#maybe the loser round will be kinder to her

[transk0vsky]

Christ poor Fiona is just being destroyed

[pilabutsp]

UNTITLED STENDYLE COMIC - Part 2.5

EXTRA II: The Main 5 hangout.

TW for mild transphobia

The Main Five, Kyle, Stan, Eric, Kenny and Marjorine are once again at Cartman's house to play Rummy like they do all weekends.

Cartman: I can't believe Kenny keeps breaking the "No chicks allowed" rule!

Marj: Oh! The gender affirmation!!

Kenny: C'mon dude! You do this every time, Marj has been part of the group basically since kinder so she gets to hang out with us!

Cartman: You just say that to spent more time with her! Even Stan follows this rule!

Stan: They are not a "chick", they just don't want anything to do with you, Cartman.

Cartman: Maybe if they doesn't want to be treated like a chick maybe they shouldn't wear skirts all the time.

Stan: HEY!

Kyle: CUT IT, FATASS! I'll fucking kick your face!

Marj: Fellas! Don't fight! You shouldn't care about Wends coming, Eric, they can come if they want and it's not going to apply to the rule.

Kenny: ... Welp, Kyle it's here so is basically the same.

Kyle: What is that supposed to mean?!

Kenny: Nothing! Are we going to play or nah?

Kyle: YES. Just, sit across, you two, we are betting so I don't wanna see you make out.

Kenny: You are cool about it!

Kyle: I am really not.

Cartman: But you are with Stan and Wends all the time, you must enjoy that shit then.

Kyle: EW no. They are actually decent.

Stan: Shut up and let's play.

They been playing for a few rounds, totally joking around and not paying that much attention. Everyone was so close to the 100 points, Eric losing a few times but paying his way in again which means that they were around $250 on the table.

Marj: -knocks the table- Eric, your turn!

Cartman: I don't get it Kahl, you are going to both teams and still single? What a loser. Now play.

Kenny: There are a lot of pretty people our age here!

Kyle: Yeah... No, I don't think I would date anyone from our school.

Stan: Wait, do you really mean that?

Kyle: -sigh- I don't know Stan, play, It's your turn.

Kenny: What? Sad you don't have a chance, Stanley boy?

Cartman: HA! Stan has a type!

Stan: No, I don't! Your turn Kenny.

Kenny: You really do, tho. Smart, Independent, Strong, Fight Cartman and win... Your turn, babe!

Stan: That's-...

Marj: -knocks the table- Your turn, Eric.

Cartman: Stan having a type doesn't mean anything tho, Kahl wouldn't date him... your turn, Jew.

Stan: Huh?!

Kyle: You don't have to tell me It's my turn, fatass, unlike you all I'm paying attention... And, why are you so obsessed with my dating life, anyways, Cartman? Your turn, Stan.

Cartman: ...

Kenny: The silence is too loud! Don't tell me, you... Lil' Eric Cartman has a crush on our Kyle?

Stan: No way.

Cartman: N-NO, I DON'T! STOP TELLING LIES.

Kyle: Oh Jesus, I'm going to throw up.

Kenny: Babe...

Marj: -gasp- I WIN!

Cartman, Kyle and Stan: WHAT?!

Kenny: Marj, you did it!!

Kyle: When did that happen? Geez, I have a lot of cards!

Marj: I've been knocking the table for the last three rounds!

Kenny: What happened, Kyle? I thought you were the only one paying attention.

Marj: Heh, count your points, boys!

Stan: UHG... I'm officially out.

Cartman: Of the closet? We know.

Stan: OF THE GAME! I got 47 points from this, yeah, I'm out.

Kyle: Ugh, me too.

Kenny: Same here!

Cartman: NO WAY! I'm not letting Marjorine win!

Marj: You used your last dollar on the last round! I win!!

Kenny: You are genius, babe!!

Cartman: WHATEVER, take your stupid money and leave my house! EVERYONE!

Kyle: Didn't plan on staying anyways!

Once everyone left the house, Marj and Kenny walked away together with their new money. Leaving Stan and Kyle alone.

Stan: So... Is it really true you would not date anyone from our school?

Kyle: Stan... I'm really tired of all of you talking about my absences of love life. Can you not?

Stan: I'm sorry, dude, I'm not bothering you anymore... Do you wanna go to my house and play something?

Kyle: Yeah, I would love that... I thought Wends was going there.

Stan: Heh, you know they don't mind!

MASTERLIST

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[anasticklefics]

Remember?

Fandom: It

Characters: The Losers

Summary: Mike takes the Losers to the Barrens and they start remembering things, such as Richie being incredibly ticklish and not minding them tickling him at all.

Words: 1 335

Richie expected a flood of memories to wash over him when Mike took them to the Barrens, but that wasn’t how it happened. The feeling of the place was familiar, and he suddenly knew this had been their spot; their haven during a summer that took too much and gave them even more. But for a moment he couldn’t think of a particular situation they’d shared, until they started pointing things out. There’s the hammock. There’re the bathing caps. He couldn’t figure out whether the slow realizations were worse than the idea of an overwhelmingly speedy reminder of a life he’d forgotten.

“Remember this?” Mike was pointing at something on the ground, and Richie nearly asked him to stop, stop, please stop, it’s too fucking much all at once, and then he looked anyway.

“A rotting comic book?”

“One of Eddie’s. Remember?” Mike sounded eager; eager for them to remember all he’d never forgotten. “He would bring a stack of them for us to read.” He turned toward Eddie who was blinking in sudden realization.

“I thought I lost that one,” he said, crouching to pick it up and stopping once he realized how unsanitary that would be, or so Richie assumed. “Shit, Mike, I-”

“W-wait.” Bill moved closer to look at it. “I r-remember this. I r-remember I once caught Richie r-reading it in here alone.”

Eddie rounded on Richie. “It was fucking you?”

Richie remembered. Remembered not returning it when Eddie was leaving that day. Remembered putting leaves over it to hide it. Remembered smelling it when he was alone because it smelled like Eddie used to; a scent so odd he’d never forget it now that he remembered it. Something clinically clean, combined with pre-teen summer-sweat they all shared, and something uniquely Eddie.

He raised his hands. “It was still in here! Can’t blame me for not looking. Also, how the fuck should I know you were looking for it. For all I know you left it here on purpose. Shit, you can’t be mad nearly 30 years later.”

Ben clapped him on the back. “You sound oddly defensive, Rich.”

“I’m being accused of misconduct! I’m not just gonna take it.”

“Like you used to take tickle attacks, you mean?” Beverly’s words were sudden, random, but it was as if she dumped a bucket of memories into each of their heads simultaneously. “Remember?” she asked, her grin so wide Richie nearly felt flustered. “We’d attack you to get you to shut up and you never protested. Barely fought back.”

“Oh, right.” Richie didn’t like Ben’s grin either. “And you’d never admit it when we brought it up.”

“I think you’re mixing me up with someone else,” Richie said drily, though he couldn’t stop avoiding their eyes. “Like, I don’t know, Eddie?”

“E-eddie screamed b-bloody murder if we touched him,” Bill said, and even though the grin was kinder and aimed in Eddie’s direction Richie hated how much it affected him. “Though I r-remember that n-never s-stopped you.”

“You had moments where you would attack us,” Mike said, recalling it. “But when we got you you never tried to turn the tables.”

Richie pointed at him. “I hate you. This is your fault.”

Beverly let out a laugh. “Oh, Richie, don’t get embarrassed. It was sweet.”

“No. Eddie was sweet. Mike with his dimples was sweet. I? I was sexy.”

Ben crossed his arms. “I see you’re changing the subject.”

Richie huffed, but didn’t reply. Truth was he could remember it vividly himself; provoking Eddie because he was a vicious tickler simply because he thought it would keep him from being tickled back, provoking Bill because he was merciless when he teased. Beverly never not going for the kill when she got involved, Mike laughing so hard along with him while Ben cheered him on and making it nearly worse. And Stan? Stan was always gentler about it, in a very ticklish way. Would always trap his wrists in a grip Richie could never break and poke at his sides until he apologized for whatever he’d said, which never happened. He rarely did more, but it was enough.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” Bill said, and Richie noticed he didn’t stutter, but that thought was quickly derailed when he noticed they’d all crept closer to him. “Is something the matter?”

“You’ve picked up too many British phrases over there, big Bill.”

“Changing the subject again,” Ben said, cocking his head at him. “You used to do that when we were kids, too.”

“Some things never change,” Beverly said. “Has this one not changed either, Richie?”

Richie knew it would be stupid to ask, but he felt extremely stupid in that moment. “This one, what?”

It was weird, being a grown up man and getting tickled by his childhood friends he hadn’t seen in 27 years, but it also felt- right? Like, right enough for him to not want to get away.

What the fuck.

They weren’t being too mean about it - though Richie’s embarrassment would beg to differ - and had only surrounded him but not trapped him. It would be easy, so easy, to break away and escape. A step to the side, focusing on fighting off one of them for long enough to flee, but Richie didn’t, just like he never had.

He remembered how safe he’d feel. How he trusted them so completely to allow them to do this. 27 years and the return of his childhood memories and that seemed to have not changed.

Bill, miraculously, was the one to attack first; fingertips on Richie’s sides in motions that felt so familiar, despite how long it had been. Richie distinctly remembered how good he’d been at it due to how much practice he’d gotten with Georgie. The perfect big brother hands, big and secure and unbearable as he went for your sensitive spots with an accompanying smirk.

“Y-you okay there?” he asked, his teasing the worst one because it was always so considerate. “You’re g-giggling.”

The others followed suit once Bill had got him going; Beverly on his neck with her stupidly nimble fingers, Ben worming his way under his arms in an oddly confident manner. Mike had gone for his belly, his wiggling fingers brief and mostly aiming to tease him just a little as he laughed.

And Eddie? That fucker was trying to lift his leg to tickle his foot for some fucking reason.

“I’m wearing shoes,” he bellowed, finding it important for some reason.

“I’m trying to take them off,” Eddie called back, and the whole thing was so surreal Richie had a brief panic that this was all It’s weird ass hallucination.

But none of it was torturous, so it couldn’t be It.

He fell down, maybe to grant Eddie his wish, but if anyone asked he’d say he tripped. The Losers mostly stopped at that, laughing fondly at him, with Eddie giving up on his quest and instead attacking his knees while Beverly gave his ears a quick flutter of her fingers. Richie couldn’t stop fucking giggling.

“This is c-cute,” Bill said, grabbing his phone. “I need to document it.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, Bill- Jesus, stop, stop!”

“That’s the first time you asked us to stop in the past 30 years,” Beverly said, stopping all the same.

“He probably got performance anxiety from the camera,” Eddie replied, giving his knees one last squeeze. “Isn’t that so, Richie?”

“I will murder you all.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “When one poke got you giggling? I don’t think so.”

“Okay, okay, but you would scream when we tickled you.” Richie sat up, trying to rub the ghost tickles off of his skin. “Remember?”

Ben let out a laugh. “I don’t think you’re getting out of this one, Rich,” he said, offering him his hand to pull him up. “Just accept defeat.”

Richie deflated, but Beverly grabbed his arm and squeezed it. “Don’t sulk. This stays between us.”

“That’s not a consolation.”

Only it was and they all knew it.

[victimhood]

The one in which the Euros 3rd place playoff is abolished after Italia 1980, and then restored at short notice for Italia 2028, making it the historic occasion in which a whole country cockblocked their captain Nicolò di Genova.

It is June 1980. The European Championship is taking place in Italy. It is the first edition of the tournament with eight teams, divided into two groups. The winners of each group move on to play in the final, and the runners up of each group move on to battle for third place.

It is the final edition of the Euros to have the third place playoff. With dwindling attendances and television viewers, UEFA deems the fixture unnecessary for future editions of the tournament. Italy hold Czechoslovakia to a 1-1 draw, and the match is decided on penalties. The final outcome? 9-8 to Czechoslovakia.

For as long as it has existed, there has been vocal opposition to the third place match. There are those who question its purpose, who see it as a meaningless extension of the tournament for advertisement money. A kinder commentary on offer is from those who see it as cruel to make losers play yet another competitive fixture, for little to no reward. Just think of the fourth-placed team—they played better than the rest of the competition except three—yet they must go home with the bitter memory of having lost twice.

On the other camp, there are those who recall with great fondness the third place match of the 2002 World Cup between host nation South Korea and Turkey. If that doesn’t work for you, what about the consolation it offered to the host nation in the 1990 World Cup, a breakout tournament for Italy’s Roberto Baggio?

Now we skip to June 2028. The European Championship is once more taking place in Italy. There are twenty four teams divided into groups, followed by a knockout stage. There is no third place fixture on the schedule. The much-beloved Italian captain takes his team on a blistering dream run, in front of an adoring home crowd, beating a well-regarded Portugal and incumbent holders Belgium along the way. He has declared his intention to retire for good, once this tournament is over.

Picture this: you are Italy. You play England in the semifinal in Napoli, at the Stadio San Paolo, also known as the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona. You arrive in the stadium, or you watch from home, full of hope, with faith in your captain and your squad. Your team scores one at the 20th minute. Perfect opening. England try but they can’t get past the deadbolt across goal, past your much vaunted defensive line. At the 63rd minute, Foden puts one past your goalie, but VAR rules it offside. At the 89th minute, the scoreline is still 1-0 and you’re nearly through, and some egregious fans are already cheering, and then Foden gets it in for real in a stroke of sheer luck. The ball hits the crossbar but somehow bounces downward into goal. The game goes into extra time, and then to penalties. The final result? England wins 4-3 on penalties. This is a brutal game. At the end of your match, your captain sheds tears and apologizes for not being able to do more to push the team through to the finals. No! You want to scream. Caro Nicolò, il nostro capitano, it’s not your fault. You have done so much for us. You begin to blame yourself: it’s us, it’s our fault. We dared to dream too early. You were so busy dreaming of your beloved captain raising the trophy that you forgot the game wasn’t over. In fact, even before this semifinal you were already dreaming of the trophy. This is how fate punishes you. You hate to see him end his career this way. He didn’t let you down, you let your captain down! Can we do this one over? You’ll do right by your captain this time.

Picture this: you’re the president of UEFA, and the tournament is hosted in your home country. It would have been the honor of honors, to award the winner’s medals to your compatriots. The papers are raging over the match outcome: England squeaked through on a razor’s blade, and Italy were the more inspired team. The fans are out in the streets. The people have spoken! Let us bring back the third place match! Let us see our captain off with dignity and honor! Your colleagues say: this is preposterous. We got rid of it years ago, because of Italia 1980. But does anyone really remember why? The advertisers tell you they’re willing to pay. One extra match means extra revenues. Worse things have happened in the pursuit for money. What’s the harm in a consolation match? An emergency meeting is called. Who’s playing in the second semifinal? France and the Netherlands. Both their feds agree to the third place match. From the next tournament onwards, there’ll even be a sweet cherry of a coefficient bonus—all the feds agree to this, but it would not be fair to the rest to apply it this ongoing tournament (and you hear minor grumbles from the FIGC, FFF and KNVB, who think they should be compensated for the inconvenience). No matter; the people have been given what they want! Another football match in the grand machine of things! The meeting takes so long that France beats the Netherlands 3-2 in the meantime, and now someone has to do the unpleasant job of telling the players. Were any of them consulted in this affair? What a preposterous concept. That’s not how UEFA works. UEFA says jump and they say how high.

Picture this: you are Nicolò Di Genova, and you’ve played the final match of your professional career. It did not end in the way you wanted, but such is life. You are ready to put your former self in the grave. You say goodbye to your treasured teammates, and the very next morning you check out of the training center to make your way to Turin, to see your fidanzato in the semifinals. Well, he crashes out too, his downfall orchestrated by that paraculo of your club teammate, Sébastien of the number 23. And so it is England vs France in the final, to be played in Italy. The thought of it turns even the strongest stomach of any citizen of this noble country. The only silver lining to this cursed final lineup is getting to whisk the love of your life off into the secluded countryside, and maybe with a few rounds of passionate lovemaking you can even forget the pain of loss.

You’re in the car. You just picked up your inamorato from his team hotel. You want to push him into the backseat and blow the brains out of him but you have better self control than that.

“How does retirement feel like?” he cracks a joke at you.

“You know full well my plans,” you return cheekily.

You’re driving off into the E70 when your phone rings. It doesn’t stop ringing so you pull over to take the call.

It’s your national team coach. “They just restored the third place match. Can you come back to the training ground?”

Who agreed to this? Your mind is reeling from the preposterousness of it all.

“They love you, Nichi. The people want you back.”

You exchange a look with your lover. Now his phone is ringing too. It’s his coach.

Due to this unfortunate turn of events you end up having an argument with your lover. You are principled, and having principles means not giving in to this total farce of a circus show, the third place match. Your lover is an incurable romantic, and pleads on behalf of your people. They did this all for you—show them some love in return. And what was the meaning of the past 31 years of your life again? You have already given them everything.

If only the people of Italy knew how much they had to thank Yusuf Al Kaysani. It’s because of him—it’s because of his beautiful deep brown eyes that glisten with all the stars of this universe that you cave and you agree.

“Get out, let’s switch. I’ll drive, and you call your mom and tell her the news.”

How do you begin to articulate how much this man knows the answers in your heart before your brain catches up to the same conclusions?

And so, like Lazarus, on the fourth day of your death you come back to life.

ITA vs NED

Picture this: you’re the cameraman, in the tunnel. The teams are lining up. The two captains emerge from the dressing room and compliment each other on their good looks with wry smiles. Some good natured ribbing, you think. They’re old friends. They played together for eight years at the same club. The Italian captain puts his hands on the Dutch captain, and then, like magnets, his hands seem incapable of leaving the Dutch captain’s back. You start to feel uncomfortable, like you’re seeing something that you shouldn’t be seeing. You look around. Everyone else in the double file of blue and orange is just chatting away, acting normal. Maybe...it’s just your imagination? You train your camera on the chatting crowd, giving the captains space. The match officials appear, taking the lead in front of both teams. You get in position for the money shot, following the two teams out of the tunnel and into the adoring crowd.

Picture this: you have never missed a single football match your grandson plays in. So when there’s a surprise third place match announced, you have to bail on karaoke night with the girls to watch the match on tv. Your friends don’t watch football, but if they do, they watch for the “hot guys on the Italian team”. Oh yeah, he’s playing Italy, you tell them. Feel free to come over to my place, if they don’t mind your oldest son and your rowdy grandchildren. Karaoke night swiftly becomes football night. There is an argument between Hamza and his dad over the pointlessness of the third place playoff. So...your family has been behaving in an unusual manner for several months now, and you suspect it’s because your grandson said he is gay. The papers here don’t report it, because they still want to claim him to some extent, but you have noted that the coverage is more conditional than before. You don’t live under a rock, and you’ve seen the news on YouTube even if no one around you is prepared to talk about it. As the two teams walk out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, you notice the Italian captain letting his hand slip from your grandson’s back, and Hamza suddenly jumps in front of the TV screen to adjust the volume.

“What the heck are you doing?” Mehdi, Hamza’s father and your eldest son, yells.

“The audio was...wonky,” Hamza replies sheepishly. “But I think it’s okay now.”

The match begins. At a corner kick, the Italian captain practically plasters himself all over your grandson, and it’s Hamza messing with the TV remote again, this time accidentally switching channels. Mehdi slaps him in the back of the head. You think that maybe it’s time you called Ibrahim. Someone needs to tell you the truth they’ve been so bad at hiding. Your grandson is not just gay, he seems to have a lover, and it’s that evil-eyed captain, the man who curses all who cross him.

Picture this: you’re a fan from the friendly town of Muggenbeet, watching from the San Siro. You came all this way to support the Oranje and they had to concede that final goal to France in front of your face. Sore and in denial about your loss, you start to make jokes about Waterloo to cope, handing the French off to the English. And then—out of nowhere, UEFA announces that they’ll restore the third place match. You think it’s the most shameless attempt for the host country to award themselves something ever. But, you know, does anyone really want to watch an England-France final? No. Never. For forever. We hate them both. It’s not football. It’s a circus of clowns. The viewership for this third place match is through the roof, higher than for your semifinal vs France. Let’s just treat this as the real final. What a galaxy-brained idea. Your country could steal it from the hosts—no hard feelings to Italy. You’ve enjoyed the pizza and the pasta, maybe it would be fun to crush their team like little peppercorns to sprinkle on your food. Based. Now you want a cacio e pepe after the match. Wait, you’re not in Rome, where the real (fake news!) final is. Boo. There is a corner, right at the end where you are sitting. Poepjes is taking it. Dekmijn and Blootgat are running up. Your captain is being felt up by the Italian captain. (No literally, that guy isn’t even looking at the goal? He’s just...pressing himself against your captain? Why are his hands encircled around Al Kaysani’s waist like so?) Anyway, the ball pings between the Italian keeper and Blootgat, and then it flies into Di Genova’s rather shapely calves...and bounces into the goal.

Uhhhhhh, THANK YOU? Grazie mille Nicolò Di Genova!!!! You gave us one goal!!!

The Italian fans must be flabbergasted. Isn’t this the dude’s retirement match? Or whatever. Who knows. Italy is a place of the greatest contradictions, so you’ve been told. But you’ll take what you can get. You kinda feel bad for the guy, who has buried his face in his hands. Maybe...you should cheer for him. And so...the lot of you, the orange lot, sitting in the Curva Sud, you start singing for the Italian captain. Nicolò Di Genova! There’s only one Di Genova!

The third place match is the most lawless ninety minutes in the historical timeline.

Picture this: you’re an Interista and season ticket holder. And of course you support your national team. You were heartbroken when the England keeper denied Marcuzzi to progress to the finals. You cried when your captain cried. And then, out of nowhere, they said, let’s bring back the third place match. The finals are in the Stadio Olimpico, so...maybe let’s have the third place match in the San Siro? You score a ticket at your usual seat. You get to see your captain one more time before he rides off into the sunset? What more can you ask for? This is romance of the highest order. The San Siro loves Nichi, of course all the staff and volunteers come together to make the event happen in a matter of days. You can’t believe this is happening. And then...your captain opens the scoring with an own goal. The Dutch fans are singing for him. What do you do? Well, if you can’t beat them, join them—you can sing louder for your captain! He’s your captain! And you know, their captain, he’s kinda your guy too, because Sempre Inter. Revenge is served, sweet and cold like a scoop of gelato, when your captain heads in the equalizer. The crowd goes wild. He’s taking this match seriously, but you knew he always would—that’s why you love him. He could ask for your firstborn and you would gladly give it up. You can always trust your capitano. There is a penalty call in the second half of the match and his teammates give it to him—a little unorthodox—but like a deadly sniper your captain sneaks a cool and calculated one past the Dutch keeper. You cheer. Does it count as a hat trick when you’ve scored at both ends? What a scoreline to retire to!

Picture this: you’re Yusuf Al Kaysani. You just lost in the third place match, a match widely panned as the least necessary match in a tournament by those who don’t know better. And yet, the third place match is the purest expression of love for the beautiful game. All other matches are clouded by the temptations of fame and fortune. The third place match you play for love and honor. You watch from the sidelines as your boyfriend leads his team to collect the medals, from none other than Paolo Maldini. Maldini, who’s doing an admirable job as UEFA President. Who knows where and how they got these medals at short notice—sometimes this country pulls miracles like a rabbit out from the magician’s hat of chaos. Everyone in the stadium is acting like this is the final. It’s not—it’s something a little better, a match born of love, played for love, with nothing to win and nothing to lose.

There is no trophy to lift, so Nico’s teammates lift him. They’re yelling for you. You’ve played with and against at least 90% of that team. Come join us, the men in blue say, and everyone forms a circle, arm linking arm, bouncing to the music. There are no losers here—your whole team is invited to the celebrations. The Dutch fans are singing: Second place! Second place! Let’s pretend we’re second place!

Let’s be real, for this one night, in this exact stadium, there’s only one captain, and the ones in the know push you towards him. Here’s your man, the unspoken acknowledgement. But you know your place—this is not your night. This night is for him. It’s for the country that loves him, and for him to say one last goodbye. Daniele Pirozzi jumps on the captain’s back, and the captain carries him for a while, laughing away. Pirozzi, whom you spent countless hours training how to read the field, in a fashion after yours. And then there’s Boselli, Marcuzzi, Poepjes and more. From one generation to another, the baton is passed. Nico, look around, these are our boys, as good as any. They’ll be better than us, and we are happy to see it, for the love of the game. Pirozzi jumps off the captain’s back and jumps onto you, asking you if you want to lift the captain together. You laugh and agree. On the count of three, uno, due—

Picture this: you’re Nicolò Di Genova, and you’re sitting on the shoulders of your protegé and your lover. Here we can mark the passing of the guard—tonight you are unburdened and the only thing that’s left, you realize, is love. Yusuf was right. Look, look how much they love you. Even San Paolo did this for you. Could you ever have denied all of them this? You almost screwed it up at the beginning, but perhaps God was just reminding you to take your responsibilities seriously. You are but a servant of the game and this ground is your ground, your hallowed ground, the church of your sins and glory.

It’s the final competitive match of your career, and you get to walk off the field, arm in arm with the love of your life, cheered on by a country you gave everything to.

Now, for the rest of your life to begin.

(chapter 106: nel blu, dipinto di blu, of The Beautiful Game)

[strangephiti]

Control

Written for University last year. Prompt: A wager (mild violence, some swearing)

Control

I am timeless. I did not begin in the Garden and I will not end with Ragnarök. I am everything and nothing. I am one of you; And I am so much more than you can ever conceive. 

I watch you, all you dull, unimaginative people. You’re lives are so... pointless. I blink, and you are gone. So many of you sit there, wishing your lives away. You  watch successful people and wonder: “why them, and not me?” Most of you have never even picked up a guitar, or sat down with a brush, or planned your wonder emporium. But still: “why them, not me?”

I listen to you. You think that it’s all luck. You struggle to scrape together the months rent and so you think: “why work so hard for nothing? The rich are only rich because they got lucky.” You mope about lost time, and sit around, wishing for a better tomorrow.

I have nothing but tomorrows. 

I feel so very little for you all. And yet you fascinate me. I envy you. I envy your limited days. I envy the ticking clock that pushes your peers to achieve, to grow.  Without the pressure of mortality I have no ambition, no desire. So I have had to get creative with my time.

...

Kyle Hawkins isn’t a bad person. He is polite, takes care of his parents as well as his senile, happy, Nana. He is the youngest of five children - but his eldest brother got the best of both parents: the looks, the smarts, the luck. As it filtered down through the siblings the gene pool began to dry out, leaving Kyle with nothing but the dregs. At least, so he believes. What hope could poor Kyle have in a world where “like only goes to like?” 

He goes through the same drudgery day after day. Works at 8am, completes the same chores; eats the same sandwich at the same sandwich bar; the same shops on the way home – groceries for him and groceries for Mum and Dad. Then home for dinner, and streams of videos.

Weekends aren’t much better. On a Sunday he visits Nana. She makes him laugh with her confused ramblings, and breaks his heart when she forgets his name. He cheers himself up with a pint at the local, where he and the boys talk the same rubbish each week.

Even the successes of his friends don’t inspire Kyle.

“It’s alright for some,” he scoffs into his pint.

So narrow is his sight that he scarcely noticed me slip into his peripherals and from there on into his life. I’ve sat across from him for many years now, listening to him whine about his lot. He likes to talk to me because he thinks I am just as worthless as he is: No wife, no kids, no hope. We just sit and drink and talk. And I wait. I wait patiently for him to say those fateful words:

“What I wouldn’t give...”

I shrug at at him. “Nah mate. Opportunity could come dancing through that door with neon lights and a siren blazing, and you’d still be sat there on your fat arse, looking at your phone.”

“Ye ‘hink so? Listen… If Ah’d been given the chances some folk have...”

I don’t listen. Never do. It’s the same excuses again. And I’ve heard them before. Different voices, different faces, but the excuses are always the same. Then I say to him:

“Wanna bet?”

He scowls at me but says nothing. I take a coin from my pocket, a shiny silver American dollar. I tell him I got it on a family holiday when I was twelve, when dreams still lived, and that I told myself I would go back to this “land of opportunity” and make my fortune. I kept the coin to remind me. But I still hadn’t gone. It hadn’t helped me. Maybe it would help him, I said.

“You think it’s all about luck? And Fate? Why not let my little coin decide for you?”

I turn the coin between finger and thumb, making sure to let it catch the light above us, and trace it across his drunken, hazy eyes. As he watches I say:

“Chances are all around us, all the time. But you just sit there, fat, forty and failing.”

He grunts at me. He knows I’m right. So I go on.

“It’s easier to do the same thing everyday, every weekend, because you don’t have to try, don’t have to fail.”

His eyes start to glaze as he watches the coin. I twirl it, effortlessly, between my fingers, the light dancing across his face.

“But what if something else made those choices for you? Would you grab those opportunities?”

I know when I have him. The light from the coin fills his eyes. Letting this thing decide for him appeals to his lazy nature.

“We can start now,” I say. “Loser buys the next round. Heads I win, tails you lose,”

“Heads,” he slurs pointlessly. I try not to sigh at his idiocy. I toss the coin high, its streamlined edges whipping the air with a soft zing-zing-zing. The light flashes across his face with each rotation, and his eyes can’t seem to focus on anything else. I smack the coin down on the back of my hand.

“Tails,” I say. “You lose. Get us a packet of crisps when your up, mate.”

With a grumble he drains the last of his pint and shuffles off to the bar. I call after him, equally as pointlessly:

“That’s half the trouble with you, mate: You don’t pay attention!”

We begin immediately, before he has time to change his mind. I take him out the very next day.

“Chances aren’t given. They’re taken,” I tell him. “You have to pay attention. You have to make a choice. Either you or the coin.”

The coin takes all responsibility away from him. It is a thought that appeals all too much to Kyle.

We start small: a new sandwich at the shop? Heads. It’s tasty, that’s all. No regrets. No real interest. Scratch card? He wins £10. He chuckles a little. He’s not that impressed, but the seed has been planted. It’s Sunday. Visit Nana or not?

Tails. Not.

That doesn’t sit well with Kyle, so he goes anyway. He can’t not see Nana. She waits all week to see him. They sit for hours and, mostly, he listens. His heart is heavy when he leaves. She thought he was the man come to fix the television. She kept asking him when the Queen’s Speech would be on. It is not the best state of mind for Kyle to be in for a chance encounter with his ex.

Sara.

She looks so good. Kyle swears she sparkles. They talk awkwardly for a bit: Hubby is doing well; The kids are growing so fast; work has her snowed under. She smells like summer fruits. He remembers that scent from when she used to squeeze her body next to his in bed. She could have been his if luck had been kinder. But of course, it wasn’t. He wasn’t “ambitious” enough for her. 

“You could make so much of yourself...” she told him.

He scoffed. Fat chance. So they took a break. He gave her space and time - in truth he wallowed on his couch, eating and drinking and moping. Then Mr Perfect rolled up in his perfect electric car, spouting about his perfect carbon footprint, and she was hooked. Off they went together to live the “organic” life, climbing hills, and furrowing their brows at the “serious issue of austerity” - while planning another holiday abroad. They even took to the front line soup kitchens. Kyle found that strangely sickening. The idea of ladling spoonsful of cheap soup to the less fortunate, a factitious smile on their faces, knowing they’re going back to their cosy three bedroom house, and their fridge bursting  with food and shelves sagging with their weekly Waitrose groceries.

He hates that about them. He loves that about her.

My voice cuts though his thoughts: You could follow her.

There is a beat. I hold out the coin. Kyle hesitates.

“No.”

We go a for a few drinks to chase the day away. We forget the coin. I leave it dormant on the table. But somehow, it manages to slip into his pocket, as if by chance.

When he crawls out of bed the next morning, cursing his luck and blaming me for that fifth pint, he finds the silver dollar on his kitchen counter. He is still not sure how it got there. Such a silly little thing. Completely worthless here. But then, hadn’t it won him a tenner? And if he’d listened to it and not visited Nana, he wouldn’t have bumped into Sara – Beautiful, glowing Sara. It wouldn’t have brought the memories back. Or the pain.

Always a man to blame his circumstances, Kyle pondered. Anything he did as a result of this coin toss wouldn’t really be his fault. Would it? Blame free. It wouldn’t be his fault. It would be the coins fault – my fault.

He flips the coin. It hurtles and zings.

“Go to work today or not?”  

He smacks it down – heads: no work today. He smiles and makes his way to the couch. With remote in hand his finger hovers over the buttons - but then he stops and thinks.

“Stay home? Or go out?”

Flip, zing, catch – tails. Better get dressed then.

Kyle has no idea where he is going. He tells himself how stupid this is. Opportunity isn’t going to suddenly leap out at him. But there is a voice in his head, now, that isn’t his, and it whispers:

What if?

He goes to the newsagents to peruse the photography magazines – another would-be hobby he had given up on. He reaches into his pocket for change. The coins feel dull, chalky and thunk against each other, indistinguishable one to the next. Then there was that silver dollar, pushing it’s way between his fingers. Its cold face presses into his palm and sends a shiver up his arm. It seems to whisper to him.

“Buy it?” or Steal it?

He trembles. Like a naughty child he gives the shopkeeper a few fervent glances over the magazine. Flip.

It’s surprisingly easy to walk out of the shop. His heart is thumping so loud he’s sure someone must be able to hear it. But no one hears. No one sees. He’s terrified. He’s thrilled. He wonders if he could pick up a camera that easily as well!

He parks himself on a bench, contemplating. The chills of excitement soon leave him as he flicks idly through his ill-gotten magazine, barely noticing the words. It’s only his stomach protesting that makes him get up, and his feet carry him to the sandwich shop.

Bad move and just his luck! His supervisor is here, picking up his own lunch. Usually he’d have someone else pick it up for him – usually Kyle. But Kyle hadn’t gone to work that day. Stupid mistake! He knows he should leave... but he doesn’t. The coin finds it’s way into his hand once more.

You’ve always wanted to tell him want you really think of him, it whispers.

Flip. Zing. Heads. He smiles.

The profanities that he lets fly seem unsuited to the gleeful grin on his face. Everyone in the shop has frozen, listening to this tirade. Time itself is holding it’s breath. Kyle, once begun, cannot stop. Electricity is buzzing throughout his body, powering his words. His supervisor is too stunned to respond, his face white. When twenty years of bitterness has been exhausted, Kyle wishes his former supervisor a nice day and leaves.

He can’t keep the smile from his face. He wonders what else could he do?

Zing! Zing!

Kissing the beautiful girl at the bus shelter was a big mistake. His throbbing cheek could attest to that.

“Not right. Not worth it.”

But I got I kiss out of it, the coin whispers in a voice that sounds like Kyles.

What was that saying? Regret the things you do and not the things you don’t. He took a chance. He got what wanted out of it. She got her revenge and moved on. What harm was there?

While he contemplated this, three young boys walk by. They were typical lads, hoods high and trousers low. Their height suggested age, but their gangly limbs betrayed them. Fourteen? Fifteen? If that.

Wham! An explosion of white, viscous liquid erupted against the glass, barely an inch from Kyles right ear. Milkshake spattered across his face and seeped grotesquely beneath his collar and through his shirt. The lads cackled.  

“Fat Fucker!” One of them shouted.

Normally Kyle would hang his head and walk away. But today was anything but normal.

Flip. Zing! Bam!

Blood spurts. He knocks out two front teeth from the closest boy. Who knew he could hit so hard?

The boys reel. They hesitate, gesticulate. But in the end they simply grab their friend, his bloody face in his hands, and drag him off down the road, hurling foulness back across their shoulders and threats of “next time.”

Kyle’s smile grows broader.

“That’ll teach them.”

Will it?

“They’re just boys. Just kids doing stupid things.”

They’re just stupid boys. Someone needs to teach them a lesson.

Zing. Zing. Zing.

He follows. 

There are a lot of bricks and broken bottles in the alley beside the liquor shop, where the boys have chosen to regroup. There is a loose fence post, long and heavy. Kyle unhooks it from the chain link. It fits perfectly in his hand.

The boys are making too much noise to hear him approach, the one cursing through fat lips, the others jabbing him with jibes of “you got clocked by an old git!” 

Kyle tightens his grip.

The metal bar knocks the laughter out of the tallest boy, the next boy folds around the swinging fence post as it hurtles towards his gut, and the third boy receives a crushing headbutt. The boys are a little tougher than their skinny frames suggest and land a good few blows on Kyles flabby body. The pain feels exhilarating! Even when the boys are writhing on the ground he finds he can’t stop.  

“That’s enough!” He hears himself scream.

Is it? Aren’t you enjoying it? Asks the coin.

“No.”

Yes, Kyles voice answers. They’ll think twice before they shit on me again!

He leaves the boys crying and bleeding.

I can do whatever I want. His heart beats in his ears.

“What do I want?”

Sara.

Sara is always pleased to see Kyle. She thinks it’s wonderful that they can still be friends. Kyle thinks he hears a glimmer of regret as she speaks of “still being close.” But her face isn’t glowing today. It pales as she answers the door. Her eyes trace the line of blood dripping from the corner of his swollen right eye, follows it to the fat lip, the scratches on his neck. When she reaches out to touch his arm, her face concerned, Kyle feels that spark once more. It pulses through him stronger than ever.

Zing. Zing.  

He kisses her. She reels away. But she doesn’t react the way the girl at the bus stop did. She understands. She smiles. It is her pity smile, her soup kitchen smile, the one reserved for “poor unfortunate souls.”

“You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?” She sweetly coos.

She pities him. She has no idea! He is better now that he has ever been! She pities him? How dare she? Everything was her fault anyway! She was the one that left! She was the one who fell into the lap of luxury and left Kyle in the gutter!

You were mine first, his strange voice growls.

Zing. Zing. Zing.

You’re mine still!

The look of pity vanishes from her face as her back slams against the wall. She screams, but he muffles the scream with his own mouth. Her flailing arms are no match for his strong hands as he slaps her hard and pins her to the floor. The voice in his head is stronger than ever.

Regret the things you do.

As they struggle, the silver dollar rolls from Kyle’s pocket - as if by chance. Kyle doesn’t notice. But as it trundles away, the scrape of it’s edges on the wooden floor growing fainter and fainter, he suddenly begins to see her face.

She is glowing. A red glow. Her cheek is welted; her mascara smeared. She looks at him as if he is a stranger – a monster. He reels back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in his own feeble voice.

She runs. He runs.

There is no light left in the day and no life left in Kyle’s voice as he tells the officers everything. He confesses about the girl and the boys. He confesses about Sara, with a catch in his throat. He even confesses about the magazine, as if that mattered at all anymore.

The boys’ parents have already filed their report. They had stormed the station en masse and had not long been satiated and sent on their way before Kyle arrived. 

Sara had not been seen.

“When she does come in, or calls,” he croaks, his throat dry from crying. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

They won’t. 

He doesn’t really want them to. 

He doesn’t want to be forgiven.

...

Kyle Hawkins wasn’t really a bad man. He was lazy and unambitious. He refused to accept responsibility for himself and was too stubborn make good choices. Now his choices are made for him. He sleeps and wakes at the same time every day; Eats the same food from the same plastic tray; Completes the same chores; Stares at the same walls and faces day after day after day.

Who will he be when parole comes around?

Flip. Zing!

Heads I win. Tails you lose.

[artificialqueens]

weak (trixie/katya/violet) 1/? - kitty

 AN: This is my first time writing rpdr fic! I pretty much live for Trixie, Violet and Katya and I just wanted to explore their relationship. Currently I’m planning a chapter from each of their perspectives, as well as a potential epilogue? questions/comments always appreciated <3 Also, for Trixie I used ‘he’, for Katya ‘she’ and for Violet ‘they’

summary: Because Trixie knows that Katya makes him better. He wonders how Katya makes Violet better. He wonders if he could, if he would.

Here’s the thing. It’s like…Katya’s always there. Katya’s always been there, when they’re filming or just hanging out or when Trixie’s upset and it’s good and it’s nice and Trixie’s so fucking grateful to have a friend like that, that just gets him and his drag and his humour. But behind all that compatibility is the knowledge that they could never work romantically, just the two of them. There’s too much – too much platonic reliance, too much energy and love that’s different to romantic love for them to be able sustain it. And Trixie loves Katya, she’s his best friend and he loves Brian, too and he loves them together and how people respond to them, has loved her since the first week of drag race. Trixie doesn’t think he can love anyone like he loves Katya. But it’s not enough, really, on its own. Because there’s the Trixie and Katya dynamic, and the Brian and Brian dynamic, but there’s also the Katya and Violet dynamic. It’s kind of been there under the surface forever. He remembers after BOTS, after the fucking Philly show when his mentions were full of fans tweeting him about it. After that he’d called her. She’d called him Tracy, and informed him that Violet Chachki was the best ass she’d ever eaten. The whole interaction had left him an odd sort of combination of hollow and turned on. And, like, he knew. He knew that they’d had sex. It was painfully obvious by that point and Katya like, liked Violet. The whole situation had left him confused and jealous, but not sure who he was jealous of.

 The thing about Violet was that she was a cunt. But Jason – well, Jason was also a cunt, but Trixie liked them. Quite a lot, actually. He liked the way that Violet would sometimes text him a screenshot of unhhh, or whatever, usually an unflattering picture of him and give it a bitchy caption. ‘Heard of a beauty blender, Tracy?’ Trixie would read it, roll his eyes, and ignore it, or send them back an equally bitchy reply. Violet never replied to these. Trixie didn’t mind, really. But even more confusing was the occasional text he got that wasn’t quite Violet-brand bitchy. Sometimes Violet would send him a mirror selfie before a show. He knew it was more for their own gratification than his, and he didn’t reply. Sometimes, they would send him a picture of whatever city they were touring in. He didn’t reply to these, either, because he didn’t know quite how.

 So yeah, Trixie’s kind of confused, and when Violet shows up in LA in full drag with suitcase full of wigs and pasties, he has no other option to let them into his living room.

 “I’m concerned that you know my address.”

 Violet rolls their eyes and steps inside his living room. Trixie’s weirdly glad he cleaned. This relief is abruptly replaced with annoyance as Violet collapses on his couch, leaving their luggage outside.

 "Don’t worry, Tracy. I texted Katya. She gave me your address, and then instructions not to damage your guitars, bed, or soul"

 Trixie huffs as he heaves Violet’s suitcase into the room. Instead of thanking him like any civilised human being, Violet looks up from where they’re painting their nails with a bottle of pink polish Trixie has left on the coffee table and ponders him.

“So, what’s for dinner?”

“Oh, fuck you”.

 ****

They go to Olive Garden. Violet isn’t impressed (“Bitch! You could’ve at least taken me to Red Lobster.”)

 They look ridiculous, frankly. Violet’s still in full drag, scrolling through twitter as they chew on a breadstick, while Trixie’s embodying his classic mid western dad style, complete with trucker cap.

 “So, not to point out the obvious, but why are you here? And why the fuck did you decide my apartment was the place to come?”

 Violet looks up from their phone and gives Trixie a searching look, then shrugs one shoulder.

 “You know I live to mildly irritate you”. They swallow the last of their breadstick. “And you know how touring is. Needed to crash somewhere for a bit.”

 “And you thought my apartment was the place to do it?”

 Because beside from the confusing texts, it’s not like him and Violet really talk. When they’re together it’s cool and it’s fun and it’s Violet, pissing him off and making him think as always, but he’s not Katya. He doesn’t know them like Katya knows them.

 “Well, it was you or Katya.”

 “And why not Katya?”

 They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, and if Trixie didn’t know them better, he’d say Violet coloured, just a tiny bit. Then Violet shrugs a shoulder.

 “Bitch, you know what her fucking apartment’s like. I could fucking, like, drown there and no one would realise.”

 Trixie huffs a laugh at this. It’s not the whole truth, he knows, but he’s seeing Katya tomorrow and he’ll figure it out. Then, Violet takes it as their liberty to order them both a glass of wine when their meals arrive, and he takes a breath and goes with it.

***

 ‘Bitch!’ Violet squawks, looping a skinny arm around his next and attempting half heartedly to clamber onto his back. They’re at a shit bar he’s never been to. There’s something about Violet that makes him want to do stupid shit. Like currently, where they’ve drunk half a bottle of tequila each and Violet is demanding a piggy back.

 “Fuck you, cunt, there’s going to be pictures of this all over fucking reddit or whatever.”

 He hoists Violet fully onto his back, and they’re so small and it’s weird, actually, and Violet has their arms looped round the front of his chest and Trixie wonders, quietly, if Violet can tell he’s been working out, if they’ve been following the Trixie Mattel fitness journey. Violet lazily grabs his hat and slings it onto their head.

 “You’re messing with my aesthetic, Chachki.”

 “Fuck off Brian. You look more like an ageing dad than Katya out of drag”.

 “Okay, A) I’m like fucking the same age as you and B) people love they way I dress. There’s an instagram dedicated to it.”

 “Whatever, loser,” Violet slurs, and Brian feels them slip slightly off his back. They’re both so fucking gone he realises suddenly, more drunk than he’s been in, well, years. Fitness journeys don’t really leave a lot of room for drunken encounters with ex-frenemies-kind-of-friends-that-send-confusing-texts-and-show-up-at-your-apartment-uninvited. Trixie shakes his head as Violet shoves a phone in his face. It’s possibly the worst selfie ever, almost enough to sober him up. He shakes Violet off, who drops to the ground with a surprising level of grace.

 “Don’t get your tuck in a twist, it’s just to Katya.”

 They stand there for a moment, and Trixie wonders if this is the time to ask them about the texts and the showing up thing and whether they’re going to have sex after three years of wondering when Violet’s phone beeps.

 It’s a text from Katya.

You pair of dumb whores. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

Another text pings through immediately

Actually, that’s the worst advice ever. Do everything I wouldn’t do. And if a man from Colorado named Steve invites you into the backseat of his van, say yes.

“So fucking weird,” Violet mumbles, and Trixie nods.

 Because the thing is, Violet and Trixie both know what it’s like to love Katya. And, Trixie thinks, they both know that the other person knows. There are lines of light connecting the two of them to her. Trixie thinks he can maybe seen another line, slightly less bright, developing between him and Violet. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

 Because Katya makes Trixie better. He’s said it before and he’ll say it again. They make each other funnier, they make each other even more likeable. But Katya also makes him kinder, makes him think about things that he would’ve never considered.

 He wonders how Katya makes Violet better. He wonders if he could, if he would.

 “Come on public school. It’s bedtime”.

 Violet nods, and they hail a taxi and sit next to each other in the back seat. Violet’s shoulder bumps his, occasionally, as they text or tweet or whatever it is that they do. They stumble into the apartment together. Trixie throws Violet one of his merch shirts to sleep in, and a makeup wipe. It feels weirdly intimate to see Violet become Jason, even though he’s seen it so many times. He goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and give himself a pep talk in the mirror. You will not make a move on Violet Chachki. You will go to bed like a normal person, and if you have to jerk off furiously in the morning, so be it. When he returns, Violet’s in his fucking bed, the bitch, de-dragged and swallowed in his shirt.

 “You’re on my side.”

 Violet, Jason, whatever, rolls their eyes but budges over.

 “If I wake up to your dick against my ass, I will have you arrested,” Trixie informs them.

 Despite the dark, he feels Violet’s eyeroll.

 “Calm down, Tracy. You wish.”

 Trixie snorts.

All in all, this could be worse.

 **** 

When Trixie wakes up, it takes him a moment to figure out why there’s a body pressed against his back. Violet Chachki, secret spooner, he smirks to himself. Then, he heaves himself into the shower shaking off the mirage of a hangover. Afterwards, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and starts cooking them both breakfast. It’s terrible, really, that this is for Violet of all people. He’s huffing slightly at his own ridiculousness when his door bangs open.

 “TRIXIE! Okay, Trixie, so I had this idea for an episode, what if we like, found a heap of conspiracy theories online and then – wait, why are you cooking?”

 Katya’s standing in front of him in a pair of jeans and a horrendous yellow t-shirt. It works, weirdly, and Trixie’s kind of mad. Before he can answer, Violet emerges from the bedroom, still clad in an oversized Trixie merch t-shirt. They stare at each other for a second before Violet slinks over, pecks Katya on the cheek and grabs a piece of toast from the plate in front of Trixie.

 “Where’s the butter, Firkus?”

 “Fridge, asshole. Where the fuck else would I keep butter?”

 “Actually, darling,’ Katya drawls in a thick Russian accent. “In Russia, it is so cold that we keep the butter on counter. Good as fridge.”

 “I despise you both,” Trixie shakes her head. “Who wants eggs?”

 And just like that it’s fine, it’s almost normal and it’s weird, it’s so weird. He always has a good time with Katya, but Violet? Violet’s currently explaining to Katya how to uncork a champagne bottle without using any hands and Katya’s cackling and it’s nice, seeing them together. Trixie still feels a flair of antagonism, of mild irritation that he’s not sure will ever fully dissipate. But there’s something nice about seeing the two of them together. He’s just not quite sure where he fits into the grand, odd, Violet and Katya friendship that’s maybe friends with benefits that’s maybe more. It’s a headache standing right in front of him, eating eggs out of a frying pan, one hip pressed against his kitchen counter, smile playing on their lips. It’s a heartache grinning at him now, calling him up at four in the morning to tell him about a film she’s just seen, or rambling to him about politics when he’s sleepy and half listening, eyes bright and hands moving.

 Maybe, just maybe, there can be a Trixie and a Katya and a Violet dynamic without it being horrible. So he watches, quiet for once, and doesn’t make a comment when the three of them eat breakfast together on his couch, Violet’s feet propped delicately on Katya’s knees.

 “So how long are you staying?” Katya asks through a mouthful of egg.

 Violet shrugs.

 “Until Tracy kicks me out.”

 Katya snorts and nudges Trixie with her shoulder and Trixie just rolls his eyes.

 “We’ll see”.

 They will.