “I take it you’ve never actually seen Eddie play full strength?”

“N-no, I haven’t.” Richie admitted, his eyes glued in the seemingly disappearing ball that cut through the air.

Ben smirked, “Ah, well you’re in for a treat.”

Richie soon found out that he wasn’t lying.

It was a clean sweep for Eddie and Mike’s Catholic School, wining every game in their bracket by a landslide. Derry High lost their second game, and Eddie explained that he was impressed by the spread due to the fact that their opponent was the state runner up. Bill and Stan explained later that what the short boy had said was true, but the fact that Eddie had lead his team to state championship every year he played was reviled only when it spilled from the other two players.

Richie admired Eddie’s modesty.

The sun was low in the sky as Mike hit the final run for the last game, the ball flying over the fence and sealing their win. As he ran to home plate the group of friends cheered, hollering and hooting with such enthusiasm that Mike shook his head from embarrassment. There was many students around them, some amused most annoyed by the results whispering rude and untruthful things about the star members on the team. It took all of Richie’s strength not to give them a piece of their mind but refraining because he knew that it would only piss everyone off.

“You are the most amazing fucking player I’ve ever seen!” Richie gushed, the group of friends now walking through the parking lot. Eddie groaned, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “I’m serious, how did you even learn how to play like that?”

“Oh come on, I’m not that good.” Eddie replied, shaking his head.

This made Stan scoff, “Please, you can out play some of the pros on TV. You don’t need to be modest, I’ve hated you since freshman year.”

“Yeah, Stan’s been having wet dreams about your skills since he was 14.” Richie jeered, narrowly missing Stan’s bag as it swung at his head. “That’s got to be nice to know, huh Eds.”

“That’s still not my name.” Eddie corrected.

“Oh you love it.” Richie played, ignoring the way his heart pounded in his chest. His face caught fire as he threw his arm around his friends shoulder, pulling him closer and pinching his cheeks. “I just know you do.”

Eddie huffed, pushing him off. “Beep beep Richie.”

The trashmouth gasped. “Et tu Eds?” He gripped at his heart dramatically. Glaring at Beverly’s smug smile. “You told him about that? How rude Bev!” She only shrugged in response.

“S-So are we g-gonna hit th-the after party? It’s a-all that our t-team’s been talking about. S-Some kid’s parents a-are out of town a-and it’s guh-gonna be a rager.”

Eddie cringed, “I don’t think so. I don’t do well at parties.”

“Oh come on Eddie.” Beverly whined, “There’s going to be liquor, everyone does better with liquor.”

“Just go without me.” He replied, shrugging. “I’ll be a drag, ask Mike.”

Mike offered a sincere smile but eventually nodded his head in agreement. “Eddie attracts the worst type of attention, he’s like a small target. No offense.”

“It’s true.” Eddie admitted. “Besides, if I don’t get home my mother will think I’m off giving in to my sinful ways.”

“No” Richie whined, tugging on Eddie’s arm with a frown. “You have to go Eddie spaghetti! Please, just tell your mom that you’re going on a date with a girl or something, Bev can pick you up. I’m sure your ma would wet her panties at the idea of you actually being with a female.”

“I don’t know.” Eddie replied, eyeing his desperate friend with doubt. “I feel like this is a bad idea.”

“Everything Richie comes up with is a bad idea.” Stan replied coldly.

Richie shot him a sharp eye, his annoyance radiating from his chest. Stan held his hands up in defeat, turning to toss his gear in to the trunk of the car. Looking back to Eddie he felt his stomach churn, the idea of going anywhere without the small boy making him nauseas. “Eddie. Eds, Eddie spaghetti, Eddiebear, come on. When’s the last time you’ve lived a little?”

Eddie sighed, pulling his arm from Richie’s grasp. “Fine. I’ll tell my mom I have a date but Bev’s going to have to sell it.”

Beverly smiled, smirking over to where Richie stood, “I’ll even leave hickeys if need be, no worries on this end.” Slowly she leaned down and kissed Eddies cheek, patting him on the shoulder in support. Eddie blushed, touching his cheek fondly before nodding.

Richie had never been more excited or more jealous in his life.

Eddie Kaspbrak hated parties, loathed them. The stench of hormonal body odor mixed with weed and alcohol wafted back to him, making his entire body cringe. Bill had been right, the entire thing was a compete blow out. There was kids from every school, players bringing anyone that would agree to come. People spoke too loudly, drank too much, it was a complete shit show and Eddie had never felt more out of place in his life.

He stood near the back corner, his cup feeling like a lead weight in his hand. His friends had scattered, Mike and Beverly were currently defending their champion beer pong title with Ben cheering them on, San and Bill were keeping themselves busy with other members of their team and Richie….well Richie was all over the place.

One moment he was beside Eddie, making crude gestures and horrible jokes, the next he was being pulled towards the dance floor by some girl who looked as if she had one too many. Eddie had smiled and told him that it was fine, because it was right? Richie was single, and apparently was the apple to many girls’ eyes as he was kept on the dance floor for a good long while.

There was a bubbling feeling under Eddie’s skin that he couldn’t pinpoint. It gnawed at his flesh, demanding more and more attention with each passing gaze that others offered the trashmouth. Richie always found his way back but was almost immediately dragged back in to the sea of students. Eddie couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in his stomach every time Richie left him, an underlying need for attention making him feel neglected.

Eddie shook his head. This was stupid. So what if girls fawned over his friend, it was all in good fun right? Most high school boys would kill for the type of attention Richie was receiving, they would soak in in and allow themselves to drown under it. Eddie didn’t understand why it bothered him at all, it wasn’t like they were together and it wasn’t like Eddie actually liked Richie that way…right?

Right?

“Hey Kaspbrak, what the fuck are you doing here?”

The small boy looked up, noticing his teammate as he barreled his way to where he was. It was the same kid from earlier, a constant problem in Eddie’s life. Some other students glanced their way, curious about the altercation. “I thought I made it clear that this party wasn’t for faggots.”

“Look I don’t want any problems.” Eddie squeaked, falling himself back into the wall behind him. “I just came with some friends, please just leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone? Your type isn’t welcome here!” The glares from other people burned Eddie’s skin, the hatred seeping from his words like poison, infecting those around them. “No one wants a fucking sissy boy breathing the same air as them.”

“Hey back off!” Richie’s voice cut, his body suddenly appearing beside Eddie. “He’s not bothering anyone, this was an open invitation celebration, he is just as welcomed here was the rest of us.”

“Oh what are you his boyfriend? You a cock sucker too?”

Riche’s body tensed up beside him, his body jolting forward. Eddie caught him by the arm, shaking his head firmly. Richie looked like he was going to burst, his eyes like darkened orbs staring blankly back at his friend. “Violence won’t help.” Eddie whispered softly in to his ear, bringing the trashmouth back to earth. He blinked, his body relaxing and his eyes softening.

Bill and Stan appeared, their brows raised in confusion. “What’s going on here?” Stan asked, glancing to Richie and then back to the other kid. The party seemingly stopped around them, all the attention being drawn to the altercation. “Do we have a problem?”

“Yeah we do, Kaspbrak isn’t welcome here. He needs to fucking leave before I beat his ass.”

“W-why nuh-not? He j-just wants to cel-uh-brate too.” Bill replied, his stutter becoming more pronounced with the rising pressure in the air. “H-he played guh-good today, h-he des-deserves to-“

“O-oh duh-does he?” The boy mocked, laughing at Bill’s obvious nervous tick. “Fucking freak, why don’t you go back to therapy, maybe they can decipher your mutant talk.”

Eddie didn’t realize what he was doing until his fist made contact with the much larger boy’s face, the force from his punch knocking him out cold. There was an accumulated gasp among the group, the sound of the body hitting the floor the only sound around. Eddie could feel his body catch fire, his small frame looming over the other kid as he spat on his unconscious body. “No one talks to my friends like that. No one.”

“Holy fucking shit Eds!” Richie boomed, grabbing hold of his shirt. “Oh my god, you knocked him out in one punch! Oh-oh fuck.” There was shouting from the opposite end of the room, a group of large boys pushing others aside as they yelled profanity at Eddie.

“Should we run?” Eddie asked, unsure how to even process what was going on.

“Yeah. Run.”

The two bolted through the back door, running around the house and out to the street. Eddie could feel the cold air bite at his skin, his heart pounding loudly against his ribcage. The shouting continued to follow them as they ran, the vulgarity echoing through the empty neighborhood.

Eddie’s feet carried him further and further away from the house, eventually losing the group of boys. Still they contained to run, their laughter like music and their footsteps like a pounding beat. Never in his life had Eddie ever done something like this, never did he stick up for himself let alone someone else. There was a type of high coursing through his veins, making his body catch fire.

“Okay.” Richie breathed, stopping short of the city limits. “Okay I think we lost them.”

“Holy fuck, did you see that? Did you see what I did?” Eddie yelled, unable to control his excitement. “I punched him, holy shit, I punched that kid!”

“Yeah.” Richie smiled, biting his lip and shaking his head. “Yeah, you did. Way to go Eds, out could after one punch.”

“My hand fucking hurts.” He confessed, suddenly aware of his aching knuckles. “He had a hard head.”

“Let me see.” Richie nipped, pulling his at his wrist. “Shit, you’re hand is swollen.”

“Yeah because I punched a guy.” Eddie replied proudly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I defended a friend! I’ve never felt more alive in my entire life.” Richie didn’t reply, shaking his head as he rubbed the tender flesh. Eddie winced in pain, surprised that he hadn’t felt the pressure of his joints.

“Are you drunk?” Richie asked.

“No, I didn’t drink. Alcohol doesn’t mix with my medications.”

“What were you doing with all those refills I got you?”

“Let’s just say their plants won’t need to be watered for a while.”

“Wow.” Richie sang. “Just wow.”

“Feel this.” Eddie demanded, pulling Richie’s hand to his chest and placing it above his pulsating peck. “You feel that? My heart is beating so fast.

Richie’s face began to turn red, his mouth gaping open in surprise. “I-uh yeah, I feel it. It’s fast.” Eddie laughed, his smile growing. “Real fast.” Richie whispered, his gaze dropping to their conjoined fingers.

There was a bright light shined at the two as a car turned the corner, heading their way. Richie dropped his hand, taking a cautious step away from his friend as the vehicle neared. “There you two are!” Stan hissed, stopping in front of the two. “God way to make an exit!”

“G-Get in lo-losers, we a-are going fuh-for ice cream.” Bill said from the passenger side, smirking at the two.

“Where’s the rest?” Richie asked, glancing at the empty back seat.

“They are meeting us there, just get in.” Stan replied rolling his eyes, “You two look like you’re up to no good.”

Eddie laughed again, opening the car door and sliding in. “Weren’t you at the party, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you’re going to have to watch out Monday, that kid is going to hunt you down.” Stan replied, the doors slamming as he began to drive down the street. “That was real stupid Kaspbrak.”

“It was worth it.” He admitted, shaking his head. “I don’t regret a thing.”

“Good.” Richie replied, “Because any one of us would have done the same thing if the roles were reversed.”

“Really?” Eddie asked, surprised at the sudden confession. Looking to the front seat, the two boys nodding, approving to the statement. He laughed. “What a night.”

“Yeah,” Richie agreed, staring at Eddie as a blush began to crawl up his neck. “What a night.”

Eddie had never been happier.

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[whatdoesshedotothem]

Wednesday 4 July 1838

6 ¾

10 40

were to have been off at 8 – could not get our passport till 9 – very fine morning – breakfast at 8 ¼ left Josephine – took George, and A- and I (with merely our night things, a change of linen and our journal books in one sac de nuit) off at 9 50 in a calêche and 3 horses for St. Jean de Luz having our passport visaed for Spain at the French mairie, and at our own consulate and that of Spain – A- and I both in good spirits – A- had taken of letter paper to date to her sister from St. Sebastien – excellent road – very pretty interesting drive – the mountains fine on our left and in less than an hour about 10 ¾ the sea fine on our right – at 11 20 passed the poste aux chevaux at Bidart (1 ½ poste) and Tamarisk hedges – at St. Jean de Luz (1 ½ p. more) chez M. Junca, maitre de poste aux chevaux, hotel de la poste, at 12 50 – gave him the letter from our host M. Theodore Détroyat à Bayonne, begged him to arrange all about our passport – not safe to go by land – must go by a sea – in a steamer if there happened to be one – if not there might be a boat going – or we might hire one – M. Junca un petit homme vif – sent off a woman to see about a boat – the boats not here, but ½ hour off – ordered a mutton cutlet for A- and she having

SH:7/ML/E/21/0139

 fastened her door, I went into the nice little town for ¼ hour – singular church – one large lofty vaulted space – the large organ and large organ-loft to contain the clergy at the west end and the high altar in a richly-covered gilded bay or apse at the east end – 3 oak ballustred oak-pillar supported galleries on each side – the 1st gallery perhaps 5 yards from the ground (the floor boarded) and the 2 above about 4 yards each from the lower gallery and from each other and about 2 or 3 yards perhaps from the square of the roof – called at the poste aux letters – the courier goes Fridays and Tuesdays but now goes by land – so that the idea of crossing with the courier is at an end – on my returning found A- had put on stocking for fear of monsieur how unlucky on my return A- had had her cutlet, and M. Junca had heard of a Patron de Chaloupe (Captain of a boat) just going to start for St. Sebastian with a little cargo and would return on Friday – ended by agreeing to give him 50/. for a boat to ourselves to return with us tomorrow or if we chose to stay till Friday to give him 55/. – Corrigo [or Conigo] Eguia, Patron de Chaloupe a Spaniard but très honnete [honnête ] homme that M. Junca knew well and could count upon – we could not be better – to be ready in ½ hour – A- and I walked down to the church to spend the time there – she made a little sketch of the exterior while I stood by watching a man making linen-listing sandal-soles, and a woman sitting by him serving on the bit of upper-linen (coarse string stitched together by button-hole stitch) to cover the toes – Mr. Junca came to see us embark on the quai in the grande place –

Embark at St. Jean de Luz

written out Monday eight

on one side the house where the d. of Wellington spent 2 or 3 months – on another the old chateau like house while Louis xvi. lodged and on another the house where the infante of Spain his bride Marie Thérèse lodged – A- seeing no rowers hoped there were rowers – yes! four – she had not thought the boat was so small (a little chaloupe about the size of a Scarbro’ cobble) – however we embarked at 2 – there is always a little surf at the entrance of the little harbour – I saw A- was nervous – our little sail made us lean a little on one side every now and then and there was little bit of up and down – A- grasped my hand – said she could not bear it – would return – there was no danger – the afternoon was beautiful – the little wind or air was in our favour and it was a pity poor A-‘s nerves were not stronger – but I saw she was right to return – our captain could only speak Spanish – I had difficulty in making him understand that he must put in at Choco (the fort of ) I really could not make him understand to turn back – but by dint of ‘timore – ella – morire – io –pagare – intrate [rientrate]’ pointing to the fort of Socoa (pronounced as if Choco (tschoco)) I got him to put in there – there was no time to deliberate – besides our 4 rowers we had a stripling boy and a lad about 12 or 13 on board – left the latter to go back with A- and carry her cloak and the travelling bag – took out merely my night-chemise and cap and 50 francs and left all the rest with A- except my umbrella and parasol and 2 cloaks – asked her if she would like me not to go – said if she had least wish for me to stay, I would – no! she had rather I went – in 5 minutes poor A- was landed, and left, and I was re-embarked and off at 2 35 – In a moment I had lost sight of her – and I was pitching in the bay of [?] in a small open boat with a Spanish smuggler (for such is Corrigo) and 3 Spanish rowers and one old French basque rower and my servant George! – about ½ dozen words of French were all our crew could muster and about as Many English (‘good bye – very quick’) – in 40 minutes (at 3 ¼) Andaye (pronounced Andāiah) in sight (a village or little town – with a little tower (church tower or steeple?) and at 3 35 lost sight of Fontarabia (Fontarrābbĭa) [Hondarribia? ]nearer the sea than Andaye and on high ground – looking like a convent, or fort, or what? Irun (could hardly distinguish the building) forms the apex of the triangle between the two (at Andaye and Fontaribia) at the foot of the high 3 or 4 pointed torso or crest of mountain that is so striking from the top of Bayonne cathedral – at 3 35 re-embarked at Socoa – in 40 minutes (3 ¼) Andaye in sight – lost sight of Fontarabia at 3 35 – and ten minutes before this had had the 1st distant glimpse of St. Sebastian or rather the high tower (fort) on the top of the hill on the west of the harbour – the tower of Biarrits’ (pronounced Bēeăris) closes the wide bay towards Bayonne – and the rocky pointe de Figuieras [Figueres?] shuts out the embouchure of the Bidassoa (on which are Andaye and Fontaribia) – Sick at 5 20 – fine as is the afternoon and I quite warm the sea here seems to me as swelling as it was the night we went to Antwerp – land at 6 ¼ - having passed the citadel-rock and high conical little rock doubled the island and entered the harbour to the westwards of it between it and the tower fort – 2 English steamers in the service of the queen of Spain lying at anchor – [?] up to the jetties under the west side of the town, and landed by stairs so narrow, deep, and rough one could hardly get up – at the Fonda (n°5 Plaza ricja (place vielle)  reuve Inciarte) in 10 minutes at 6 35 – queer dirty looking place Corrigo introduced me to the especial care of the people – I could not tell which was the mistress – several women  sat together at a large table full of washed but apparently ungot up linen – the daughter (Luisa) could speak French – asked her to send someone with me to see the town and citadel, and to let me have dinner – she said she would go with me herself and sent a woman to shew me my room – it was au 3me but lofty, and large enough – one common chair and ditto table and ditto bedstead, no curtains – no look of comfort – I was down again among the women in a few minutes but had to wait till young lady was dressed (1/2 hour) when she and Madama appeared in their mantillas quite dressed for promenade – the old lady was one who had been driven from the country – lost all she had and come into the ville, and was at the Fonda I could not make out on what terms – but the young lady could not trust herself with me and George without a madama – I said I was sorry they had made so much toilette and that I really was ashamed of my travelling costume – However the young lady aetatis 18 looked very well pleased and out we sallied – to the church – one large lofty domed space unbroken by anything save the large organ and its large loft at the west end – the clergy (now 21) sat or officiated the organ loft – the bay or apse of the high altar one mass of gilt carving – and a lessen altar on each side of it, transept-wise – imposing looking interior – large odd heavy old plain building outside with 2 low west towers – then to the citadel very few soldiers – saw perhaps a dozen – several people walking along the traverse walks along the rocky hill side – towards the sea one or 2 tombs – that and among 2 [?] of Sir Oliver de Lancy railed off – I went up to read the inscriptions but a solider called me back – not allowed to go! the sea-view very fine from one side – the tower as if laid down upon a map on the other – the grand place (arcaded) and another place and one or 2 straight streets all round round them seemed to compose the ville – 3 convents destroyed by the carlists (the girl said) and houses in all directions unroofed

SH:7/ML/E/21/0140

and made unhabitable by them (for fear of xtians should take shelter in them) gave all around a look of ruin – one whole village just on this side the river on the road to Hernani quite destroyed – could go very safely to Hernani now – no carlists between here and there – could also go to Passages – but no farther – asked the girl to get me a guide to Hernani in the morning – determined to be off at 6 and back in time to breakfast and embark at 11 – out from 7  5 to about before 9 when I had seen all there was to see – had to wait a little for dinner – they seemed to expect George to dine with me, but on my saying it was not selon [?] habitude, he fined in the kitchen or somewhere, and I told the young Louisa to come and sit by me or I should be triste – I had soup, ham, chicken and potatoes – I dined on the 1st and a little cheese and bread, nothing else looking tolerable – finding no chance of a guide who could speak word of anything but Spanish took a man to shew me the way (not far) and off about 9 20 to our consul – not at home – would return at 11 to supper – this would not do – at the moment 2 English officers went upstairs – spoke to one them – said what I was come for, and begged to have a solider to accompany me in the morning – the officer very civil – Lieutenant of the artillery as I afterwards found – promised me a solider at 6 tomorrow am – returned to the fonda and went upstairs with the fille to see my bed prepared – ready by 9 ¾ - very fine day – doubted for a moment whether to undress – my sheets not feeling very dry – took them off

[pinknerdpanda]

Bad Blood - Part 7

Characters: Reader, Dean, Benny, Sam, Martin

Series Summary: You stop at a small cafe in Louisiana on your way home from hunting with the Winchesters. There is something about the man behind the counter that makes you hungry for more than just the pie.

Warnings for this chapter: Angst, language, Mostly-ok-Martin

Word Count: 2,600 (including dialogue from ep 08x09 Citizen Fang - in italics below)

A/N: This is loosely based on Season 8 Episode 9 “Citizen Fang” but I adapted the storyline to fit into this series. I did use a few lines of dialogue from the show and I have italicized it below. All credit and rights go to the writers of the show.

Masterbeta’d by my friend and soul sister @wheresthekillswitch. As well as the every lovely @hannahindie. You are both amazing and I adore you. Thank you!

Behind? You can catch up here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Tags are below the cut - please send me an ask if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list! :) Your feedback is so appreciated! (The gif is not mine)

Gif Credit - X

Bad Blood

Part 7

“What’s this really about Dean? Huh? Is this really about whether you trust him or not? Or are you just mad because I chose him instead of you?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. The look on Dean’s face is a mix of hurt and anger and he stomps out of the room without saying another word, slamming the door behind him. Sam glances uncomfortably around before following Dean out the door.

Tears pour hot and wet down both of your cheeks as guilt consumes you. Benny moves to stand in front of you, and places a hand on your arm. You recoil involuntarily from his touch and he drops his hand. His gaze shifts to the carpet and he nods. When he looks at you again, he smiles sadly and nods curtly.

“Well, I think I best be on my way. Take care of yourself, cher.”

You clench your eyes shut as the door closes behind him. Loud, painful sobs echo mockingly throughout the empty room as you crumble to the floor.

-----

Guidry’s Cajun Cafe - Carencro LA

“I'm actually looking for an old friend of mine. I heard he's kicking around these parts. His name's Roy.” Dean’s words are crystal clear as they travel the short distance from his lips to your ears. It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen him and still the sound of his voice makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

You watch his interaction with the pretty brunette behind the counter where all of this mess had begun. Carefully tugging the brim of your baseball hat down a little further over your eyes, you sigh. Dean has always had a way with women, a fact that you’d known of the elder Winchester before you’d ever laid eyes on him. His years of bouncing around from place to place over the years has helped him to hone his wooing skills to perfection and this “Elizabeth” seems to be no different. Her easy smile and the light blush dusted across her cheeks does little to change your opinion on the matter.

This is the same schtick you’ve seen him use on women in every setting imaginable for as long as you’ve known him; a strategically played smile here and a well timed nibble on his lower lip there, and soon they are eating from his hand. However, for the first time in your work with the Winchesters, a pang of jealousy strikes you, twisting and weaving itself through your stomach.

Not that what you are doing at the moment would be considered working with the Winchesters. That would imply that either one or both of the brothers knew you were here. Sam had been the one to call you the day before, though he’d had implicit instructions to stay away and just let them handle it. From the hushed tones Sam had used during your brief conversation, it was obvious Dean was in the dark that he’d called you at all. He had to know that you wouldn’t be able to sit back and do nothing once you’d heard that Benny hadn’t been able to control his bloodlust. You feel responsible for it, really. If you hadn’t encouraged him to bite you, there wouldn’t be a body count.

So, the decision to make the drive to Carencro wasn’t a hard one. The diner was your first stop. You hadn’t even been sitting here for more than five minutes when the bells on the door chimed and Dean Winchester had come strolling in. You’d expected to have a significant head-start over Sam and Dean, but apparently they were closer than you’d thought.

In the two weeks since you last saw Dean, you’ve had the opportunity to think long and hard about his admission. Of all the things you’ve come to expect from Dean, confessing his feelings for you has to be toward the bottom of the list.

You’ve known the Winchesters for a couple years, but you’d known of them for longer than that. While you can count on one hand the number of hunts you’ve been on with them, you’ve spent plenty of time in close quarters with them. You definitely aren’t one to go for the model type, but there was something about Dean that had drawn you in from the beginning.

In so many ways, Dean is hard and rough; all strength and cunning. The monsters of the earth that hide in the shadows - the same creatures whose horrific existence have been the basis for fairytales and children’s nightmares for centuries - they know the name Dean Winchester and they are afraid. And yet, behind all that fierceness and swagger, is a man that would move heaven and earth to save his little brother from the fiery pits of hell and loves pie more than some people love their children; a man whose smile alone can light up a thousand rooms. Dean is all of those things at the same time and, rather than those facts contradicting themselves, they instead seem to only further illustrate their own truths.

Somehow, this complicated, intelligent, sexy man cares about you. Or at least he did. There is no way to take back what you’d said and you wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see you again.

“What are you doing here, Princess?”

Dean’s tone is flat. You square your shoulders, suppressing a cringe and sucking in a breath before you turn to look at him. His mouth is set in a grim line, his eyebrows creased together as his green eyes bore into yours. The look on his face is a complete departure from the playful banter he’d been using on Elizabeth just moments ago.

“Looking for our fanged friend; same as you.”

“Oh, is that what you are calling him now. A ‘friend’?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Dean! Can you grow up? Please?” The room has grown deathly quiet and you glance around to find the smattering of patrons staring in your direction. You sigh heavily and stand, jamming your hand into the back pocket of your jeans. After fishing out a couple of dollar bills and slamming them on the table, you glare at Dean as you march out of the restaurant.

You have no idea if Dean follows you out or not, and frankly you don’t care. Heavy footfalls on the creaking wood of the porch sound from behind you, but you don’t bother to turn around. As you reach your car, Dean’s fingers land on the crook of your arm, spinning you around to face him.

“What do you want?” You expect the anger you are feeling to show in your voice, but instead it just comes out sounding tired. Frustrated with yourself, you drop your gaze to the ground and kick at a piece of gravel.

“You look like shit, y/n.”

Shocked, you look back up at him, mouth agape. His face has softened and whatever aggression you’d seen inside has been replaced by weariness.

“And the hits just keep on coming, Winchester. Boy, you really know how to make a girl feel special.” You roll your eyes, knowing you sound just as childish as you’d accused him of being.

“I didn’t...it’s just...I mean…” Dean self assured facade flickers briefly as he struggles to come up with the words. It’s kind of nice to watch him fumble around for a bit, so you cross your arms in front of your chest and wait. Dean huffs out a breath, trying to gain his footings.  “I am just concerned that you are not taking care of yourself. How are the stitches?”

That isn’t the answer you were exactly expecting. You shrug. “Fine, I guess. You know, a girl could really get whiplash from being around you.”

Dean’s eyes drop to the ground as his tongue sneaks out, wetting his lips before chewing nervously on the bottom lip.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” He is so quiet you aren’t sure you’d heard him correctly.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” You rub your palms together anxiously, looking anywhere but at Dean’s face.

“So, I guess Sammy called you?” You nod as Dean rolls his eyes. “Of course he did. He tell you what Martin said, or were you in on this little scheme?”

Confusion ripples across your face as you stare hard at him, hoping to find the answers there. 

“The only thing Sam said is that he had received information that there were some Vamp kills in Carencro and he was fairly certain Benny was involved. He said he thought I should be aware.”

“So you had no idea that Sammy sent his little watch-dog, Mostly-Okay-Martin-Creaser to keep an eye on Benny?”

“Whose Martin? What the hell are you talking about Dean?” You shake your head and Dean frowns.

“Get in, I will explain it on the way.”

-----

The cool air swirls around you and Dean as you make your way through the dense, wooded area, the dry, dead leaves crunch helplessly under your boots. The faint sound of digging makes you pause with a glance at Dean. He places a finger against his lips before tucking his machete carefully behind his back and flicking his head in the direction of the noise.

A small clearing comes into view; an old, dilapidated camper parked near the treeline. Dean holds up his free hand and you stop, waiting for his cue. He motions wordlessly at you in a way that seems to indicate he wants you to stay here and he is going to move in. You give him about a minute’s worth of a head start before you creep along carefully behind him.

“It’s not me, Dean.” Benny’s rough hewn twang has lost none of it’s appeal, you note as you duck behind a tree.

Dean slinks from behind the beat up pickup truck and Benny doesn’t even bother to glance behind him.

“Oh yeah? I got a dead body or two that seems to disagree with you. Who'd you plant, Benny?” Dean’s voice is low, an obvious attempt to sound non-threatening.

“Somebody seems to be doing their best to make me look bad, Dean.” Benny throws a thumb over his shoulder toward the recently disturbed earth. “That’s victim number three back there. I know how it looks, but I promise you Dean, it isn’t me. You wanna hide in the trees all day, y/n? Or you gonna come on out and play nice?”

You wince, your shoulders drooping as you peek out from behind the tree.

“Heya Benny.” You offer an uncomfortable smile.

Benny stares at you wordlessly, his eyes full of regret and sadness. Dean clears his throat, pulling both of you out of your daze.

“And how do we know you’re telling the truth?” Dean narrows his gaze toward Benny.

“I guess you’re jus’ gonna have to trust me on this one, chief.” Benny sighs.

“Oh you mean like how I trusted you to keep your word that you weren’t gonna go around biting people? Or how we trusted you to keep y/n safe in Baton Rouge a few weeks ago?”

“Dean, that’s enough.”

“No, cher. He’s not wrong. I know I done made mistakes.” Benny huffs out a breath, leaning across the hood of the battered truck. “But I know who’s doing this. And I’m gonna take care of it. I promise you that.”

“Ok, so if it isn’t you, who is it?” You move to stand across from him, elbows propped on the hood, mirroring his pose.

“You don’t look so good, cher. You feeling alright?” Benny’s brow wrinkles in concern. You let out a frustrated squeal.

“I really fucking wish people would stop asking me that!” You glance pointedly at Dean, who shrugs innocently. “Don’t try to change the subject, Benny. Who is it?”

“His name’s Desmond. He was connected to that nest in Baton Rouge. He’s a little less than pleased at having had his buddies killed. Seems to think there’s nothing worse than taking out one of our own. He stopped in a few nights ago at the cafe, saying he wanted me to either join his nest under him or he was gonna make my life here complicated.”

Dean tips his head questioningly and you cock an eyebrow.

“I told him no. But now there’s been three bodies in two days. No amateur is gonna kick me out of my hometown, Dean. Not this time.”

“Alright,” Dean sighs, planting his thumb against his temple and rubbing two fingers along the lines in his forehead. “Well, that makes two problems to deal with.”

“Whadaya mean, brother?”

“I mean you’ve got two hunters on your ass, and apparently a pissed off frat brother that we need to take care of.”

“Oh you mean your little brother and that dumbass that’s been following me around the last week or so? I’m not too worried about that.’

“My brother's not someone you want to mess with, Benny. He thinks that you won’t be able to control yourself now that you’ve had fresh blood again.” Dean frowns, refusing to meet your eyes.

“That don’t mean it’s true. And as far as Desmond goes, this is my fight. It’s me he wants; I’ll take care of it on my own.”

“Like hell you will!” You growl at him, rounding the front of the truck. “It’s my fault you’re mixed up in the middle of all of this to begin with.”

Benny turns, and for a moment his blue gaze swallows you whole and a current of heat dances through to your core. He smiles sadly as he reaches up hesitantly, pausing before brushing the backs of his knuckles against your cheek.

“No, it’s not. I am what I am and I have been since long before I laid eyes on your pretty little face. I won’t let you get hurt again, cher. I already can’t forgive myself for Baton Rouge.”

“Alright, well enough with the Days of our Lives, you two.” Dean’s voice makes you jump. Benny drops his hand and you turn to find Dean rolling his eyes. “Y/n, you go back and find Sam and Martin, let them know it isn’t Benny. The two of us will go track down this Desmond and take care of him.”

“You know what, Winchester? I’m about done with you telling me what to do.” You aren’t sure what is more infuriating; him giving orders or the fact that he looks completely unfazed at your razor sharp tone.

“Look, we tried things your way last time and how did that go?” His features have softened and his eyes are pleading with you. “If you want to help, go find Sam and Martin and hold them off until we find this fanged douche and chop his damned head off.”

-----

“I’m telling you Sammy, it isn’t him!”

Sam is squinting at you from across the cramped motel room. A middle aged, balding man with a noticeable tick is pacing back and forth in front of the two beds, gnawing on the nail of one of his thumbs. Dean had called him “Mostly-ok-Martin” earlier and now it is easy to see why.

“Why the hell should we believe you?” Martin stops in front of you, pointing a long, shaking finger in your direction.

“Believe me or don’t but if you go after Benny, you are only gonna get yourself killed.” You look at Sam, who is lost, deep in thought.

“You gonna take the word of this fang banger Sam, or are we gonna go take care of this the way your daddy taught you?”

You are on your feet and charging across the room but Sam moves quickly to block your path before you can reach the other man.

“Enough!” Sam’s deep voice echos off the cheaply papered walls. “Martin, you need to back off. Now.” A satisfied smile curls your lips. “And y/n. I told you to stay home. You’re too close to this. You let me and Martin handle this, or…”

“Or what, Sam?” You narrow your eyes at him as you plant your fists on your hips, refusing to be intimidated by all 6’4” of him.

“Or you’re not going to like what happens next.” Sam returns your glare, and for a moment you almost flinch.

Movement behind you catches your attention and as you are beginning to turn around, Martin’s fist connects with the side of your face. The sound is like a crack of thunder inside your skull, and your head lurches backward. You feel the pain spreading like wildfire through every nerve and taste something like copper just seconds before everything goes black.

Read Part 8 Here

Like what you see? Want more? My Masterlist is here. Thanks for reading! :)

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[bertrcndarchive-blog]

The Insidious Inquiries: 21 Questions, 21 Answers

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Dear Snicket Fans, On this Friday the Thirteenth, it is with immense pleasure and pride that I present to you the answers to our questions. Congratulations to the ones who wrote winning questions, and thank you to everyone you participated in the brainstorming. I hope you enjoying reading this as much as I did -- the replies from Daniel Handler made me laugh, smile, and cringe, as expected. But more importantly, they filled me with hope... I think you will agree that it is quite clear that The End was not the end at all. Please use this thread to discuss the fascinating questionnaire you see below. If you are a 667er, keep up the excellent work. I get the sense that, like the tale of the Baudelaire orphans, the story of 667 Dark Avenue is far from over. - Tragedy

The Insidious Inquiries 1. Captain Widdershins's personal philosophy was "He who hesitates is lost." What is your personal philosophy? - Libitina “Never refuse a breath mint.” 2. If you could pose one question to any writer, living or deceased, who would the writer be and what question would you ask? - Sixteen Vladimir Nabokov; “How in the world did you do it?” 3. By now, you must have noticed the striking similarities between the Baudelaires' imprisonment in the Village of Fowl Devotees and Paris Hilton's current predicament. For example, the Baudelaires and Paris Hilton are both inheritors of enormous fortunes and have ties to internationally recognized hotels. What are your feelings on Paris's dilemma, and would you suggest the use of a pitcher of water, a loaf of bread and a wooden bench? - Misery I must confess I don’t follow Ms. Hilton’s exploits very closely, but it does strike me that she could use a nonalcoholic beverage, a square meal and a few moments of seated contemplation, which those three props could easily supply. 4. As a consolation to 667 Dark Avenue on its fifth anniversary, what previously unrevealed secret from A Series of Unfortunate Events can you now reveal, even if we might be better off not knowing? - Ben “A rolling stone gathers moss. A stitch in time doesn’t save nine. The knowledge that you have been a fool hurts just as much, is just as hard to admit to yourself if you are young as when you are old. Every error that people make is repeated over and over again, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, as if they know what they are doing and cannot help themselves. The curtain goes up night after night on the same play, and if the audience weeps, it is because the hero always arrives at the abandoned sawmill in the nick of time, the heroine never gives in to the dictates of her heart and marries the man with the black mustache. There is not only a second chance, there are a thousand chances to speak up, to act bravely for once, to face the fact that sooner or later must be faced. If there is really no more time, it can be faced hurriedly. Otherwise, it can be examined at leisure. The result is in either case the same. Windows that have been nailed shut for years are suddenly pried open, letting air in, letting love in, and hope. Cause is revealed to be, after all, nothing but effect. And the long, slow, dreadful working out of the consequences of any given mistake is arrested the very moment you accept the idea that for you (and for your most beautiful bride, who with garlands is crowned, whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendor) there is an end.” 5. You are currently writing a novel about pirates; what new information can you reveal about your latest work? - Emily I have purchased a very nice map of the San Francisco Bay which will suit my purposes perfectly. 6. Uncle Monty had a superlative collection of snakes. Which snake would you least like to ride on a plane with if it were loose? Which one would you most like to fly with? Do you think having Samuel L. Jackson on the plane would help or hinder you? – Pandora In my admittedly limited experience, movie stars are scarcely any help in any circumstances whatsoever, whereas a long thick python would cause one’s fellow passengers to shrink back, giving one more room, which is what one always wants on a plane. As to the snake I would least like as a fellow traveller, I believe I’ve already discussed the film industry and its inhabitants sufficiently. 7. Kindly relate one incident that has caused Lemony Snicket to feel as though he must avoid the eye of a camera. - Thistledown That incident would have to be a poster, illustrated with photographs and captioned “Have You Seen This Man?,” appearing in the public sector. 8. What question do you wish fans would ask you about A Series of Unfortunate Events, and how would you answer it? - Dear Dairy “Might you explain the way in which the following narrative threads are intertwined?” I would answer evasively but with pleasure. 9. If an apple a day keeps the doctor away then what fruit would best keep away persistent realtors? Would you suggest something heavy like a watermelon or something easy to throw like a grapefruit? - Charlotte The durian is a fruit produced by a plant pollinated by flies. To attract its pollinators the flowers of the plant smell like rotten meat. You can imagine how dreadful the fruit smells, particularly if ripe and damp. In many countries where the durian is available it is illegal to carry it onto public transportation. I once had a piece of candied durian and it still felt like a zombie meal. I imagine having durians around the house would cause property values to plummet, and realtors would no longer be interested. 10. What new plotlines did Lemony Snicket intend to create based on clues in The Bad Beginning Rare Edition (such as the pirates, the Royal Garden fire, the OFD)? - Antenora Don’t think of them as plotlines. Think of them as groundwork. 11. What was the darkest hour in the lives of the Baudelaire orphans? Please keep in mind that "darkest" here means "most woeful," not "lacking in light," and hour is not a literal measurement of time in this case. - Philip Jucker I suspect their most woeful hour is yet to come. 12. After five excruciating years, the 667 Dark Avenue forum can now be described as old, large and stubborn. This is almost never a pleasant combination. Kindly write your own candid review of the message board. - Tragedy A critic never turns in a review before the drama is over, though he may permit himself a smile as he sips brandy and leafs through the program at intermission. 13. Will information on the sugar bowl, the Great Unknown, what became of the Quagmires, the fate of the Baudelaires, or even the truth behind V.F.D. ever be disclosed, or is it left up to the readers to draw their own conclusions? Do you know all of the answers? - Dupin If readers draw their own conclusions and speak of such conclusions out loud, then this information will indeed be disclosed; otherwise one might wait for more Snicket books, which would likely contain shrouded answers and further frustrations. 14. If there's nothing out there, then what was that noise? - LemonyFreshr1 Why don’t you step outside and see for yourself? I’ll wait here. 15. Is it rude to bring an uninvited guest to a dinner party? Should you be excused if it's your boyfriend? What if he's dumb? -J Dumb boyfriends are inexcusable under any circumstances, and this goes triple if he’s an uninvited dinner party guest. However, one cannot counter rudeness with rudeness, so such an event must be faced with a frosty smile and something along the lines of “How charming of you to bring Mickey! I wish we’d expected him, because there’s simply no room at the table. I’m sure we can find a seat for him near the oven. Mickey, come with me. And shall I remind you which end of the fork is for food and which for your hulking grasp?” 16. The V.F.D. disguise kit is filled with a plethora of interesting items. What is your personal disguise of choice, and why? - Gigi/Cybermystery The easiest and most effective of disguises is formality. No matter the age or occasion, formal dress makes everyone nervous. When I was a young man I had a job playing piano at private parties, which required owning a tuxedo. You wouldn’t believe the buildings I could enter, the favors I could request and the secrets entrusted to me simply because I looked the part of a reputable person. 17. Since the business card that appeared at the end of The Beatrice Letters was not torn in half, I assume Lemony Snicket did rendezvous with his niece. I realize he will not wish to give away too many details of that meeting, but I have to ask; did it go well? I worry about the two of them, and I hope that they are no longer quite so alone in the world. - Phoebonica You are wise to worry, and I’m afraid that if I tell you the details of their crucial conversation you will stop worrying. 18. If love conquers nearly everything, can literature defeat the rest? - Alice Oh Alice, all my hopes are pinned to such an idea. 19. You've said you had to change your plan because of the line from The Bad Beginning, "Klaus read through Count Olaf's papers and books." What would have happened differently if you had never written this line, and what were the Baudelaires going to find? - Dante Early research indicated that the Baudelaires had stopped at Count Olaf’s home on the way to the island, and discovered there, rather than beneath the roots of the apple tree, certain materials described in The End. Further investigation, including the sentence you cited, made it clear that this was most certainly not what could have happened. 20. After all this time, is Lemony Snicket’s pen's name still Alphonse? - Dellagatta Like me, Mr. Snicket loses pens constantly. A more accurate moniker might be Alphonse XXXVII. ____________________________________________ GRAND PRIZE WINNER: BSam will be sent a hand-written reply from Lemony Snicket. Dearest Mr. Snicket: - You went though an awful lot in order to bring the terrible plight of the Baudelaire orphans to our attention. What can your loyal fans do to show their appreciation? Would you like a hug? - BSam Thank you, but I distrust physical embraces from people I don’t know very well. I prefer the aesthetic and ideological embraces I’ve already received from my readers, and can only offer my gratitude, at least until my next bout of research is complete.

[freemygypsys0ul]

Hobbycraft Knitcraft Social 5-1-17

Couldn't make it to this week's Knitcraft Social at +Hobbycraft Milton Keynes? Catch up on all the gossip with Emma Harrison-Brown @pidgmaleon's awesome new weekly review.

So, the very 1st Knitcraft Social at +Hobbycraft Milton Keynes has really taken off and I am absolutely loving hosting it!

I only wish more of you around the world could come!!

But you can still join in the fun by tagging your work every Thursday 11am to 3pm across social media with the tag #knitcraftsocial... me and +Hobbycraft love to see what you are working on! 

Since November, our weekly meeting has forged real friendships and with one member missing for 3 weeks on holiday at the start of this year, gorgeous lady Emma @pidgmaleon decided it would be a fun idea to write a little note to Jude every week to keep her updated on our crocheting shenanigans... 

So I thought maybe you guys would also like to know what yarny-mischief we get upto for 4 hours a week playing hooky and knitty nora, so every week you can now catch up on the gossip with Emma's weekly Knitcraft Social review. 

  Knitcraft Social Thursday 5th January 2017

I was a little nervous about coming to this week's social because it was so busy before Christmas – both in terms of +Hobbycraft itself and people shopping and asking us questions whilst they are choosing yarn, and also in terms of having quite a few of us around the table all competing for Miki’s attention in making the baubles!

And what to bring to work on – I wonder how many granny squares Jude has whipped up out there in the sun? I really like crocheting in different places, I feel like you are stitching memories in a way, you can look at the squares you have made and remember where you were when you made them.  So, I didn’t know what to bring to work on because last time we were doing the baubles altogether, and sometimes in the nattering environment I do find it quite hard to concentrate, so I wanted to bring something that was not going to take too much concentration or counting.  

Then, there was a lady called Kate coming along who Miki knows through the social media app Instagram.  And you know, this social media business is all a bit UNSOCIAL sometimes really – I think that people invest so much time in putting things on facebook and Instagram accounts and taking perfect pictures that it takes away from real life socialising which is why the knitcraft social is so special because it happens in real life with real people like you!  And I wouldn’t have met Jude, Peggilini and more wonderful ladies through Instagram! Kate @lanaboushop and Miki had never even met before in real life!  

Miki and Kate and I got on together really well which was really nice because neither Miki nor I had met Kate in person only chatted on Insta.  Kate runs an online shop 'lanaboushop' through Etsy here, like Miki does and sells some absolutely amazing jewellery and crocheting bits and pieces, Click here after you have read this.  Kate is very good at crocheting, but like the rest of us sometimes, did struggle with the old concentration with all the giggling and me talking lots and lots! Oh... and I did do the impression of the shark head on the trigger stick and the groan tube for her so she was up to speed!

Acrylic Crocheter necklaces £10 + P&P lanaboushop Etsy 

The manager of +Hobbycraft Milton Keynes – Levi, had been busy over Christmas and put a lot of effort into making our space more spacious so now we are right in the corner and less disturbed by people shopping.  I think you will really like it and if you visit us you will be able to make some nice crochet decorations to help brighten it up even more!

When I arrived, Kate and Miki were already there and of course, already crocheting.  My adoptive Granny Peggilinni had a terrible cold so couldn’t make it...  I was gutted, I was ready for my big granny hug squeeze and to make her laugh with my shark head on the end of a trigger impression! 

I sat down and got my chosen project out – I am making a scarf.  It’s in very boring colours, the colours of the Harry Potter school Hogwart’s house Slytherin... panels of silver and sludgy green. I am really hoping that you know about Harry Potter from your own reading, children or grandchildren, but basically in Harry Potter the school has houses in an old boarding school style.  When you first start at the school of wizards and witches, you put this mad hat on (there are patterns to crochet one of these!), the hat is called the sorting hat. The head teacher – Dumbledore – sticks the hat on your head and it determines which house you go into....

You know those quizzes in magazines, that determine whether you are (A) mostly A’s you a mad fer it party animal and may need to think about rehab or (D) mostly D’s – yawn are you still awake isn’t it past your bedtime and have you had your Horlicks? Well... Depending on how you answer a number of questions, the author of Harry Potter, JK Rowling has done the official sorting hat quiz on her website to determine what house you go into in a sorting hat style... You tick the answer that you find most applicable to you in a given scenario, an example might be that you encounter a troll under a bridge do you (A) give the troll a bear hug (B) fight the troll (C) run away from the troll (D) bellow “who's that trip trapping over MY bridge”. 

Which one would you pick?? I went for fight the troll!  I went through and answered all my questions and waited, and do you know what?! It put me into Slytherin!  How rude.  Slytherin is the house that the bad wizards and witches are in!  Powerful black magic wizards!  Which is better than being in Hufflepuff because they are a bit of a waste of space in magic circles, but still!  I volunteered to fight that Troll and that was how I was repaid?! But then I decided to embrace my inner-Slytherin and I am crocheting a Slytherin scarf.  

I am a bit bored of it, it’s been kicking around the lounge since I started it mid September, but I want to finish it for two reasons.  One, if I finish it David the husband will take me to Harry Potter world, and two, I have lost count of how many bloomin scarves I got about a quarter way through when I was a slow scared knitter and then abandoned.  I think I need to complete at least just one scarf in homage to all the abandoned knitted ones that never got finished!

Levi the manager also found time to sit down with us and Miki put her amazing crocheting teaching skills to practice and taught Levi to do a chain – remember when you did your first chain?  We were saying today how we've now had a few graduates!

   We also had someone who needed a tape measure and Kate had one in her trusty pencil case of hooks and crocheting bits and pieces.  I really think that having balls of yarn on the table and hooks in our hands makes people more sociable and talkative to us – everyone wants to tell us what they are making or thinking of making when they are looking at the yarn, you just don’t get that sort of interaction in other situations!  I think it’s a great ice breaker, say you were going somewhere and were a bit nervy, whip out the crochet, gives nervous hands something to do and people are always bound to ask what you are making or tell you a story of someone that they knows crochets, or say that they wish they knew how to crochet.  It’s great that we have something that brings us together, chaining friendships, literally and metaphorically.

Towards the last hour of the social, Kate had to head off, and we were joined by another +Hobbycraft customer who wanted to learn to crochet. She was a left handed knitter like Jude!  Miki has perfected teaching left handed knitters and this lady left the store well on her way to crocheting lots of granny squares and did say that she would return next week!

So, all in all, it was much less manic than the social before Christmas.  I did miss Jude, we all missed her actually – the lady that was learning, it would have been brilliant if she had been there because she was giving herself such a hard time as she was learning – just like Jude did – and if she had been there Jude would have been able to say “I was just the same and look where I am now” – hopefully she will return and everyone else will get to meet her.

I hope you are all having a great week and getting lots of time to crochet!

Lots of love

Emma  xxx

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