#something about having to buy industrial size barrels for this? Because they went through it so fast?

[transmasc-rose]

fun fact number 2: water didn’t catch the camera light the way they wanted. so whenever anyone on the show gets splashed with “holy water” just remember! that’s not holy water! they’re throwing lube in those mens’ faces!

I'd like to believe these guys knew what they were doing, but every sentence makes me less sure and yet more intrigued.

[burlybanner]

Drip (ScienceBrosWeek, 2019)

Second verse, same as the first.

Summary: Peering deep into the rabbit hole carries serious penalties.

Disclaimer: Again, this is different from my usual style and I’m not sure where this story is going. So I’m not sure when I’ll continue. But keep me honest; it’ll happen eventually.

Unbeta’d, same ol’ song.

Part 1 here. **

The ride down should’ve frightened Bruce more than it did. Maybe he was dissociating because it reminded him of too many things. Down, down they went. When he looked up, the opening from the ceiling shrank as they descended into the dark, the lips of the opening closing as slowly as they sank. But Bruce was more curious than anything; Clint had pressed one of the three buttons near his hip, but continued to flip through his magazine as if he could care less about his passengers. How could he see in the growing dark? Maybe he didn’t care; maybe that was part of his job, to appear unassuming. 

He heard a sudden clank with the hydraulic elevator hum, and eerie pops and pings ramped his anxiety. Seconds passed before he noticed strings of  industrial fairy lights waking up, welcoming them as they plunged into the deep. His anxiety flickered with the bulbs, ebbing and flowing as they pulsed on the dank dolostone like lightning bugs. He’d always liked lightning bugs. He hadn’t seen any in years; he wondered if they still existed. 

“Hey. You with me?”

Tony’s voice, although a whisper, still echoed against the slick walls. Drips of karst water fell off the sides and disappeared into the ether. Somewhere in the distance he heard a drip-drip-kerplunk, another forgotten echo in a forbidden cavern.

“Always,” Bruce spat out, but Tony fumbled for his fingers anyway. It was just enough to shock him, something he loved and hated.

The platform screeched. Bruce wasn’t sure why he’d thought they’d be in some  techo marvel of an elevator, like ones in the movies. He also didn’t think they’d be in some ridiculously slow mine elevator, either.

“Okay,” Clint finally said. The elevator rattled, bouncing to a stop. “First floor, ladies.”

“Really?” 

“I call ‘em as I see ‘em.” Tony rolled his eyes as Clint turned a key and pressed another elevator button. The button glowed, maybe reading his thumbprint - hell, what did he know - and the gate squawked open. “This is where you get off.” Clint chuckled.

“I swear, Barton--”

“Sorry. But hey, it’s boring today. A guy’s gotta have fun wherever he can find it.”

“Never mind.” Tony didn’t seem too put out but he grabbed Bruce’s hand tighter and dragged him from the lift before it slowly ascended to heaven, with Clint safely tucked inside. Bruce blinked. He hadn’t seen the small bridge until now. A small walking bridge, joining the lift platform to another section of the cave. 

“We’re gettin’ there.”

“Mm.” One foot. Two feet. Three--

“Hey. Can you do one more elevator?”

“Sure.”

He accidentally peered over the sides of the bridge before they were done walking; it was a long way down. A very long way. And Bruce wasn’t sure why Tony’s hand was so tight. He’d never grabbed his hand so tightly before. Wait, no. He had. But--

Blinking, Bruce felt his heart rate slow down. The lights were brighter, calming now. “Hm. We’re in a normal elevator.”

“He lives,” Tony crowed. “Astute as always, Dr. Banner.”

“Fuck off,” Bruce said, but not unkindly. The new elevator was similar to the ones at Stark International, from what he could ascertain. Smooth ride. Very, very fast. He was used to these, and found them quite pleasurable. Soothing, even.

“How long was I--”

“A few minutes. Barely enough.”

Bruce’s gaze followed Tony’s arm. “And yet you’re still holding my hand.”

“Am I?” Tony smirked, untangling his fingers from Bruce’s. A bead of sweat formed near Bruce’s temple and dribbled down his neck, joining the other stains from earlier. 

“It’s been awhile.”

“Yeah. But to my credit, you haven’t dissociated like that in...?”

“Years.”

“But not months.”

“No. It’s better now.”

“Which is why I was holding your hand, to ground you.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Tony smiled but didn’t answer before the doors whooshed open. Bruce’s lips parted. People hustled in front of him holding stacks of paper. Phones rang. An admin yelled “please hold, I’ll transfer you” and someone else barked “coming through” while carrying a box of donuts and a jar of coffee. Florescent hums and its ugly glare over a white, gray, black decor. A typical day at the office and typical office workers. Except everyone wore black uniforms. Jumpsuits, really. Which would be less creepy if they didn’t mimic paramilitary organizations.

“Tony, what...Is this--”

Tony left the elevator and crooked a finger towards Bruce. He waited until Bruce joined him before announcing, “Welcome to SHIELD,” and bowing before him like it was some great honor. He could’ve just as well announced “Welcome to Sherwood Forest,” because the result would’ve been the same.

“SH...what?”

“C’mere. I’ll show you around. But stick close to me, yeah?” Tony purposely kept his steps slow as he weaved through the throngs, as if he’d done the very same thing countless times. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Tony’d known about this place, been here. For a long time.

“Wait. Wait.” Bruce planted his feet, refusing to take another step. The office waltz around him took cues from Bruce’s stance and became quieter, less frenetic. Faces turned his direction and not all were welcoming. “What the hell is this, Tony? I can’t go with you.” He gestured wildly at the underground...lair? Villain’s castle? “Why the fuck am I here?”

Instantly Tony was beside him. Slinging an arm around his shoulders. Grounding him. “Sorry,” he murmured in Bruce’s ear. “Thought you’d break later.” Tony kept talking quietly but Tony’s body steered them from the crowds and towards another corner with less razzle-dazzle. Far less nonsense. 

Tony nodded to a door, off to the side;  the name Tony Stark was on the door.

Tony Stark, Assistant Director of SHIELD.

What?

“Shh,” Tony hushed, because he must’ve said it out loud. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a coffee. Tell you all about it inside.”

And Bruce went in because Tony told him to, and he’d always trusted him to this point. Tony wouldn’t steer him wrong. Couldn’t.

Tony’s arm was still around his shoulder but he somehow kicked open his door, leading Bruce into an office space barely half the size of what he had at SI yet still, somehow, intimidating. There was a small conference table surrounded by high end lounge chairs, abstract art on three walls with a heavy curtain covering the fourth, and a desk surrounded by two-shelf bookcases, straight from an episode of Mad Men.

“Sit,” Tony said, nodding to an overstuffed barrel chair beside one of the bookcases. 

Bruce did. He let out a happy groan as his backside plunged into bliss.

Satisfied, Tony turned to a high-end coffee maker. The room was also big enough for a decent mini bar, of course; Tony opted to rest his coffee maker on the mini bar counter, maybe as a joke. His two favorite things in the world, together. 

Two seconds later Bruce heard a hiss with a steady drip-drip-drip. He watched as a dark liquid titrated into a demitasse. 

Tony slid a saucer beneath the cup. “You still like cioccolotta calda, right?”

Bruce shrugged. “I did when we went to Italy, that one time. You, me, and Rhodey.”

“Well. This will remind you of our trip. Guaranteed.”

Bruce snorted while adapting to everything. The chair hugged him like it was made for his dad bod, and he let himself feel it. Let it pull him out of the red zone, and into the black. When he felt near zero he spied the plush sheepskin rug, several inches deep, surrounded his chair.

“Go on. I know you want to.”

Bruce toed off his shoes and let his socked feet comb through the rug’s fluffy furry goodness. He sighed softly. “Like it was--”

“--made for you?” Tony finished. He handed him the Italian hot chocolate. “Yeah. Kinda the point.”

“Tony--”

“Shit. Wait, don’t drink it yet.”

Bruce sighed again and let his feet flex across the sheepskin. He almost tasted his cocoa despite Tony, but Tony jiggled his hand.

“Sheesh. So goddamn impatient. What did I say?” He dropped a dollop of whipped cream - fresh whipped, it seemed - into Bruce’s cocoa. “Now you can drink it.”

Bruce did, and involuntarily moaned as the flavors danced on his tongue. 

“Yeah? See?” He grinned. “And they said it couldn’t be done.”

“Mm.” Bruce’s tongue darted to the corners of his lips, lapping up every stray drop of chocolate. He finished the cup, quietly placed the cup and saucer on the small bookshelf, folded his hands over his paunch, and let his head drape over the back of the chair. 

Sighing deeply, Bruce closed his eyes. “Will you level with me now? You’re buttering me up for whatever it is. I get it. And I’m as calm as I’ll ever get today, so you might as well spit it out.”

He didn’t get an answer right away, but he didn’t expect to.

“Stop playing games with me.”

“I’m not, I’m...” Tony huffed, and Bruce opened one eye, watching him pace the length of his office. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. That’s all.”

Bruce grunted. “So start with the small things. Like why you have a curtain on a wall with no windows.”

“Who said I don’t have windows?”

“Tony. We’re underground. At least a hundred meters, I imagine, if an operation like this is going on and no one’s noticed. But you have a curtain. Why the hell do you have a curtain, when there’s nothing to goddamn see?”

Tony laughed, probably the most genuine laugh he’d heard from him all day. A full out, head back laugh, and Bruce tiredly lifted his head. “Oh, Brucie,” Tony said. He chuckled a few times. “If that’s all you wanted to know, well. That’s easy.”

He toggled something under his desk - another fucking switch, Bruce thought sharply. He rolled his head over the back of the chair as the curtains slowly parted, not caring in the least for Tony’s “big reveal.”

“I’ve got one of the best views in the world.”

“Sure you do,” Bruce grunted. He rubbed his eyes and slowly sat back up. “What could you possibly have that other rich bas...”

He stopped. Rubbed his eyes. Looked again. Then tripped to his feet and went to the very edge of the window. Tall waterfalls, lush grasses and dense jungle flora and fauna filled his view. The waterfall spilled into a subterranean lake, and from the lake’s current, Bruce guessed a river was in there somewhere, too.  

Eden. No, better than Eden.

“I...it’s beautiful.” Words failed him.

“Yeah, I think so.” Tony shuffled his feet. “I’ve got the best view in the house. I think there might be a few birds to the west of the falls,” he said, nodding to the window. “Dunno how they even got in, but whatever. Mi casa, and all that.”

Bruce gripped the glass, unable to drink it in fast enough. “How?” 

“You’ve heard of Sơn Đoòng cave?”

“Of course.”

“Well Dad found out, and wanted to recreate it. Make it ‘better’ or whatever. Not because he was an environmentalist, though. He wanted to prove he could it. And in America, no less.”

Bruce scowled, tearing away from the idyllic picture. “Stop lying to me. Hang Sơn Đoòng wasn’t discovered before the 90s.”

“Fine, then.” Tony nodded to the scene. “Explain that, Mr. Scientist.”

But Bruce couldn’t. Instead he pretended he wasn’t dreaming, hoped he wasn’t, even though it felt like it. He wanted, very badly, to take a nap somewhere in there. To get completely lost in it. “I can’t help thinking,” he murmured. He splayed his hands over the window, as if purifying his soul. If he could translate the beauty, bottle it, and drink it. He would be absolved. Completely, utterly absolved.

“I can’t help that, despite how beautiful this is, there’s a snake somewhere.” Bruce’s heart crumbled in ways he hoped wouldn’t. God, he could be so, so cynical but he was usually right. It’s what kept him alive so long. “Is this the reason you brought me here? I wish it was, I want it to be. I hope it is. But...it isn’t, is it?”

Tony slowly shook his head and smiled sadly. He dropped his gaze and fixed himself a drink. “Need you for more than the great views, buddy. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to add you to the roster. But we need you.”

Bruce swallowed and let himself view Eden, unspoiled, one last time before biting the apple of truth. “It never runs smooth, does it?”

“Nope.” Tony poured a shot of whiskey and gulped it down. “Never does.”

[dansphlevels]

Libertadores (Liberators)

Ao3

I am so excited to finally be publishing this! I’ve been working on this fic since September, as a part of the @phandomreversebang with my amazing Artist, @trashofdoom, and beta, @axolotlpj. Before reading, you have to check out the incredible art here! I love how this story turned out so much, and hope that you love it too :)

Summary: The current conflict in Venezuela told through the eyes of two boys who are not supposed to be in love, not supposed to protest, and not supposed to fight. But they do anyways.

Length: 20k words

Themes: The Venezuela crisis, au where Dan and Phil were born in Venezuela, real life canon violence, protesting, closeted relationship, angst with fluff

TW: weight loss, cannon real life violence, non-graphic descriptions of injuries, light homophobic language

Look at the art for this fic done by @trashofdoom here!

 The day that everything went to shit was warm and sunny.

 It was the type of day where everything felt so nice, so normal, that you thought nothing would ever go wrong again. And though that wasn't true, it felt nice.

 School had gotten out less than an hour before, and Daníel and Felipe sat on Felipe’s, also known as Phil’s, balcony, snacking on some food from Juanta’s down the street. Below them, the noise of the city felt like it came from another world. People called out to each other in Spanish and motorbikes sped down the narrow streets.

 Phil’s neighborhood, like most of those in the barrios of Caracas, was packed to the brim of people. Two story houses painted reds, yellows, blues and whites stood shoulder to shoulder, competing against each other for the brightest hues, the most confusing architecture. Plants weren't rare, but they weren't prioritized. Trees dotted in between the casas, full green Sarrapia trees that stayed the same color all year, winter or summer. Fall didn't mean much, besides maybe the temperature would dip below 26°C and they’d have cause to comment on it. No, actually, that wasn’t true. Fall meant rain, just like Summer meant rain. Any time of day, at any moment, the rain would come and when it had filled its course then it would leave, ending as quickly as it started.

 From May to November it was the rainy season. The rest of the year it was the dry season. All year it was hot, and at any point, dry season or not, it could rain.

 It didn't rain that day. Maybe God decided there was enough confusion going on without adding rain into the mix.

 But at that point in time, on that fateful day of April 14, 2014, Daniel y Felipe, or just Dan and Phil, sat on Phil’s balcony contently. Between them lay the takeout from Juanta’s, paper cups of Nestea and two arepas, one for each of them.

 “Do you want some?” Dan offered, holding up his cup of Nestea. “I got peach.”

 Phil shrugged, grabbing it. “Sure. I got peach too, but I bet yours is better.”

 Dan reached to take his cup back, but Phil had scooted away, sipping from the straw with a playful expression on his face, “Hey! Don't drink it all!”

 “I already finished mine,” Phil admitted, a shy smirk on his face.

 Dan snatched the cup away, trying to scowl but failing to hide his smile. “You have an addiction.”

 “Maybe. But it could be worse. I could be addicted to cocaína.”

 Dan chewed on his straw, slightly bashful, “That stuff’ll probably kill you anyways, with how much you drink.”

 “You're such a mom.”

 “Yeah, well don't die on me, okay? We've only been… friends for a few months, but I'm liking things so far,” Dan could feel his cheeks heat up at the word. Friends. It was a lie, a placeholder for a much stronger word, one they could not say aloud, not here. Likely no one could hear them on the balcony, but it wasn't worth the risk.

 Phil smiled, playing along, “Don't worry Dan. I promise I won't.”

---

 April 14, 2013 wasn't the day that everything went wrong. But you could say it was an important day, one that was necessary for the following events to happen. This was the day that Nicolás Maduro assumed the office as the President of Venezuela.

---

 Five months later, and the power went out. It wasn't like it hadn't happened before, but it still shook everyone up a bit. It wasn't just the power going out in a few places- it went out in most of the country.

 One moment, there was power, and the next— nothing. Traffic lights flickered and blinked out. The underground transportation system was sent to a screeching halt.

 Phil opened his front door to find Dan, standing with a sheet wrapped around him, looking distraught. “My computer shut down. I can't go on tumblr.”

 They went into Phil’s room and laid on his bed, talking and holding hands. It was one of the only places they could show such affection, one of the only places it was truly safe. It got dark soon, and without any electricity in the house, they were left to do their best to adjust and walk slowly to the kitchen. Dan sat with Phil’s family for dinner as they tried to clean out their refrigerator, hoping to keep any food from going bad.

 Dan slept over that night, shyly climbing in bed with Phil, “Is it bad to be worried?”

 Phil considered it, staring up at the ceiling, “Nah. But I don't think there's anything to be worried about. Power should be up again soon, it always is.”

 He nodded, trying to be strong. But there was something ominous about the darkness and how it loomed over them, whispering of things to come, “Power’ll be back up tomorrow,” Dan repeated.

 Why did this outage feel so much worse than the others? Maybe it was because there had been few outages in the past few month, not always even noticeable. Did everyone else feel it, that chill? Or was it just Dan?

 He chose to ignore it for now, rolling over and wiggling until his head rested on Phil's chest. Neither dared to breathe; it was the first time they'd been that close. They'd both had girlfriends, but dating a boy was different. Uncharted territory, where every movement was to be considered.

 Eventually they relaxed, and even managed to sleep. Phil’s stomach was soft, a little bit rounded but Dan liked it. And when they woke up, they woke up to electricity.

---

 “Do you know what was with the power yesterday?”

 “Maduro tweeted about it. He said it was a sabotage, by the ‘extreme right wing’. But it didn't affect the oil industry, apparently.”

 “Oh, good. Yeah, we'd be really screwed over if something happened with the oil.”

---

 In 1999, Hugo Chavez was elected president of Venezuela. He cut ties with the United States and cozied up to China and Russia, both of which loaned Venezuela billions. Chavez ruled until his death in 2013, when he was succeeded by Nicolás Maduro.

 But his government had far overspent on welfare programs, leaving Venezuela in colossal debt. It declared farmlands state property and then abandoned them, and instead made the nation completely dependent on selling its oil abroad.

 Maduro kept up the regime's practices. His administration also stopped publishing any reliable statistics, including ones on economic growth and inflation. It accepted millions in bribes for construction projects and racked up worse debts that it is still struggling to pay.

 Meanwhile, the only commodity Venezuela had left began to sink in value. In 2014, the price of oil was about $100 a barrel. Then several countries started to pump too much oil as previously inaccessible oil could be dredged up with new drilling technology, and at the same time, businesses globally weren't buying more gasoline. Too much oil caused the global price to drop to $26 in 2016.

 Today it hovers around $50, which means Venezuela's income has been cut in half.

 That means a once rich country now is struggling to get by. That means job cuts, and wage cuts, and as everyone needs more money just to survive, prices go up. Homelessness goes up.

 Inflation skyrockets.

 And suddenly you have a country full of underfed, underpaid people struggling just to get by. This is a story about two of them.

—

 Dan and Phil sat in the small restaurant, the shared Nestea between them. Outside, a protest was underfoot, signs and chanting and demands for change. Already, the changes in the people’s forms were becoming apparent, the shrinking arms, the clothes that used to fit but were now a size too big.

 Phil sipped the last of the Nestea, throwing it in the trash with an air of finality. “I don’t think I’ll be drinking this anymore.”

 And so it begun.

——

 Before Maduro became the president of Venezuela, he was a bus driver. His history of formal education was non existent.

 In 2013, with inflation at 50%, he was given emergency powers for a year, prompting protests. Everything done to make things better and inflation go down failed on epic levels. Minimum wages raises just meant that everything became more expensive to produce. Regulating the prices of basic need produces meant that companies would stop making them when they stopped making a profit.

 As the months waned on, Dan found himself curling his hands into fists whenever the tv showed the president's announcements. He’d go outside and see the policidad in their brand new uniforms and wonder how the government could afford them when the rest of the country was struggling just to find toilet paper. He’d walk on the streets, seeing another painting of Chavez erected and wonder how much it cost to commission.

 Electricity cuts became normal. Sometimes, they’d turn the knobs on the sinks and find that the water had been shut off, again. Other times it came out murky or with bleach mixed in in an attempt to clean it.

 They could adjust. Dan’s mom could use the rice maker to cook most of their food, a result of rationed gas. They could collect water in pots and pans for when it was shut off, they could buy bottles of clean portable water, they could go to the grocery store on their assigned day and stare at aisles of overpriced, understocked food. They could ration things, food, toilet paper, gas, water, money, toothpaste. But when Dan walked on the streets and saw all the little kids with swollen stomachs and stick arms, he wanted to ask why Maduro hadn’t sent anyone to work all of the empty farms?

 What happens when no one has enough money for food anymore? What about when no one has any access to medicine anymore? When the streets are crowded with the starving homeless, and they don’t look much different than anyone else, besides the policidad and guardias roaming the streets in their brand new uniforms.

——

 “I want to protest,” Dan whispered.

 Once again, they were sat on Phil’s balcony, though this time it was under the cloak of night. They sat on the railing, watching the neighborhood below, still very alive despite the darkness.

 Phil knew it would happen. He knew it was had to, because he knew Dan.

 It was three years later, and through all their arguments and struggles, they were somehow still together. Dan had dropped out of university; Phil had struggled to stay in; Dan had gotten a job and lost it a few months later because the business had to shut down; and Phil’s dad was forced to change hours at his job, meaning they seldom saw each other anymore. His family was breaking apart, the world seemed to be breaking apart, the very balcony they sat on seemed to have new cracks that they couldn’t afford to replace- but somehow, through it all, he still had Dan.

 Overly headstrong, overly persistent, and reckless to the point of disaster, Dan was a storm stuffed inside a pair of too large jeans and a too dark t-shirt. Of course he would want to protest, of course it had to happen eventually.

 Phil swallowed. He agreed that protesting was important, but that didn’t mean he wanted Dan to do it. There was no such thing as a peaceful protest when your country was slowly starving to death.

 “Okay. When should we go?”

—-

They were not prepared.

 The protesters had marched and yelled, hoisting up banners and flags and signs listing the injustices they’d suffered. Some wore T-shirt’s wrapped around their lower faces, others had strange gas-mask type things covered their noses and mouths. Some people carried huge wooden shields, or had a makeshift type of armor made from cardboard or carpet. They all bore the signs of previous fights, scars and grim faces of determination.

 They marched together. And when they reached the line of soldiers, or guardias, they were shot down. Not with real bullets, but with rubber ones, and then with whatever the guardias loaded into their weapons. Some people retaliated, firing back with burning Molotov cocktails or rocks. But this protest was thick in people as inexperienced as Dan and Phil were, and they fell quickly. A lot of people ran.

 Dan and Phil were standing still when the tear gas was released. Cans opened and thrown into the crowd, resulting in yelps of pain and yelling for people to run. Their own eyes were going red and teary when Dan finally moved, grabbing stones from the ground and running forwards, hefting them into the ranks of guardias, some hitting their clear shields and bouncing back.

 "Come on, grab something! We have to fight!"

 And they did. Everyone fought, or at least tried to. Just by going to the protest you were fighting, even if you turned to flee when you realized the true danger and chaos.

 Minutes turned to what may have been hours, but who knew anymore? Time was as abstract as the swirls of gas rising towards the sky.

 Phil’s eyes caught on something, and before he knew what he was doing he was running.

 "Phil!"

 But it was too late. There was the impact, then the sound hitting his ears, then the pain. An unfamiliar hue of bright red stained his arm, and before he could process anything further, Dan was on him tearing him back away from the front lines. "We have to go, we have to-"

 "I’m fine, I’m fine, I-"

 "Have to get you home, you can’t- God Phil, you can't-!" Voice crack. Phil could hear noises around them, the commotion as the protest took a turn for the worse, but it felt like it was somewhere else. "Come on, we have to leave!"

—-

 “What happened?” Martín leant up against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at the boys with some weird mixture of emotions that didn't quite add up. Worry? Anger? Intrigue?

 Dan had already helped Phil out of his shirt, and was now using the cloth to dab at the wound on Phil's arm. Phil scowled, his face tight with pain.

 “He tried to help someone,” Dan growled in Spanish, digging through the first aid kit, “They were sick or something from the tear gas, and this idiot—” he yanked out a small roll of thin bandages, and began tightly wrapping them around Phil’s arm, just below the shoulder. “-this idiot tried to help them.”

 “They were sick!” Phil defended, wincing as Dan yanked tighter.

 Dan ignored Phil's protest, continuing to explain to Martín what happened. “He ran right in front of the soldiers. Right in front of them.” 

 Phil looked up at his older brother, pleading, “I only got hit with a piece of glass.”

 “You were lucky,” Dan agreed, tearing the bandage away from the rest of the ball, “I'm surprised they didn't pump you full of buckshot. You're lucky the glass only hit your arm.”

 Martín winced as Dan yanked the bandages tighter, tying them off, “What type of glass was it?”

 “The dirty type,” Dan complained as he started packing up the first aid kit. It was from before everything happened, before they needed one. It was pathetically small, but there was no way to get more supplies, “It cut deep. No other reason for him to have bled so much.”

 “What if it gets infected?”

 “Then I hope Phil doesn't use that arm often,” Dan zipped up the bag, staring at it like he was looking for something that was missing.

 Phil reached out for Dan's arm slowly, as if touching a wild animal, “Dan… you're being dramatic.”

 “I'm being realistic.”

 He pulled Dan's arm, forcing him to at least look at him. Even though Phil was the one who was supposed to be in pain, it looked like the injury affected Dan even more, “I'm fine. It's not going to get infected, nothing's going to happen.”

 Dan's eyes flickered to Martín, still standing, still watching them. He pulled his arm away, “You're right,” he said, and the words felt like cotton sticking to the back of his throat, “Fine. I don't care. It's no big deal.”

 Phil wanted to say more, but he knew he couldn't. Not now. This was the beginning of a more important dialogue, and it wasn't one that could be said with others around to hear it.

---

 “You could have died.”

 They had been quiet for a long time, just staring at the ceiling. It wasn't time for dinner yet, but when it was, Dan would have to go home. You didn't stay at someone's house for dinner anymore, not in these times.

 Phil stretched out his hand gently, letting his fingertips barely touch Dan's arm. They had to be careful with touching each other in the real world- but in this world, the one that existed only in their bedrooms with the door closed, they could afford a little affection. “I wasn't going to die. Please, the soldiers don't have that good of aim.”

 Dan snorted, smiling fondly. Lightly, yet fondly. “They wouldn't have to have good aim Phil, you were two meters in front of them.”

 “Yeah, I mean come on. I feel like Maduro should start investing in some better soldiers, the fact that they didn't kill me is ridiculous. Seriously? A little scratch is the best you can do?”

 “They should really up their game,” Dan agreed, playing along. He paused, and the joking mood dissolved back away, “They shouldn't want to kill you.”

 Phil titled his head, staring at his fingers tracing shapes on Dan's arms tiredly, “I don't think they want to kill me. Just want to… shut me up, I guess.”

 “They want to subdue you. They want us to suffer in silence.”

 Phil's stomach hurt. He supposed eventually, he'd have to get used to the feeling of hunger. It wasn't going away anytime soon.

 “I guess that's why we're protesting,” he decided, fingers going limp, “Let them know we aren't going to starve in silence.”

 There was a knock on the door, and both boys immediately jumped up, sitting on opposite sides of the bed casually, “Yeah?”

 “¡Cena!,” Martín called through the door, effectively ending their conversation. Dinner!

—-

 It was a few weeks later, and Dan lay in bed, alone. Alone hurt a lot more on an empty stomach.

 He knew he should sleep, but didn't want to. He just couldn't turn his brain off. Around Phil, even when everything was wrong, it was okay. But alone…

 Dan thought of the protest that day. The guardias, those mamawebos had fired round after round of rubber bullets. Some protesters ran for cover, some stood firm and hoped that whatever they had in the way of armor would save them. Dan had his Resistencia shield, which Phil ducked behind too. Phil, with his slingshot and bag full of rocks. It wasn't just a protest- this was a war they were fighting. Rocks versus bullets.

 Rubber or not, they did damage. Dan hadn't had the displeasure yet of being hit by a rubber bullet, but he was one of few. They were nasty injuries, and though the bullets didn't penetrate the skin, they hit hard enough to make you bleed, and left horrible green and black bruises. Sometimes, if they hit just the right spot, they could break bones. Dan had heard that they could be deadly. But they lived in a world where anything could be deadly, if you were desperate enough and threw it hard enough.

 After the guardias ran out of rubber bullets, they threw rocks. Some days, they weren't as violent, but today, they definitely were. New recruits, or so he had heard. More angry. More willing to fight. Dan wanted to spit at them. Instead of protesting to try and save their rapidly diminishing world, these people chose to fight against the protestors.

 If Phil were here, he'd try to defend them. Say that maybe they had a family member who was sick, or maybe they couldn't afford food anymore. Being a soldier meant these things were more accessible. Then, Dan would laugh, painfully, heartlessly. We’re all sick. And you should let me know if you find someone who can still afford food, because I saw a lot of people today, but I don't think a single one of them can afford 200% inflation. 

 Then Phil would give him that look, that stupid look of disappointment. Betrayal. And Dan would say What? It's true!

 /Just because it's true doesn't mean it's right.

 That's what Phil would say. If he were there. But he wasn't- Dan was alone, very alone, and that's why he was thinking those things in the first place.

 But it hurt. And it wouldn't stop hurting until Dan's stomach was full and everything stopped smelling of goddamn tear gas.

---

 Phil knew that it happened; of course he knew. There were things you noticed without allowing yourself to notice, things you process and file away for later, without ever really thinking about it.

 Phil knew that when he took the trash out, sometimes there were pieces of garbage on the ground, as if a wild animal had gotten in, and he knew that it wasn't a wild animal. But the day that he actually saw what was digging through his trash was the day he realized that he couldn't pretend forever.

 He'd been walking around the side of his casa when he saw the figure and froze. A boy, around his age but smaller and far thinner. Even with the boy’s oversized shirt hanging over his chest, it was clear to see that he was painfully underweight.

 Phil froze and the boy’s gaze shot up, but he didn't run. He just stared at Phil through hungry, hollow eyes. One hand on the rim of the trash can, the other on a bag that had once held rice, but now was uncomfortably empty.

 They held eye contact for longer than perhaps they should've. Two boys, the same age— they may have even gone to school together— both slowly losing pounds and hope. Except Phil still had food. And this boy didn't.

 “You can look in there if you want,” Phil offered, not sure what to say, “But I don't think you'll find anything.”

 A silent nod.

 Phil took a step forwards, his feet unsure where to go. Then, he turned, stiffly walking back the way he'd came.

---

 “It hurts a lot,” Dan groaned, clutching the spot on his rib cage with both hands. “Bruises never bothered me much, but this one sucks.”

 The patch where he’d been hit was dark red and puffy, shaped like the side of a canister of tear gas. He held his shirt up so he could see it, but didn’t take it off. Moving his arms above his head hurt too much.

 “You'll be fine,” Phil promised, barely paying Dan any attention. He went over to his closet, stripping his shirt and quickly replacing it with a black one that didn't reek of tear gas. “It's just a bruise. I doubt anything was even broken.”

 Dan looked at his feet, still cradling the injury mournfully. “That's not what you're supposed to say.”

 Phil unbuckled his pants, pulling them down. “Oh yeah? What am I supposed to say?”

 Dan was a stranger in the room, tapping his feet and trying not to look at Phil, trying to keep his face from turning pink. “You're supposed to say… ‘let me see’ or ‘I'm sorry you're hurt’ or something. You're supposed to… I don't know.”

 “I'm supposed to care?” Phil offered, pulling up a fresh pair of jeans and zipping them, turning to Dan with arms crossed. “Do you want me to pity you?”

 “No.” Yes. “I just want you to… I don't know.”

 “Validate you?”

 “No, just-”

 “Promise it'll all get better?” Phil walked over, looking down at Dan. His tone reeked of mockery. “Do you want me to kiss it better?”

 “Yes, actually!” Dan allowed himself to look up, and immediately regretted it. He was met with angry Phil, annoyed Phil, the side of Phil that yes, existed, but hardly saw the sun. It was Phil’s human side. And Dan didn't want to see him like that.

 Dan lowered his voice, not giving in to the temptation to let his eyes sink back to the floor. There is something about being yelled at by the one you love that makes you want to back into a corner and die. “I want you to kiss it better,” Dan narrated. “I want you to make me feel better. I want you to… to…”

 “Pity you?” Crossed arms, scowl, anger.

 “Yes!” Dan let go of the bruise, throwing up his hands in frustration. He winced, pulling his arms back down. “I want you to pity me! I want you to coo over me and promise that everything's fine and everything will be alright!”

 Phil's gaze clouded over. “I can't promise you that.”

 Dan was on his feet before he'd even processed the words. “Then lie!”

 “I can't! I don't want to!”

 “Just play the game!” Dan yelled, his cheeks reddening. “Play the fucking game Phil, just play it. Do it, just play the game.” His voice cracked. “Just… just… Phil, I'm hurt.”

 “I’m going to take a shower.” The other boy’s eyes were somewhere else, somewhere far away. “You should go home.”

 And there was that sinking feeling, the sharp blunt force of impact. Dan could almost feel his chest recoil inwards, and his breathing become more painful, like the true effect of the bruising was just hitting him. “I-”

 “I want to forget,” Phil admitted. “I don’t want to deal with anything else right now. Just… just want to go to sleep.”

 Every breath made Dan’s chest ache miserably. He needed comfort, needed some sort of something but he didn’t know what and didn’t know how to ask. But when he looked up at Phil, he could see the silent pleading.

 “Talk tomorrow?” He offered quietly, twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands. He was still in his clothes from the protest. He shouldn’t have sat on Phil’s bed, now the sheets were going to smell like tear gas.

 Phil nodded weakly. His body sagged with exhaustion against the corner of the door.

 Dan got up, ignoring the way it hurt to breath and to stand and to walk and to move and walked over to Phil, pressing a small kiss to his jaw. “Feel better.”

 Phil’s mouth formed words but no sound came out, a mix of you too I’m sorry I don’t want you to go but I have to take a break playing on his lips like Dan had pressed his mute button and Phil’d forgotten where the volume controls were.  

 Dan turned to leave. And he really, really was going to leave, and they would talk it over on the morning or maybe just pretend it never happened because this didn’t have to be a big deal. Dan respected Phil. He respected Phil’s needs. And if Phil needed to forget about it, then Dan could let him.

 But Dan didn’t get the chance to.

 The older boy’s gaze softened and he hung his head. “Wait.”

 Dan stopped midstep.

 There was a long sigh. “Okay.”

 “Okay?” Dan pretended his face wasn't bright pink with emotion. He didn’t look up, didn’t want Phil to see how desperate he was. Desperate for validation, desperate for affection, and desperate for something else, something that Phil couldn't give him. Safety.

 “Take your shirt off, and I’ll take a look at it. Here, I’ll help you.”

 So Dan allowed himself to be babied, sitting limply on the bed with the door closed once more, and let Phil pull his shirt off. The bruise was on his right side, low on his rib cage. It was the size of a person’s palm, and the color of dark pink tulips and vomit.

 “I’m sorry.” Dan muttered, trying to cover the bruise with his arms. “I’m being stupid.”

 “Maybe just a little.” Phil gently reached out and touched the bruise, tracing the side of it with a feather touch. Dan refused to look at him. He was being stupid, he was being weak, he couldn’t act like this-

 “How does it feel?”

  Like a weight being pressed against my chest trying to push until my rib cage snaps in two-

 “It doesn’t hurt that much.” Dan almost believed himself. “Does it look bad?”

 “No,” Phil lied easily. “No, it's not bad at all.”

 Dan allowed Phil to push his bent arm up a little ways, exposing the full mark. Dan still covered his other rib cage, and tried to cover his stomach. It looked bad. He could feel the indents, the sharpness of his bones underneath.

 Phil pressed his full hand against the mark, almost completely covering it. Dan bit his tongue to keep from hissing in pain.

 “Will I get better?” He asked, trying to distract himself. He didn’t look at Phil or at the mark, instead training his eyes on the opposite wall.

 “Yeah, you'll get better. Give it a day, and it won't even hurt anymore.”

 “I want to be weak,” Dan admitted, still not looked over. He felt his rib cage rise and fall with each breath. “Can I be weak? Just for a few minutes?”

 Phil nodded. His expression was one of calm, one of the people playing the violins on the Titanic as it sunk. Eerie calm, gentle rhythm, a reassuring presence as the ship tilted towards the moon and the last lifeboat was released into the water, crowds of people still onboard. Dan had heard that the band has kept playing until they drowned. That’s what Phil’s expression reminded him of.

 Dan nodded his head. He stared down at the ugly red mark, eyes red. “Will everything be okay?”

 “What do you mean?”

 It wasn’t a question you should have to clarify.

 “Will everything…. will it be okay? Will we have to fight again?”

 “No, we won't have to fight.”

 “For how long?”

 Dan’s voice was edged with anxiety, a little higher pitched than normal. Phil touched the edges of the mark with a feather touch. “Not for a long time. Not for the rest of the night. Tomorrow doesn't have to come.”

 Dan nodded meekly. Phil reached up, and brushed his thumbs under the boy's eyes. “Let's just… go to bed. Get you out of these clothes, I think the tear gas is still making your eyes water.”

 They both knew it wasn't the tear gas. But they also both knew that neither wanted to admit the truth.

 The night was a good one for lies. They lay in bed, shirts discarded on the floor, and whispered promises to each other that they knew they couldn't keep.

—-

 The next morning, there was water so Dan took advantage of it and took a shower. He didn't plan on taking a long one anyways, but as soon as he turned it on dirty lukewarm water drained out, at a lower pressure than normal. The water was an unsettling shade of murky brown.

 He rushed to wash himself, trying to use minimal soap and be careful around more sensitive parts. The water stung the scratches he'd been accumulating during the protests, and he wondered vaguely if it was even safe. Maybe it'd give him an infection, or if he drank it he would be poisoned. Maybe it was carrying some sort of disease, or STD. Maybe, after everything Dan had been through, he'd die from AIDS.

 He tried to wash his hair, but moving his arms above his head hurt too much. The bruising was still red, but was turning a more purplish color. Dan held his fingers against it, pressing slightly. Even that little bit of pressure hurt.

 After his shower, Dan towelled off and stood in front of the mirror, just letting the remaining water drip off. He felt very empty— empty stomach, empty mind. The boy who stared back at him in the mirror had dark circles. Dan wanted to tell him to get more sleep, but he knew that the circles weren't because of sleep.

 His arms, which never had much hair on them, now had a soft layer of hair covering them. Wispy little blond strands, like peach fuzz, but on his arms. The rest of his body seemed to have a little more hair too, as if trying to make up for the loss in mass with hair.

 Dan tried not to stare at his arms, his stomach. He had wrapped the towel around his waist, but that meant his entire torso was bare. He'd lost weight, that was undeniable. Dan's skin was a size too big.

 Dark circles; messy, wet hair; peach fuzz; rib bones.

 Dan went to his room and got dressed. He put on a shirt, one that had fit perfectly a few weeks ago, but now was too big. Digging through his drawer, Dan yanked out a different shirt, one that hopefully wouldn't be too hot, and tied it around his waist underneath the other shirt, trying to give himself a little more mass. If he blurred his eyes and didn’t look too closely, it almost worked.

 He tore off the second shirt, dumping it on the floor and leaving it there.

---

 Two boney boys sat on a balcony, repeating a conversation they'd had many times before with different answers each time. There was no anger, no resentment. Neither had a mind for drama nor a desire for it. As far as they cared, the previous night didn’t even happen.

 “What do you want to do when you grow up?” Dan asked. He'd asked the same question three years ago. And three years before that.

 “An astronaut,” Phil answered, without thinking about it.

 Dan laughed lightly. It hurt. “Spaceboy Phil, I like it. I want to be the President of Australia.”

 “Dan, Australia’s a continent, not a country.”

 “Isn't it both?” Dan shook his head, waving the question away, “Whatever. I want to be its president.”

 “Do you want to have kids someday?”

 Three years ago, Phil had asked Someday, do you want to have kids? Slightly different, but the difference doesn't matter.

 “Yes.” Three years ago: Probably.  “You?”

 “Yeah, eventually. If I can.”

 Dan laid down, looking up at the sky. “Do you ever think you'll get married?”

 “Yes.”

 “But not here,” Dan clarified.

 “Not here,” Phil agreed. “We’ll run away to America.”

 “America sucks,” Dan argued. “We’ll go somewhere a little bit more chill. London, maybe.”

 This caused Phil to laugh. “London? Why would we go to London?”

 He shrugged. “Why not? I've heard that anyone can get married there, even raging homosexuals.”

 Phil grinned. “Raging homosexuals? Is that…” he lowered his voice, aware that even as their words were concealed from prying ears by a language barrier, there were still people who could hear them and understand the meaning. “Is that what we are?”

 “Yes. Horrible, miserable, raging homosexuals. I should put that in my tumblr bio.”

--- Two Weeks Later

"Hey look! It’s the quitter!" A boy's voice called out in Spanish.

 Dan laughed, walking over to where the sound originated from. "I’m so offended," he joked. "Speaking of which, how's those fifty essays going for you? I wasn’t sure if I’d see you here, thought you might have jumped off a bridge by now."

 Mateo laughed, standing and clutching Dan's hand and pulling him into a bro hug. "No, not quite yet. But who knows? The semester's still young."

 Phil grinned. "You have Martinez?"

 Mateo and Phil clutched hands, bro hugging. "Nah, transferred out of her class. Decided I wanted to keep my sanity."

 They sat down, the rest of the people in the casual circle on the grass scooting back to make room for the two boys.

 Phil looked around, a little wistfully. He’d graduated uni only a few years ago, but it felt like forever. He’d graduated earlier than a lot of his friends, who were still in their last few years. If Dan hadn't quit, he’d be in their year.

 They talked for a while, not having seen their friends for too long. They only talked about the light stuff- school, work, things they’d heard and things they’d done. They didn’t talk about the lines outside the supermarkets, or the protests that were becoming more and more common.

 They didn’t talk about how their clothes didn’t fit like they used to.

 Mateo was about three shades darker than Dan, and about six shades darker than Phil. He had short, black hair and a loud laugh that reminded Dan of the good days of university- the lunch conversations, video game tournaments, and parties that ended a few hours before class started. Law had sucked, but uni overall wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

 Phil crawled over to Mateo, showing him something on his phone. Dan almost snorted out loud. Phil was one of the few people he knew who had light colored skin. Instead of tanning, Phil just got really freckly. Normally, Dan hardly noticed, but when Phil sat next to someone like Mateo the difference was obvious, and honestly, a little comical.

 Mateo made a joke, and Phil giggled, sticking his tongue out between his teeth. Dan hadn’t heard the joke, but he had to do his best not to laugh along. Phil smiled so widely, he practically radiated light.

 "Earth to Dan." A hand waved in front of Dan's face, and he blinked, making himself look away from Phil.

Another one of their old friends, Dalia, smirked. "Tired?"

 "Zoned out."

 "Daydream?"

 Dan bit his lip, smiling slyly. "Maybe."

 Dalia nodded, as if she’d known. "Who about?"

 "My one true love."

 "Phil?"

 Dan laughed, shoving her lightly. "Yeah yeah, real funny. No, I wasn’t daydreaming about my friend, I was dreaming about my one true love. Pizza."

 Dalia's eyes brightened. "Seriously?"

 "Yeah," Dan lied. "What about it?"

 "Mateo!” She called out, excited. "Dan, tell him what you told me!"

 Dan leaned back, rolling his eyes but still smiling lightly. "I was daydreaming about pizza," he mused. "Sue me."

 Mateo mirrored Dalia's expressions: surprise, then disbelief, then excitement. Then annoyance. "Dali! You told him?"

 "No! I thought we said it was supposed to be a surprise!"

 Phil raised his eyebrows. "A surprise?"

 The other two exchanged glances. "Should we tell him?" Dahlia asked, switching to English.

 "Tell them what?" Phil asked, switching to English too.

 "Is it a secret?" Dan joked, amused that they forgot he and Phil spoke English fluently as well. "I love secrets!"

 Mateo rolled his eyes playfully, switching back to Spanish. "Dalia ordered a pizza for us to share. It was supposed to be a surprise, but-"

 "A pizza?" Dan interrupted. He may have lied about daydreaming about pizza, but he definitely craved it. "You’re not shitting me?"

 "Not shitting you," Dalia promised. "I just wanted to do something special for you guys, you know?"

—-

 They were all talking when the pizza came.

 Every since they’d brought it up, it’d been hard to think about anything else, but they still managed somehow. That morning, Dan had wanted to take a shower, but the water had been shut off. He’d been left feeling smelly and gross, thinking that everything was just getting worse, and then- pizza.

 Dan was the first one to spot it. One of Dalia's friends was carrying it towards them, other students hanging out in front of the campus parting in front of her, looking at it longingly. Dan hardly noticed; he was too focused.

 The conversation in their group died down, all of them just watching.

 It was only a medium pizza, and there were at least six of them, but it still felt amazing. Everyone had been eating smaller and smaller meals, and Dan's family had managed to continue eating three meals a day, but at the cost of them being far smaller than normal. One piece of pizza was more than Dan had been eating normally for lunch.

 For a few minutes, that ever constant tug of hunger seemed to almost disappear.

 It was time to go. A bell sounded, and Dan and Phil's friends started packing up, hefting their backpacks for their next classes.

“Burguesa,” someone grunted, purposefully knocking into Dalia. /Rich girl/.

—-

 People peeled off of the side streets, wearing painted shirts and tennis shoes, motorcycle helmets and baseball hats, chests covered in cardboard or carpet armor, or left bare. The sounds of marching filled the air. No talking. Just marching.

 Some people had clearly protested before. They bore the evidence of the pain, the evidence of the ill preparation. Their faces were hidden with gas masks or just t-shirts in attempt to hide their identity. They carried homemade shields and slingshots, carried bags of ammunition. Bruises contrasted against tanned skin, against freckled skin. Somewhere in the background, a violin played.

 Phil’s only comfort was Dan, marching beside him. Since their first protest, they’d become more prepared. Dan had made a shield out of a large rectangle of wood, some rope, and some paint. It was small enough to carry without too much difficulty, but large enough that they could both just crouch behind it. Painted on it were the words ‘Libertadores, Resistencia De Venezuela’, which translated to Liberators, Resistance of Venezuela. It too bore the evidence of the previous protest: centered around the word Libertadores were six tiny holes were a round of buckshot had been fired at them, and had instead implanted themselves in the shield. Phil had seen the injuries buckshot caused. Needless to say, he was thankful for the shield.

 Dan held the shield around his left arm, and he carried it with a sense of pride. Dan's mouth was covered with an dark blue shirt, in part to help hide his identity, and part to help protect him from the tear gas. Phil on the other hand, had a real gas mask, left over from when his dad painted part of their house when he was twelve. The paint had had a horrible toxic stench that made Phil want to cover his nose and hold his breath. Still, compared to the reek of tear gas, that old paint smelled like fresh baked bread.

 Phil’s fingers twitched against the slingshot in his hand. He'd made it yesterday out of a piece of a fallen tree branch, and a rubber band. It was pretty rudimentary, but it would work far better than just throwing rocks.

 Slung across his back was Phil’s old school bag. Inside it were pebbles and stones for the slingshot, and a few other tricks Phil had planned for the guardias.

 Phil felt a lump form in his throat as he watched the people who had obviously never protested before. Unarmed, unprotected, unaware of what was to come. He wanted to warn them. He wanted to tell them to go home, home to the dirty water and power outages and starvation, but at least they wouldn't be shot at. But he stayed silent. As much as he hated it, this was a numbers game, and he couldn't turn away anyone who wanted to help to make their voices heard in this world of suppression.

 They turned onto a Main Street, merging with another group. Signs were hosted in the air. “¡Li-ber-tad!” Dan yelled out beside Phil. “¡Li-ber-tad!”

 Phil's throat felt like sawdust. “¡Li-ber-tad!”

 The chant spread throughout the crowd. The lower part of Dan’s face was still covered by the bandana, but Phil could still see the way Dan crinkled his eyebrows, the anger in his eyes.

 Shields moved with the chant. “¡Li-ber-tad!¡Li-ber-tad!” Feet pounded against the pavement, signs pulsating above heads. The crowd was one person- one strong, angry person, who was going to make a change- no matter the cost.

 They marched for a long time, going down the streets to one of the main roads of Caracas. “¡Li-ber-tad!¡Li-ber-tad!”

 Some people ran away. Some people joined their ranks.

 “¡Li-ber-tad!¡Li-ber-tad!”

 Amongst the protesters, Dan was one of the loudest. He stood firm, and with every chant he called out the government for all their wrongdoings. He called out the guardias, called out the policías, called out the colectivos and everyone else the government hired to make their lives miserable. With each chant, Dan called out Maduro himself.

Libertad. Liberty.   ---

 After they got to the main roads, it wasn't long for guardias to show up.

 Armored cars pulled up, stopping a safe distance away. Some of the protestors stopped, unsure, but the rest of the crowd pushed on. Dan’s eyes were trained on one of the cars, his expression one of hatred.

  Guardias formed ranks and marched forward towards the crowd. “Get your slingshot ready,” Dan mumbled, not looking away. “And the rocks. Phil, get the rocks ready.” Dan brushed against Phil casually, reminding him of his presence. “We're going to take down these mamawebos.”

 Phil kept marching as he unzipped his backpack, his slingshot still clutched in hand. It felt sticky; his hands had been clammy since they stepped into the crowd. A rock was held against the rubber bands.

 The guardias marched forwards, in real ranks. Clear riot shields were locked together. The soldiers had protective vests and helmets, standard olive green uniforms, and army grade boots. They carried guns.

 Phil gripped his slingshot tighter.

 “Rain hell on them!” Someone called out, and the protestors scooped up stones from the pavement and hefted whatever defenses they’d brought, and fired. Phil yanked back the rubber band of his slingshot and released it, quickly pulling more rocks from his back and firing again and again, the rocks being flung into the ranks of soldiers with far more force than he could have managed by merely throwing them. Next to him, Dan grabbed whatever he found on the ground- some rocks, some trash- and threw them with his whole body, grunting with each one. The guardias were pelted, like they'd stepped into a dangerous hail storm that wasn't forecast.

 More rocks. More guardias, getting in line, bracing themselves against the avalanche of stone. The protesters got louder, singing a song of screaming accusations. People who were tired starving. People tired of watching family members die. People tired, just tired, and done with standing still and taking it.

 They surged forwards, yelling as they physically shoved the police backwards, bodies thrown against riot shields, forcing them to take small steps back. Dan’s shield was thrust against one of the police’s, and they pushed against each other, fighting for dominance, narrowed eyes locked. Phil didn't hear anything, just saw everyone in silent, slow motion. The protesters, their angry, starving mob, was winning.

 BANG!

 A scream. Not of anger, but of pain.

  BANG! BANG!

 “¡Asesino!” Dan called out, accusing the guard in front of him who he fought against. “¡Hijo e’ puta!”

Murderer! Motherfucker!

 More gunshots went off. Screams, yelps of pain. Phil pulled the rocks back like he was an archer, letting the rocks fly up into the air and fall amongst the guardias.

 People ran away. People ran away. But many stuck with the crowd, some already brandishing new wounds.

 Dan won his fight of shields against the guard and shoved him backwards, causing a small domino effect of soldiers, and Dan laughed, Dan laughed as people surged forwards into the opening, catching some soldiers on their unprotected side.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

 A rubber bullet bounced off the shoulder of Dan's shield, narrowly missing him.

 A round of orders came from somewhere inside the police lines, and they all started pushing forwards, roughly shoving protesters back. Cans of something were thrown into the crowd, and Phil looked back just in time to see white smoke hiss up. People called out to each other, yelling and screaming and then coughing.

 More rounds of rubber bullets, closer. A woman next to Phil screamed, stumbling backwards. “Dan!” He called out rushing, towards him. “Pull back!”

 “Mamawebos!” Dan screamed. Cock-suckers! Phil grabbed onto his arm, pulling his away from the guardias ready to fire on him. “¡Coño e’ madre, malparío!” Your mother’s a whore and you were born wrong! A can pouring white gas was hurled at them, landing on ground and bouncing to hit Dan’s shield. “My grandma can throw better than you, and she's dead!”

 Phil grabbed the can spilling tear gas and chucked it back into the soldier's lines, already feeling his eyes stinging. It made his throat sting like he’d just inhaled a mixture of ash and pure bug spray. He grabbed Dan's arm, not gently, and pulled him forcefully away. They ran back, hurrying to duck behind a parked car.

 Dan's eyes were trained on Phil’s with the same intensity as he'd been sending the soldiers. “Las molotov.”

 Phil nodded, unzipping his backpack and pulling the old beer bottles out, handing two to Dan, followed by a handheld cigarette lighter. The guardias held their place, not stupid enough to push forwards into the mob they'd just tear gassed. Everyone had retreated from the front, but still the soldiers were pelted with rocks and trash. The noise was deafening, shouting and coughing and the constant explosions of guns. Rubber bullets- probably not deadly, but horribly painful. The protesters threw round after round of debris into the ranks, but the tear gas was spreading, dissolving the people in white smoke.

 Phil shook the beer bottle around, the liquid sloshing inside. A rag was stuffed in the top which he lit ablaze, throwing it into the ranks of soldiers. It exploded, glass shrapnel piercing their uniforms, fire lapping at their heels. The lines of soldiers began to disassemble, moving away to make themselves less easy targets.

 “Dan, get your- Ah!” Phil stumbled forwards, falling next to Dan.

 “What's wrong?!”

 A sharp pain spread through Phil's body- originating from his leg. “Something- something bit me!”

 Dan knelt next to him, examining the wound hurriedly. “You've been shot.” His hands splayed across Phil's thigh, and Phil gasped in pain.

 “A normal bullet?” Phil asked desperately, trying to move his leg. Even the smallest movement sent pain shooting up his leg.

 Dan’s face was grim. “I can't tell. Too much blood. We have to get you out of here.”

 With some difficulty, Dan helped Phil stand, and they limped away, Phil leaning heavily on Dan's shoulder. People ran past them, and their eyes watered with the residue of tear gas. The sound of bullets rang through the air, but they just kept walking.

 Dan had abandoned his shield, so they ducked behind cars and tried not to look like targets as they scrambled away.

 After twenty minutes of walking, Phil requested a break. “I can't… I just…” he was struggling for breath.

 “We’re far enough away,” Dan decided. “Take your mask off, maybe that'll help.” Dan tore the tshirt covering his lower face off, stuffing it in Phil’s bag. He leaned down. “Let me.”

 Phil tried to stay still, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. “You going to be fine,” Dan mumbled comfortingly. “Everything’s-”

 “What are you doing?” Someone accused in Spanish.

 Dan jumped back, shoving the gas mask in his bag and tossing it on Phil's injured leg, making him lurch. “Just talking. Is everything alright?”

 A man glared at them, the dark blue uniform making it clear who he was. A pair of handcuffs dangled by his side. “There's a protest happening a few kilometers away. Were you coming from there?”

 “No,” Dan said, eyes wide. “A protest?” He looked at Phil. “Did you know about that?”

 Phil shook his head, biting his tongue to keep from whimpering. The bag covered up his bleeding, but it was heavy, and when Dan tossed it onto his leg he'd wanted to pass out from pain.

 “Yeah, we were just heading to a friend's house.”

 The officer didn't say anything for a moment, and Phil wondered if he'd bleed to death before he answered. “Well then stop fucking loitering,” he barked. “And I don’t know what you were doing just now, but it looked like you were about to kiss.”

 Phil managed a strained smile, and Dan laughed loudly. “I think my girlfriend would have an issue with that.”

 The policeman made an expression almost like a smile. No, not a smile- a sneer. “Good. There’s already too many faggots in this country, and I need to save ammunition for protesters. Now get moving, nothing good will come from hanging around here.”

 They nodded, pained smiles plastered across their faces.

 The police waited.

 “Come on D-” Phil started, quickly cutting himself off before revealing Dan’s identity. “Let's go.” Phil stood, holding the backpack over his injury and doing his best not to limp.

They walked slowly away, not touching as the police watched them leave. Turning a corner, Phil collapsed against the wall. “Shit!”

 “Phil!? What's wrong?”

 He breathed heavily, spots dancing in his vision. “Get out your shirt from my backpack.” Dan did as he was told, fumbling with the bag. “Tie it around my leg.”

 Dan looked up, looking worried. “Like a tourniquet?”

 “No Dan, I want to keep my leg.” Phil said, struggling to speak through the pain. “Just… enough so that no one sees. And to put pressure on it! Pressure’s good.”

 Dan did it, kneeling in front of Phil and tying the shirt around the boy's upper thigh. If the police were able to come over, he'd definitely have some questions for them- and not just about the injury.

 The rest of the walk home was a painful eternity. Phil limped the whole way, leaning heavily on Dan, but by the time they got to Phil's house, they were both completely exhausted and drenched in sweat.

 Coming inside, they collapsed on the couch, Dan falling on top of Phil with exhaustion, careful to avoid his leg.

 “What-” Martín started, and Dan quickly got off of his boyfriend.

 “First aid kit. Phil got shot.”

 By the time Martín came back, Dan had already taken the shirt wrapped around Phil's leg off. “It's still bleeding. Why is it still bleeding?”

 “Did you walk back?” Martín asked, trying to conceal his concern. He knelt by the couch, unzipping the overly simple kit.

 “Yeah,” Phil muttered, struggling to get enough breath. “Not that far.”

 “You're drenched in sweat.”

 “Not that far,” Phil repeated. He closed his eyes, then stared up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”

 Martín and Dan exchanged a look. Phil didn't swear, ever.

 “We need to wash the blood away,” Dan decided. “Is the water-”

 “It's turned off,” Martín supplied. “But we have a tank.”

 “Hashtag the 1%,” Dan muttered. “Is the water cleanish?”

 Martín shook his head. “Bring him to the tub, we have some water bottles.” He glanced at Phil's leg again, before forcing himself to look away.

 “How bad is it?” Phil muttered, refusing to look.

 Dan was shaking slightly. “On a scale of paper cut to shark bite? Like, a paper cut.”

 “You're a horrible liar.” Phil groaned as Dan helped him stand, limping heavily as they made their way to the bathroom.

 Dan helped him sit on the edge of the tub, stretching his leg out and balancing it on the other side.

 Martín came over and together, the two boys rinsed away the blood. To see the full wound, they had to wriggle Phil’s jeans off of him, which was as difficult as it was painful. But finally, they had a clear view of the injury, and Dan was able to let out a sigh of relief. “The bullet missed you. Skimmed the side of your leg, but missed you.”

---

 “You could’ve died.”

 They’d had this conversation before.

 Phil stared up at the ceiling. “I know. You could've too, we were standing right next to each other.”

 “Yeah, but you're the one that got hit.”

 “You were the one egging the /guardias on. I'm surprised they didn't aim for you.”

 “Of course they aimed for me, they were aiming at all of us, you spork. But you know that wasn't a guardia.”

 Phil sighed, closing his eyes. “I know. But at least I caused some havoc with them, makes me feel like I at least got a few good shots in.”

 Dan snorted. “Yeah, maybe.”

---

 There was a cemetery a few miles away from Dan’s home. It was huge, and even with everything going on, the cemetery remained untouched. People had better things to do late that Wednesday morning, so it was empty too. Empty besides the two boys who walked along its paths, talking and laughing quietly, as to not disturb the peace.

 It had long enough since the protest that Phil could walk without feeling much pain. Or at least, he didn’t limp or complain. But at that point, even Dan was tired of complaining.

 Phil wore a backpack over his shoulders, stuffed full of something. Dan didn't ask what was inside, instead, allowed himself to get his hopes up. A five course meal. A chocolate cake. Plane tickets that would fly them to the middle of the ocean and drop them off there.

 Dan was always the optimistic one.

 The cemetery was so big and so empty that before long they were holding hands, in public. It was so dangerous, so potentially destructive— but they'd done a lot of dangerous, destructive things in the past few weeks, so it felt natural.

 Dan imagined it was a park. It wasn't hard, what with the green grass and well-arranged trees. The sun was out, but it still managed to be just warm enough as to be comfortable, not too hot. If you ignored the grave markers, it was easy to pretend they were a normal couple, having a stroll in a normal park, on a perfect, sunny, normal day. Sometimes, normal was one of the greatest blessings you could have.

 A cluster of bushes and trees made a perfect resting spot. It was concealed enough that even if they turned out not to be alone, the likelihood of being spotted was greatly decreased.

 Dan was at a point where a part of him wanted them to be caught. Take that, Maduro, he thought smugly. I'm a protester, AND I'm gay! Suck it!

 Somehow, he thought that wouldn't help much of anything. But it was nice to imagine.

 From his backpack, Phil produced a thin sheet, laying it on the ground.

 “Things are getting steamy in the cemetery,” Dan commented blandly.

 Phil— always the smarter one of the duo— wisely chose to ignore him. “It's a picnic blanket. And I brought food.”

 He pulled out a big reusable water bottles— filled with clear water, God bless his soul— and two cans: “Technically one for each of us, but I thought we could share.” Phil reached into his bag and grabbed one last thing, keeping it hidden from Dan for a moment longer as Phil assessed his features. “Dan, I'm going to take this out and set it on the blanket. Promise you won't jump me?”

 Dan promised, and Phil pulled out a jar of Nutella.

  And there was that chocolate cake Dan had wanted.

 “Fucking hell Phil.”

 They stared at the jar sat between them, wondering if it was real. Could it be a hallucination? Or was it really—

 “I found it in my sock drawer,” Phil confessed, his cheeks heating up, “From literally years ago. It's probably disgusting, but—”

 “Phil, it could be from the 19th century and I'd still lick it clean,” Dan interrupted, his eyes trained hungrily on the small container. How long had it been since he'd had chocolate?

 Phil produced two spoons, and they hurriedly opened it, finding that it was blessedly still half full.

 “I might go back on my promise,” Dan decided, eying it hungrily, “I might have to kill you for this.”

 “A ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

 Dan scooped his spoon in the mixture, staring at it like it was molten gold, “What did I do to deserve this?”

 Once again, Phil blushed, smiling shyly, “Happy anniversary.”

 Dan put the spoon in his mouth, and closed his eyes in pleasure, savoring the delectable flavor. “Fuck,” His eyes fluttered open, wide with amazement, “I'm actually going to have to propose.”

 Phil laughed, and oh God Dan missed that sound. “I'm going to make you. You know it's serious when I'm willing to share chocolate with you.”

 Phil dipped his spoon in the Nutella too, and quickly ate it, moaning almost comically before covering his mouth in embarrassment, “Sorry! I just didn't think it'd be so good!”

 They allowed themselves a few more spoonfuls of the rich chocolate before forcing themselves to close it and save the rest for later. Next, Phil opened up the cans and gave one to Dan, “One for each of us, but they're both different so we can share.”

  Dan took a closer look at the labels, slightly peeling off. His can was of mixed vegetables, and Phil's was peaches, “Where'd you get these?”

  “Martín has been bringing some stuff home lately. I don't know where he got it from, but I begged him to let me have them.”

 “He's crazy,” Dan commented, diving in. Cold corn had never tasted so good, “Fuck. This is how I'm going to have to propose: with Nutella and cold corn.”

 “Sounds perfect.”

---

 The protests went on whether or not Dan and Phil were apart of it.

 Phil's old university professor had sent him an email, requesting to meet up with him. So Phil went, leaving early and walking the few miles to get to the building. When there, he flashed his ID and was allowed in.

 “Felipe Lester, it's good to see you!” The professor announced excitedly when she saw him, speaking rapid fire Spanish. “How long ago did you graduate?”

 “Two years, Profesora,” Phil beamed. “It feels like longer though.”

 “Doesn't it always? Do you have a job?”

 Phil shook his head. “I worked for a small tv station for a little while, but they went under. Right now I'm just helping out, you know?”

 The professor gave Phil a subtle once over, her brow creasing with worry, but she quickly hid it. She glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping, then switched to English. “You’ve been protesting?” It was supposed to be a question, but judging from the intensity of her eyes, it was more of a statement. Phil had no choice but to nod, also switching to English.

 “Yeah. I just can't stand to be idle. Have to help out, you know?”

 She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “It's too dangerous. People are dying Felipe, and I won't stand to let you be one of them.” She looked around again, looking more worried this time. “Listen. You remember Caterina Hernandez, my assistant teacher?” Phil nodded. “She disappeared a few weeks ago. No one knows exactly what happened but… well, she had a big mouth. And she had money. I can only think, with the gang activity-” she scowled, cutting herself off. “She's gone, and I've been tasked with finding another assistant. I'm supposed to find one with experience, but I'd rather help out someone I know. You were a good student, Felipe. And I see you've held onto your English. If you want it, the job is yours.”

 Phil felt a little dizzy. “When would I start?”

 “As soon as you decide you want it. You'd be needed weekdays, from seven to five, but school is only from eight to four so sometimes you'd be able to leave early.”

 “I'll think about it.”

 The profesora eyed him warningly. “Don't think too long. It's a good offer, the best one you'll get. I need to fill the spot soon, and I can assure you that if you don't want it, there are plenty of people who'd gladly take your place.”

---

 Dinner was quiet that night. They were eating black beans and rice, and the three of them ate quietly, ignoring how small their bowls were and just savoring the taste of food, because that would be it until breakfast the next day.

 “I went to the university today,” Phil spoke in Spanish, trying to be calm about it.

 His mother and Martín looked up. “That sounds nice. Did you get to see your old teachers?”

 “I talked to Profesora Martinez.” He paused, chewing. “She said there's a job opening.”

 His mom dropped her spoon, clattering against the bowl. “What? How much?”

 “I don't know. Didn't ask.”

 “This is great Felipe! I'm so proud, when do you start?”

 So Phil filled them in on the basic details, answering their excited questions about when it starts, how much he'll be working, how often he'd be paid. In truth, they seemed more excited about it than he did.

 When dinner ended and he went back to his room, Phil realized that they hadn't asked him what the job actually was. He supposed they were just so excited by the prospect of a job, of more money, maybe of having a little bit more rice and beans to eat and a little bit more to live on that it didn't matter what the job was, just that it was a job.

 Phil pulled on his tennis shoes, dirty from protesting, and walked back through the house and out the door.

---

 “A job? Nojodás.” Dan's eyes were wide, and Phil could practically see the gears turn in his head. “How much?”

 “I don't know, didn't ask. I’d be working at the university, for Profesora Martinez, my old linguistics teacher. She says they wanted someone with experience, but she wanted to offer me the job first. She was glad I was still fluent in English.”

 “Thank you tumblr!” Dan looked to the ceiling, as if David Karp himself was looking down on them from heaven. “You told her you'd take it?”

 “Told her I'd think about it.”

 “Idiota, here, use my computer, email her now. Don't let this opportunity slip through your fingers, you-”

 “Dan, chill!” Phil laughed, accepting the laptop Dan all but shoved down his throat. “I want to take the job. But… it means that I won't be able to protest anymore.”

 Dan watched him, his gaze steely. “You dumb motherfucker, no way in-” this part Phil censored out- “-are you going to not take a job because of protesting.”

 “I said I'm going to take the job!” Phil threw his hands up, exasperated. “But what about you?”

 “What about me?”

 “What will you do?”

 “I'll be protesting, you cuchara. We'll be the ultimate power couple- while you make bank, I'll be making the world a better place.”

 “You'll be egging on the guardias to shoot you,” Phil corrected. “Only I won't be there to drag you home.”

 “I don't need you to drag me home! I'll be fine Phil, just accept the job!” Dan shoved Phil back lightly, pushing against the computer purposefully. “I have a shield, I have the armor crap, and it's not just me protesting! And last I remember, you were the one to get shot, not me.”

 Phil set the laptop on the bed, crossing his arms. The wound on his thigh, now scarred over and not hurting much anymore, ached with the reminder. “And if you get shot? What then?”

 “I won't!”

 “And if you do?”

 “Someone else can help me. Other protestors, people in the area, I'll make fucking Maduro himself scoop me up like a baby and carry me home. I'll figure it out!”

 Phil cringed slightly at the curse. “Other people can protest, Daníel.”

 “I don't fucking care-”

 “You should,” Phil cut him off breathily, stepping forwards. “You should care. It's not safe to protest on your own.” Dan bit his lip, holding back more accusations. “You can't go alone.”

 “I can. And I will.” Dan stared at Phil, his voice solid, unyielding. “I'm going to keep protesting, no matter if you're there, no matter if anyone's there. If everyone gives up, I will keep protesting because I refuse to sit idle and starve to death.”

 “You won't starve,” Phil offered weakly. “I'll be getting more money. If you need it, I can take care of you.”

 Dan sniffled. He stepped closer, and brushed aside Phil’s fringe affectionately, with an expression that Phil couldn't quite decipher, until it hit him. Dan was being brave. “An what if that's not enough? Phil…. Phil, I love you, but you can't tell me that your job as an assistant to a university teacher will be enough. Inflation is up 200%. And it's just going to keep rising unless we do something.”

 Phil wanted to throw up. He wanted to cry. He wanted to turn around and start walking, walking across the city to the coast and keep walking, walk over the Atlantic Ocean and walk all the way to London. But he didn't do any of those. “I love you too.”

 Dan lowered his eyes. “I'm going to keep protesting.”

 “Don't. If you love me, don't go without me.”

 “If you love me, don't give me ultimatums,” Dan snapped. “You’re accepting the job?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Then fucking tell her.” He picked up the laptop from the bed, shoving it into Phil’s arms. “You know the password?”

 Phil swallowed the lump in his throat, and forced himself to move, laying on the bed on his stomach and opening the laptop. “Yeah.” He began typing, opening up his email and writing the letter accepting the job.

 Dan lay on the bed next to him, rolling over to be on his side. “You're making the right choice.” He reached over, playing with the hem of Phil’s shirt absently. “You'd be stupid to let this offer pass you by.”

 “I never wanted to teach,” Phil grumbled.

 “I never wanted to get hit by a can of tear gas, but look where we are now. Make sure to thank her for the job, too.” Dan's voice raised an octave, watching the words appear on the screen as Phil typed. “Thank her. Make sure she knows you're serious.”

 “‘Kay,” Phil muttered.

 “And-”

 “Let me finish writing this, okay?”

 Dan shut up immediately, watching silently. He twisted the hem of Phil’s shirt tightly, then released it, bunching it up in a ball.

 Finally, Phil sent the email and closed the laptop. He looked straight ahead, avoiding looking at Dan.

 “I'm sorry,” the boy murmured. “I'm sorry you don't want to be a teacher.”

 Phil stayed quiet.

 “And I'm sorry I'm going to protest. Actually- no, I'm not sorry for that. But I'm sorry you don't want me too.”

 “You're impossible,” Phil muttered. “Absolutely impossible.”

 “And I'm sorry we have to fight. And I'm sorry for being an asshole.”

 “You done yet?”

 “Almost. I'm also sorry for upsetting you.” Dan scooted forwards, sitting up slightly so he could lean closer and kiss Phil’s neck.

 “I'm tired.” Phil announced, not pushing Dan away.

 “Just kissing?” Dan suggested.

 Phil hummed, squeezing his eyes closed at the feeling. “Just kissing.”

----

Three Months Later

 Phil was almost to the university, his backpack over his shoulder. As a teaching assistant, he was supposed to wear nice clothes, but he was currently dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a tshirt, with clothes to change into in his bag. He'd learned the hard way to change into good clothes after getting to school- wearing nice clothes made him look like he had money, thus making him much more attractive to gangs, or anyone desperate enough to jump him. He'd learned that the hard way.

  Dan opened the door, his smile immediately falling when he saw Phil. His jacket was gone, and right under his left eye his cheek was bruised.

 “Are you kidding me. You literally went to school today, and you look even worse than I do.”

 Since then, Phil had made sure not to wear the nicer looking clothes when walking.

 He liked walking, but it made his mom nervous. But she could hardly complain, especially since each week he gave her most of his paycheck, 235.000 bolívares, the equivalent of about 10 U.S. Dollars after inflation. Phil kept the rest of the money, only 15.000 bolívares, in a jar under his bed, labeled “London Fund”.

 Dan had kept protesting, though not as often as he had when Phil still went with him. Sometimes, on the weekends, they’d go together. Phil still supported the cause, he just didn't like Dan going on his own. Dan had managed to stay out of too much trouble, but he hadn't gotten away unscathed.

 They liked to spend time together at one of their houses after each protest, even if it was uneventful. They shared stories of their day while Phil pretended he wasn't examining Dan for injuries. Dan's current weapon of choice was Molotov cocktails and lighters, which resulted in long burn marks going up and down his arms. The first aid kit at Dan’s house was even sparser than the one at Phil’s house, but it had a little bit of a burn salve in it. When Phil applied it to the worst burns, he had to hold a hand over Dan’s mouth because of how loud he moaned in relief. “The neighbors will hear!” He warned. If he doesn't shut up, the United States will hear, he thought.

 Dan also got a lot of little cuts and scrapes from the protests, but Phil liked skinned knees much more than he liked bullet wounds.

 Both of Dan’s parents worked, though Phil didn't know how many jobs. He'd had his job for less than a month when one of Dan’s friends hooked Dan up with a job at a Juanta’s, the old restaurant that had been converted into a corner store, but it was only part time. Still, it gave Dan’s family a little extra cash, and gave Dan something to do all day besides dare the guardias to shoot him.

 About a month later, they were at Phil’s house- doing some things they were definitely not supposed to- when Phil put his hand on Dan’s stomach and could feel it growl. “Hungry?” He teased, trying to be gentle.

 “Ever since 2013,” Dan played along, though his tone wasn't as humorous. “Phil, keep going.”

 But Phil didn't. “It's after dinner, shouldn't you be good for-”

 “Skipped dinner. Whole family did. Our day to get groceries is Thursday, but when we got there it was closed. ‘Workers holiday’ or some shit. Now please, keep going-”

 Phil’s eyes widened, and he quickly got up, leaving Dan whining, even though they both still had their jeans on. “When was the last time you ate?”

 “Breakfast.”

 Phil strode over to the nightstand, where a small alarm clock sat. “It's eight pm.”

 “Oh.”

 “Stay here.” Before Dan could protest, Phil was out of the room, the door closed behind him.

 Martín was sitting in the living room, writing something, but he looked up when Phil came in. “What's up?”

 “Nothing,” Phil said impatiently, hurrying over to the fridge.

 “Why aren't you wearing a shirt?”

 Phil looked down. Crap. “Too hot.”

 “Is Dan in your room?”

 “It's too warm in there,” Phil defended, going through the refrigerator. “I think I might be sick,” he added, trying to help his brother come to a different conclusion than the truth. Phil grabbed a closed container and a fork and hurried back to his room before Martín could ask anymore questions.

 As soon as Dan saw it, he recoiled. “No. I refuse.”

 “Dan-”

 “Red. Red. Red. Fucking- red, no Phil, put it back, I refuse to take any of your family’s food-”

 Phil sat casually on the bed, putting the food in front of him. “Can you shut up, for like, five seconds?” Dan did as told, but he was still uncomfortably tense, looking at the food like it was poisoned. “It's not my family's food,” Phil reasoned, “it's my food. For lunch tomorrow. But it's okay, I'll skip.”

 “Like hell you will.”

 “What'd you have for breakfast?” Dan was silent. “Come on. Dan, what'd you have for breakfast.”

 “Oatmeal.”

 Phil’s stomach twisted in a knot. “Yeah, you're eating this. It's just more rice and beans, and you know my mom adds those spices you like.”

 Dan crossed his arms. “I one hundred percent refuse.”

 “You're not depriving me of anything. Trust me, I get enough to eat.”

 “Bullshit.”

 “We can call it your birthday present.”

 “My birthday’s in June.”

 “Then it's your Christmas present! Dan, I swear, if needed I will hold you down and force feed you.”

 Dan held his crossed arms tighter against his body. “No. I’ll jump out the window first.”

 “You're the most stubborn person I've ever met.”

 Dan flashed a cocky smile. “It's one of my better qualities-”

 Before Dan could finish his sentence, Phil had tackled him. He'd tried to tackle him on the bed, but unfortunately, Phil never had great aim, and they went spiraling onto the ground. It was a short tussle- as big as Dan talked, Phil was stronger, and Dan was weakened from lack of food. “Red!” Dan announced, though he was more annoyed than upset. “Red! Dammit Phil, why do we have a safeword if you don't even respect it?”

 “That's when it comes to… other things,” Phil decided, proud he'd managed to pin Dan down. “This is about your well being.” He reached onto the bed to get the lunch.

 “Why do we even have a safeword to begin with?” Dan wondered aloud, the amount he was talking directly proportional with his nerves. “It's not like we do anything crazy. I'd like to think that if I tell you to stop, you'd respect it.”

 Phil ignored him, uncapping the container. “Can you feed yourself, or will I have to?”

 Dan glared up at him, raising an eyebrow.

 “How did I end up with someone so stubborn?”

 “How did I end up with someone who so blatantly ignores my boundaries?” Dan mused. “What’s the point of a safeword if you don't respect it when I use it? Honestly Phil, let's never get involved with BDSM, you'd be horrible at-”

 Phil leant down, and pecked him on the lips, effectively shutting him up. “Done?”

 “You think I could ever be done? Phil, the matter of consent is very important. I could go on for hours just talking about safewords alone, much less-”

 “I love you,” Phil decided, and once more Dan was lost for words. “And I care about you. And you need to eat. Please?”

 About ten minutes later, they were back sitting against the headboard. Dan licked the fork clean. “Thanks for that Phil. You're right, those spices your mom adds really tastes good. What's her secret?”

 Phil, who looked like he'd just fought some wild animal, just sighed. “Adobo. Like, half a container of Adobo.”

——

 Dan had gotten approximately four hours of sleep. That meant that he needed approximately five more hours of sleep. But instead of being in bed, for some reason, he found himself in an ungodly long line at an ungodly hour of the morning, in ungodly rain.

 "Come on Dan, let’s play I-spy," Phil suggested, far too excited.

 Dan grunted, not bothering to respond. He pulled his hood closer around his face, trying to scoot impossibly closer to the wall. He was insistent that the closer you are to a building, the less wet you got. It wasn’t working. But he wasn’t going to stop.

 "You know, I actually like the rain," Phil decided. "It’s exciting. And it smells good. I like it better when I’m inside, but this actually isn’t that bad. It’s so early in the morning, it kind of makes it cool, you know, like-"

 "Phil," Dan cut off, hardly able to listen to another word. "Please. It’s 6 in the morning."

 "Actually, we’ve been waiting for a while," Phil corrected helpfully. "So it’s probably closer to 7."

 "I’m going to take a nap," Dan decided, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall. "Right here. Get my groceries for me, will you?"

 Phil scowled. "No. You said that this would be fun."

 "I also said it’d be quick. You should know by now that I’m full of shit."

 Phil smiled lightly. He leant against the wall next to Dan, bumping into him playfully. "Are you going to come with me to get my groceries on Friday?"

 Dan groaned, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Can’t Martín?”

 Phil stopped bumping against him, letting their shoulders rest together. He sighed, relaxing against the wall. “He's busy. And mom and dad both work early.”

 Dan tilted his head up, accidentally getting a face full of rain. He spluttered, wiping it away. They looked over, moving up in line. It had only been an hour, and the front was already in sight. The line was moving faster than normal.

 They leant back up against the wall, Dan resting his head on Phil’s shoulder.

 Phil tensed. “Dan,” he mumbled under his breath in English. “We have to be a little more… discreet.”

 Dan whined. “Fuck that.” He nestled his face into Phil’s neck, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

 When they got to the front of the line, Phil was made to wait outside while Dan went in. He looked at the smudged list on his arm, and did his best to find and grab everything. The shelves, once full, were painfully bare. It was a good day; he found most of the food on the list. But there was no rice to be seen.

 Dan's stomach growled. They were out of rice last week too. He'd never liked rice all that much, but it could be eaten practically anything, and when mixed with beans made one serving go a long way.

 He got in line to pay, and after another wait, finally got to the counter, slinging his backpack off of his shoulder and pulling out his ID. “No rice?” He asked in Spanish.

 “We usually get shipments on Saturdays.” The cashier answered, tapping on the keys of the register.

 Dan slumped. His ID number ended in one, which meant he could only go shopping on Mondays. It was part of the rationing, a last ditch effort to try and keep everyone from starving. Clearly, it didn't work all that well.

 “That'll cost 184 bolivares,” the cashier announced, looking at Dan expectantly.

 He cursed under his breath, looking at the life preserving items and trying to decide which were expendable. “How much were the beans?”

 “62 per packet”.

 “They were 56 last week!”

 The cashier was not amused. “Are you getting them or not?”

 “Not.” Dan pulled out the money from his bag, starting to count it. A year ago, it was enough to buy food for a week. Now, it was hardly enough for a handful of groceries.

 “Here, give it to me.” Dan handed over the money, and she put it on a scale, weighing it. “New system. Quicker to weigh than to count.”

----

 Dan going to protests alone meant that if he got hurt, Phil had no way of helping him or even knowing that he was injured unless he physically saw him. Dan went to the protests knowing he could be shot, knowing he could be injured, and knowing that the hospitals couldn't help him. The shortages meant they received no new shipments of supplies or medicine, and at this point, the hospitals could do very little. Better to die at home.

 People died in the protests. Dan could easily be one of them. And every time Phil saw him, he had to accept that it may be the last time.

 Ever since Phil got the teachers assistant job, Dan had been searching for more work. His paycheck from Juanta's just went down as inflation went up. In the end, he found two other jobs, one on Saturdays at a market, and another translating things to English for a small company. Even with three jobs, the money was barely enough. His padres both worked full days, his father getting home late every night, and still they were barely scraping by.

 Phil had hoped that with Dan working more, he wouldn't have time for protests anymore, but Dan insisted he'd still be going a few times a week. "They have enough time to screw us over, I can make some time to return the favor," he'd say.

 Phil had to be okay with it. Dan was miserably stubborn, and he made it clear that he was going to the protests, and Phil was allowed not to like it, but he wasn't allowed to refuse it.

 And Phil had almost accepted it.

 He was working late at school the night that Dan got shot.

 There were too many assignments to grade, then it took too long to change into street clothes and too long to walk home. When he got home, it was already time for dinner, so Phil ate. Both Dan and Phil's families were down to two meals a day, but Phil's were considerably more. Then, finally, finally he was able to walk over to Dan's casa, smiling at the thought of seeing him after such a long day. They could watch a movie, or if the electricity was back up, just scroll through Tumblr together.

 Dan's younger brother opened the door, hollow eyes wide. "He's at Doña Gloria’s," he answered before Phil could speak. "You should hurry."

 Immediately, Phil turned and ran, heart beating in his ears. Doña Gloria was a retired nurse who, too old to work, had taken in the sick and wounded in exchange for small offerings of food and money, whatever the family could manage. You brought family members to her if they were in dire condition, but still had a chance of being saved.

 Phil burst in the door without knocking, eyes scanning the floor. The entire house reeked of blood and vomit and death, but he still gasped for air, trying desperately to find Dan. Half dead bodies were draped across the ground, some groaning in agony, some still, too still. But no Dan.

 Phil leaped over them, running through the short hall and glancing in the rooms with open doors, only finding more and more of the same. People from the protests, people from the streets, people dying of sickness that there was medicine for, just not here.

 He sprinted from the hallway and slammed into a small woman. "¡Con permiso! Disculpe, perdón. Solo estoy buscando a mi amigo,” he blurted out without taking a breath. Sorry! Sorry, excuse me, I'm just trying to find my friend.

 "¿El de la bala en la pierna? Está en el patio, por aquí, apúrate." The one with the bullet in his leg? He's on the patio, this way, hurry.

 Phil didn't know what was wrong with Dan, but he went where she pointed without question. Tearing through the doorway, he ran to the wooden picnic table where he found Dan laying, his chest rising too slowly, too shakily.

 His parents were at his side, both his mom and dad, though Phil didn't know how they managed to contact him. Doña Gloria tended to his leg, wiping at it with a bath towel from Dan's house. A piece of cloth was tied around his thigh higher up, holding pressure over the wound to decrease the blood flow.

 Dan was drenched in sweat. His skin was pasty and pale, and his overly curled hair was pressed away from his forehead.

 When Phil came into view, Dan's eyes fluttered. "Took you long enough," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. "I've been here forever. Tell me, how does it look?"

 Phil swallowed, trying to bite back the tears that were threatening to appear. He looked at the injury. It was in a similar spot as his own bullet wound, even the same leg. But he'd been barely nicked by that bullet- this one had fully punctured Dan's leg. The wound was drenched in dark red blood.

 "It's barely a paper cut," Phil promised, willing his voice not to break. "I can hardly see it. You don't even need to be here, just need to.... suck it up, buttercup."

 Dan snorted, smiling widely up at Phil with the same drugged expression. There was no way he'd had painkillers, too difficult to find. No, it was the pain itself that drugged him.

 Dan gestured Phil closer, and then grabbed his collar, pulling him down slowly. Phil was worried he wanted a kiss, which would be the worst thing to do right now with others watching, but instead he pulled Phil close to whisper in his ear, "Now we'll have matching scars. Isn't that nice?" His eyes glinted with painful irony.

 The Doña stood straight, and immediately everyone looked at her, waiting for her verdict. "The bullet's still in there. I'll have to take it out." She looked at Dan with sympathy. "It will hurt a lot. Usually I don't recommend this, but if you feel like you might pass out, do it. It'll make it hurt less."

 Dan tried to look calm. Phil pretended he didn’t see the wild flicker of fear in his eyes.  "Okay."

 Doña Gloria glanced over to the open doorway calling for someone. Another woman hurried out, with the same facial features as the Doña, but about thirty years younger. She went over to the other side of her mother, and held Dan’s legs down at the ankles. “You hold his legs down up there. He might kick, but just hold him in place.”

 Phil did as he was told, leaning over Dan and holding his legs down.

 Dan watched Phil as the woman got out a pair of long tweezers, wiping at the wound again with a towel. His smile was gone.

  Phil adjusted so he was leaning on Dan’s legs with one arm, and he reached out with his other arm, clasping onto his hand. His hand was clammy but he held tight. They stared at each other without words as she started.

 Phil could feel when she plunged the tweezers into the wound because Dan's breathing caught and he cut off the circulation in Phil's hand.

 Phil could feel the tears fall from his eyes, his lips quiver. Dan looked up at him with the same plain but determined expression. "Stop it," he commanded. Phil shook his head, unable to stop crying. "I said stop it. Stop crying."

 Phil's voice broke into a sob. "I can't." He shook his head, his vision blurry from tears. "I can't. I can't."

 Dan grabbed onto his arm with impossible strength, forcing him to stay still. "Listen here you little fucker, there's a woman digging around in my leg and it hurts like mother fucking shit, you hear me?" Dan's voice broke, and he coughed, clearing it. Then he continued, his voice a little higher than normal. "You can't cry. You're not allowed. Suck it up, look me in the eyes, and stop fucking crying, otherwise I'll have to bitch slap you in front of my parents, and neither of us wants that. But I'll do it, I'll fucking do it, you hear me? Hey, look at me."

 Phil wiped his eyes sloppily, trying to stop the tears. He managed to look down. Dan's eyes were glassy, but he wasn't crying. He wouldn't cry.

 Behind them, Phil could hear Dan's mother sob. He shook his head, sniffed, and willed himself to stand taller.

 Dan looked at him with such intensity Phil wanted to look away, but couldn't. "It doesn't hurt," Dan promised. "I don't even feel it."

  Dan winced hard,squeezing his eyes shut for a split second. "Aha!" The old woman announced, apparently having gotten ahold of the bullet.

 Dan didn't look away. He forced himself to relax again, digging his nails into Phil's hand. "I don't even feel it," he repeated, as if reminding himself. "I don't even feel it."

----

 After the bullet was removed the wound was wrapped up tight, and Dan was warned to wait a while before moving much.

 Then Phil was forced to step back, and Dan's parents stepped forwards.

 Dan's mother was upset because Dan was hurt. Dan's father was upset because Dan was hurt in the protests.

 Their overall message was clear: Dan was forbidden from protesting anymore.

 And Dan rained hell on them. Dan was always generally respectful of them, and he never raised his voice against them, but when they told him he couldn't protest Dan lost it.

 He spoke so fast his words blurred together, an angry tirade of accusations and insults and refusal.

 "You can't go!" Dan's father commanded, enraged. "With your big mouth, it's a wonder you haven't been killed! I refuse to let you leave and to have your mother open the door one day to find that her son is dead! I refuse to let you do this to us!"

 "This isn't about you!" Dan shook with fury, his voice ringing with disgust. "This isn't about you or mom or me or any of us! Don't you see? I'm fighting for Venezuela, and I will keep going and keep fighting until things are fixed, I don't care what you have to say-"

 Dan's father stepped forwards and raised his hand, but before he could do anything Phil had grabbed him, shoving him back. "Don't you dare," he fumed. "Go. Dan needs to heal, he shouldn't be getting his heart rate up. Just go."

 The older man pushed Phil away, but didn't go to hit Dan. Instead, he caught the eye of Doña Gloría, who had come back outside, no doubt from the yelling. She nodded to the door.

 "Fine," his father relented, though he still looked furious. "But don't you dare go to another protest."

 He turned, and left.

 Dan's chest heaved as he watched him leave. "I'm going to go. I don't care what he says, the bastard."

 His mom stepped forwards. "Dan, he's still your father."

 "It's still my country!" He retorted immediately. "And you may be fine not doing anything, but I-"

 "Dan," Phil chided, harshly. "You were just shot. Calm down, we can figure it out later."

 "There's nothing left to figure out, I'm still going to-"

 "Red," Phil announced, switching to English. "Red. Shut up."

 Dan's mouth dropped open, but he quickly closed it again. He put his hands under his head, looking up at the wooden panels that during the day would provide shade, but during the night just blocked his view of the stars. "Fine. I'm shutting up."

 "Good." Phil turned to the Doña, changing the subject back to Dan's injury. "What else does Daníel need to do?" He asked, switching back to Spanish.

 The woman shrugged. "He shouldn't walk on it for at least a few days, longer if possible. And Daníel, stay out of the protests for a week or two after that. No need agitating it. I don't want to see you under these conditions again."

 Dan grunted and agreed. Despite all his big talk, Phil suspected he might be in more pain than he was letting on. Protesting should be the last thing he wanted to do right now.

 Dan's brother appeared a little later with a backpack over his shoulder. The Doña took it into her house, and brought it back a minute later emptied. Phil didn't know what was inside- whether it be food, money, or medicine- but he suspected a bit of each. The Howell's didn't have enough of any of the three to pay with only one.

 A few guys came over and offered to help Dan get home. Phil helped too, taking Dan's right shoulder. Dan's brother wanted to help, but they told him it wasn't needed. That wasn't necessarily true, but one look at the scrawny, twig-like boy with his hollow eyes and pasty skin, and it was clear he would be little help. Dan had lost weight less drastically. It was in a way that when you were looking for it, the change was obvious. But it had been so gradual that Phil had hardly bothered to notice. But as they lifted him, he was uncomfortably light. Phil could feel the bone of his shoulder sticking out sharply against his chest.

 They brought him out front, where the guy supporting Dan's uninjured leg set his foot down, and rushed to get his motorbike.

 "I'm going to get a bike like that," Dan decided, his forehead becoming sticky from sweat.

 "You said that in English," Phil reminded.

 "Fuck you. Me voy a comprar una moto así."

 Dan was loaded onto the back of the bike, his left leg hanging limply off the edge as he tried his best not to move it. The guy went around and got on in front of Dan, letting him wrap his arms around his waist.

 "Wish we'd gotten you a pretty girl to grind on instead," one of the guys joked lightheartedly. Dan managed to send them a quick wink before the engine started, and they revved off.

 Phil walked to Dan's house, it only taking a few minutes longer. He wasn't sure how Dan had managed to get from the protests to la casa de Doña Maria, but he could assume it was due to help from more friends. Friends were vital in times like this.

 ----

 "Don't say anything," Dan begged, hanging his head. "Please. I can't take any more of it."

 Phil shuffled in, closing the door behind him carefully. "I wasn't going to say anything. Just wondering if there's anything I can do to take the pain away."

 Dan looked up at him desperately, eyes red. "Can you get me drunk? I need a distraction from the pain."

 "I can get you drunk," Phil agreed, slightly hesitantly. He climbed on the bed, sitting with his legs crossed and leaning back on his hands. "I can get you so tipsy off of lukewarm water that you won't even be able to walk. Just say the word."

 Dan snorted. "We can't even afford alcohol. What is the world coming to?"

 Phil winced. "Well... Martín actually got some rum last week. Expensive stuff too, not even Carupano. I have no idea where from."

 Dan furrowed his eyebrows. "How does he keep getting stuff? The cans, the rum, the extra money. What do you think he's doing?"

 Phil didn't want to talk about it. But if it was distracting Dan from the pain, then maybe he had to stretch his comfort zone a little bit. "Well," he ventured, crawling over to sit next to Dan, taking his hand and fiddling with his fingers absentmindedly, "I might have an idea. But I don't like it."

 "He's a bank robber," Dan suggested, feigning ignorance when in reality, he had a decent idea of what might be up. "Or he's actually Maduro, and he's only been pretending to be your brother. I bet if you sneak into his room while he's asleep, you could see him without his skin mask."

 Now it was Phil's turn to snort. He smiled absently, tucking Dan's fingers into a fist and then untucking them, turning his hand over to examine his palm. "Yeah. Maybe."

 Dan nudged him, prodding him to go on. "I think he's involved with gangs." Phil struggled to get the words out, pinching Dan's palm softly. "He never would have before but... it's how he can best support the family. I think he feels like he has to do it, you know? And... I'm not just saying this because of the rum. The other day, he snuck in and his shirt had a bunch of blood on it. But later that night, he was walking around shirtless and he was fine. I... I don't really want to think about it."

 Dan sniffled. He stretched his leg out a little more, moving it cautiously. "I'm sorry."

 He leant his head against Phil's shoulder. Here, alone, without anyone to watch them or anyone to impress, Dan was very small. Out on the streets he could be Confident Dan, the one with the loud voice and the proud stance, the one who fought and fought and got hurt and then fought some more. But here, with the only person he could trust fully, Dan was able to show his other side. He was two boys in one, and this boy was small and unsure. The confident boy wasn't gone, he'd just been tucked away until he was needed to fight again. Confidence is armor, and Dan had to wear it often.

——-

"I’m actually annoyed," Dan grumbled. "You could’ve gotten me rum. Fuck lukewarm water, you could have gotten me actual, honest rum and you didn’t."

 "Dan-" Phil started, but Dan cut him off again.

 "Don’t Dan me. That’s it. I’m done."

 "What are you-"

 "I’m done!" Dan threw his hands up dramatically, his eyes still fluttering around the block party, landing on each bottle and shot glass individually. He licked his lips slightly, as if trying to taste the liquor already. "We can’t be best friends anymore," he said quieter, paying less and less attention to their conversation as he realized his surrounding were far more interesting.

 Phil put his hands on his hips, still very focused on the conversation. He was wearing a light colored baseball hat with a green rim, even though it had long since fallen dark. It was tilted slightly lopsidedly. "Why not?"

 "Because I was bleeding out and you didn’t get me booze! Phil, I was in serious pain! What kind of friend-"

 "You were not bleeding out. By the time you got home, you were hardly even bleeding."

 "I was in pain," he argued indignantly. "The least you could do-"

 "Oh, shut up already."

 The block party was in celebration of something- a birthday maybe? Dan wasn’t really sure, and he didn’t really care.

 It was already dark when they got there, and already it was beginning to get crowded with neighbors and friends. Cheap fairy lights were strung up around the balconies and along the tables, illuminating the brightly colored clothes and faces already lit up with joy. They’d been having to manage for too long. It was about time they got a break.

 Daníel and Felipe made a beeline for the drinks table, quickly downing their cups as soon as they got them. It was Carta Roja, the cheapest rum you could find. It came in a big bottle with a red label and cap, hence the name, which translated roughly to 'Red Letter'. It tasted like the smell of gasoline, and Dan’s face crinkled up slightly as he downed it, but the effect felt almost immediate. Around him, the salsa music seemed to get louder, the lights a little out of focus. It was probably just the placebo effect, but frankly, he didn’t care.

 The went around, socializing and getting more drinks. Dan could feel himself sway slightly to the beat of the music, not drunk enough that he lost his rhythm but just intoxicating enough that he couldn’t feel the pain his leg from two weeks ago. Slowly, he had completely tuned out the words of everyone else, completely entranced by the music.

 Salsa music is unlike others. It has a lot of Afro-Cuban influence, from African slaves working on cotton plantations in the Cuban heat. The music was focused on a central beat, a tempo that didn’t change throughout the song. The music was a mixture of the sound of bongos and a rhythmic tapping, half a dozen instruments mixing together to make a beat that you couldn’t help but sway to. There’d be some string instruments added, maybe a horn of some kind, and singing. You didn’t listen to the words, just to voices. Love and passion and sadness and dance. They sang in Spanish, but they could have been singing about various types of cheese and Dan wouldn’t know.

 He realized that the others were staring at him. Phil, and Dalia, and a few other friends who were now looking at him with a look in between a smirk and a smile.

 But Dan didn’t care. "Dalia?"

 She took his outstretched hand immediately, and Dan lead them over to the improvised dance floor: the stretch of dark gray pavement only wide enough for the motorbikes that came up that way sometimes.

 They danced easily. Salsa dancing was the type that went 1, 2, 3, pause, 5, 6, 7, pause. Step forewords, up, step back, and wait for a fraction of a moment. Then your feet start going again, this time back, up, forewords, pause. Then forwards up back pause, forwards up back pause, step open and step and close and pause and open step close pause and spin. Dan was almost as light on his feet as Dalia was, and they moved easily, Dan's hand on her hip, her hand on his shoulder, and their other hands intertwined together and held up to the side. Back step forwards wait forwards step back pause.

 "Look," Dalia nodded over Dan’s shoulder. They turned in a half circle, so Dan was able to see. Phil had gotten a partner too, a girl from his university. What was her name? Andy? Andrea?

 Phil had lived in Venezuela all his life, yet he still danced like someone who’d never heard music before. In Salsa, the man is supposed to lead, starting by stepping forwards, and in turn the woman steps back, creating an even rhythm. Instead, Phil shuffled an inch forwards and another inch back, his eyes trained on his feet as he managed to ignore both the pause and the extra step. The baseball cap and the looking at his feet completely obscured his expression, but Dan could imagine the mix of panic and concentration. If that wasn’t impressive enough, he also managed to step on Andrea's feet every other step. "¡Perdón!" he apologized quickly, just loud enough for Dan to hear a few paces away.

 "He never learned how to dance?" Dalia asked, trying to suppress her smile.

 "Let’s say that," Dan agreed. He twirled her, and they fell right back into rhythm, Dalia stepping back with her right foot as Dan stepped forwards with his left. Dan hesitated, watching as Phil stepped on Andrea's foot again, and she winced. "Would you mind if I-"

 "Oh no, please. I don’t think I can stand to watch this anymore."

 They let go of each other, and Dan went over, tapping on Andrea's shoulder. "Can I steal him for a moment? It’s time someone taught him how to dance."

 Andrea looked incredibly relieved, handing Phil off to Dan without a second look. She and Dalia looked around, but everyone else either already had a partner or were doing something else. Shrugging, they started dancing with each other. Andrea seemed to like this significantly better.

 Meanwhile, Dan placed Phil’s hand on his own hip, and set his hand on Phil’s shoulders. Their other hands intertwined. Phil's hand was sweaty.

 "What are you-"

 "I’m saving you," Dan explained, a little cocky. "And saving Andrea. She didn’t come here to have her feet tap danced over."

 Phil looked a little red, but it was hard to tell with the hat shadowing his face. "Yeah, okay. Let’s-"

 "Slow down," Dan advised, his voice going softer. "Stand up straight. Arm up... yeah, like that. Now we’ll start..." Phil took a step back, and Dan quickly corrected him, pulling him back to the starting position. "You’re the man. You step forwards, like you’re walking through a door."

 "But we're both men."

 "Yes, I am aware. But for teaching purposes, I can be a lady."

 "Lady door."

 "Please never say that again."

 Soon they almost had a rhythm. Dan was still leading more than he should, and they were having to count under their breaths in order to keep with the beat of the music. By that point, they’d been dancing for a full two songs and had a decent amount of sweat going.

 "You’re getting it," Dan whispered lowly in English, so only Phil could hear him. "See? It’s not all that bad." Phil had managed the basic steps, but was still lacking the hip movement. As you step forwards and back, your hips are supposed to sway, which was what Dan was doing, but Phil was still stiff. "Relax. Move your hips, like I’m doing."

 Phil looked down. He was definitely blushing. "Like, erm... like this?"

 He swayed a little extra. "Kind of. A little more though, and just centered around your hips, not the rest of your body."

 Phil tried, and improved a little. He was a little off rhythm, so Dan sped them up a little, adjusting back in time with the tempo.

 "1, 2, 3, pause, 5, 6, 7, pause. 1, 2, 3..."

 "I think people are staring," Phil whispered.

 "It’s just dance lessons," Dan argued, catching his eyes. "I’m doing a service to society. It’s not," he lowered his voice, "gay."

 "I don’t know if I agree with that."

 Dan looked over his shoulder, noting how some of the others were dancing. A few people gave them the side eye, but Dan didn’t know if that was because they were both boys, or if it was just because of Phil’s questionable skill.

 "Spin me," he decided.

 "What?!" There was true panic in his voice, like Dan had just suggested he eat a cockroach or they hold hands in public. Actually... they were already doing that last one.

 "On the eighth beat. You spin me, then we keep stepping. Ready... 6, 7..." he spun, landing and stepping forwards, colliding into Phil’s chest. "Sorry! That was my fault, forgot I’m supposed to be a girl."

 "Bitch same." Andrea said a few paces away. Dan had forgotten she spoke English, but they’d been in the same class in Uni. So that’s how he knew her.

 They tried to fall back in a rhythm, but Phil was a little out of it. While the alcohol made Dan a more confident dancer, it seemed to have done the exact opposite to Phil.

 Dan moved a little closer to try and help Phil keep his balance. He could smell the rum on his breath.

 Dan stumbled slightly, and accidentally knocked the hat off of Phil’s head and onto the ground. "Sorry!" He let go, leaning down to pick it up.

 "Are you okay?"

 For a moment, the alcohol seemed to wear off, and the bullet wound in Dan’s leg made itself known. But Dan managed a smile. "Fine. Just tripped." He lifted the hat up, but instead of giving it back to Phil he turned it around and put it on his own head backwards. "There. Now I can see your face." He moved back into their previous position, letting Phil hold him maybe a little closer than appropriate. As they started doing the steps again, Phil's gaze immediately went down to his feet, trying to get it right. "Hey," Dan warned, his voice soft. "Look at me, 'kay?"

"So if I’m dancing with a girl I should just stare at her the whole time?"

 "Nah. Protip: You can look over their shoulder instead of straight at their faces. That way, it isn’t just three minutes of... um, what’s it called? Contacto visual sostenido."

 "Sustained eye contact," Phil answered.

 "Yeah, that."

 Slowly, their conversation died out, and they continued to dance without speaking. Dan, wearing Phil’s hat, and Phil, staring at Dan even though he’d learned the trick about the shoulders. And they just danced, swaying back and forth, sweaty hands clasped together and bodies moving back and forth under the fairy lights.

 And that’s the story of how Dan and Phil managed to dance together, literally wearing each other’s clothes and standing so close they could feel each other’s breath, swaying and twirling and holding each other under the fairy lights, and no one batted an eye.

———-

 Wuilly Arteaga was 23 years old, studying medicine in the central university. He played the violin in the protests, sometimes folk tunes, sometimes the national anthem.

 The national anthem, “Gloria al Bravo Pueblo”, was intended to be played with a full band, an orchestra, trumpets, the whole nine yards. “Gloria al Bravo Pueblo” means Glory to the Brave People, and the lyrics tell of bravery and justice. When it’s played with the full band, it’s a tune that reeks of triumph, victory, and honor.

 Wuilly Arteaga would stand tall, draped in the colors of the flag. His chin rested on his violin, arms poised with the type of familiarity that you could only get from years of practice. He marched in protest, playing the national anthem with a triumphant look in his eyes, though the rest of his face was washed in concentration, jaw set with determination. Perhaps he saw everything going on around him. But perhaps he only heard the music.

 The lyrics of the national anthem drifted in the minds of everyone who heard, despite the fact that no one sang along to his lonely playing. Translated to English, they went:

Glory to the brave people which shook off the yoke, the Law respecting virtue and honour.

 Without the rest of the band playing, the music sounded eerie and beautiful. A familiar tune warped by emotion, full of life and love and empty at the same time.

Down with the chains! Cried out the Lord; and the poor man in his hovel for freedom implored. Upon this holy name trembled in fear the vile selfishness that had once triumphed.

 The music was a reminder of what Venezuela was supposed to be. Arteaga walked through the protest, sometimes alone, playing the music and letting the lyrics drift through the air, unspoken. He didn’t throw rocks, didn’t torment the guardias, just played his music.

Let's cry out aloud: Down with oppression! Faithful countrymen, your strength lies in your unity; and from the heavens the supreme Creator breathed a sublime spirit into the nation.

 And he was assaulted with blasts from water cannons, attacks and brutality from police and soldiers. He set a precedent for peaceful protest and they opened fire on him. He was imprisoned for two weeks. He was banned from protesting. They took his violin and destroyed it in front of him.

United by bonds made by heaven, all America exists as a Nation; and if tyranny raises its voice, follow the example given by Caracas. 

——

They meandered around, eyes flickering to the tv every few seconds as they waited for Tibisay Lucena, the president of the National Electoral Council, to make an appearance. It wasn’t mandatory viewing, but most people watched it anyways. Announcements like this were always released late at night, as if they were hoping that no one would stay up to watch it. This announcement in particular was a big one; they were announcing the fate of Venezuela.

 They were at Dan's house. His parents and younger brother were there too, and Martín. Phil’s whole family had been invited over, but his parents had decided they’d prefer not to make an event of the news.

 It was almost like a party. There was a tablecloth on the small coffee table, and fresh flowers in a vase. They drank peach Nestea that Martín had brought over. Phil sipped it, like he’d sip expensive liquor, or poison. It tasted like sunny afternoons sitting on the balcony and working up the nerve to kiss his boyfriend behind closed doors. It was bitterly sweet, sweeter than he remembered, sweeter than he would have liked.

Voting had just finished up. The voting decided whether the constitution would be rewritten in favor of a new government, a Constituent Assembly, in which the government took every corner of the country that they didn’t have control over, and seized it. Including the citizens, the citizens homes and property, the citizens bank accounts, etc. It also gave the government access to filtering the country’s internet access, or just to remove citizen access altogether. 'Constituent Assembly' was code for 'Dictatorship'.

 And it could happen. It all depended on the votes. Which, in a country that seldom experienced an election without voter fraud, was an issue.

 All conversation stopped in perfect unison as Tibisay Lucena came on camera, sitting behind a pedestal. Her wire rimmed glasses were pushed halfway up her nose, her hair grayer than it had been last time, her scowl tighter. Her words came out distorted and nasally, and she spoke in a voice that Dan had always mocked when he was a kid.

 She spoke of the things that had happened in the past few years, but they tasted a little sweeter coming from her mouth than they did in the living room. She didn’t mention the mistakes the government had made that resulted in their current situation, nor did she mention the huge protests who had been fighting in opposition to the new policies. She spoke dismissively of issues that had hardly touched her. Because she was sitting on her fancy chair, behind her fancy watch, and you could bet money that in the past few years of massive food shortages, she’d gained weight, not lost it.

 As she continued her speech, the truth began to wash over them like a sedative. It crawled up Phil's toes, icy fingers brushing past the scar from where the bullet scraped his thigh. It traveled up his body slowly, cold tendrils wrapping around his chest and daring him to breath.

  ...and with 8 million votes, the Constituent National Assembly will proceed...

 8 million votes, the exact number needed for it to be passed. It was too convenient.

She was still talking. But no one listened. When she finished speaking, there was a smattering of polite applause. In the small house on the side of the hill, they did not cheer. They just sat, eyes wide and faces pale.

 Everything they’d fought against… gone. A rigged vote had just determined their future. And they’d thought it was bad before.

  This is why they were protesting. This is why they were protesting. For the future of Venezuela, one that wasn’t a dictatorship. No, not a dictatorship per day, a communist society. It was the worst case scenario, and it had happened.

Someone turned off the tv. Or maybe it was a power cut. Or maybe it was all in Phil’s head, or maybe it was a bad dream, or maybe the Nestea was laced with drugs and all of this was a lie.

 They sat in silence. One minute, two minutes, twelve hours, thirty seconds.

 Without a word, Dan stood and left.

----

 Daníel Howell was loud.

 Daníel Howell was excited.

 Daníel Howell was a fighter.

 He was angry.

 He was happy.

 He was a storyteller.

 He was closeted.

 He was in love.

 And he was full of life.

 He was fun, and humorous, and ridiculous, and made bad innuendos and liked speaking in English because it made him feel like he had secrets to share. He marched the streets of Caracas with his shield held high and his chin held higher, chanting and screaming and calling injustice by name.

 He tied bandages too tight and got angry when Phil put himself in danger.

 He ate chocolate like it was the last thing he'd ever taste.

 And he laughed like he'd never laugh again.

 That was who Dan was. That was who Dan is- not the boy sitting on the roof, looking out at the city below him like he was looking into the depths of the ocean. There was no life left, just eye bags and slouched shoulders and brown eyes that saw nothing at all.

 Phil walked over, sitting next to him. Dan didn't move. His chest rose and fell slowly, like his lungs were working without his permission. Lights from the city reflected in his glassy eyes.

 Phil coughed quietly, and for the first time Dan realized he was no longer alone. His legs pulled close to his chest twitched, and he looked down and away, closing his eyes.

 Somewhere below them, someone was crying. Phil didn't know who it was, or if it was just one person. He didn't know if he cared anymore.

 Neither of them spoke.

 What happens now?

 Will we be okay?

 There were questions they wanted to ask, but that they didn't want the answers to. So they stayed silent.

 Phil got more comfortable on the rooftop, bending his knees to his chest. In the moonlight, Dan had lost all color. Closed eyes, gray skin, unmoving. He was skin and bones and warm breath and not much else.

 In the distance, someone was calling out orders in Spanish. Phil couldn't hear the words, only the gruffness of them, the anger in them. Not a guardia; it was a protester.

 People joined in, screaming and cheering different words that all morphed into the same meaning. We will not be silenced.

 A fire rose into the sky, cheering filling the streets.

  We will not be quiet.

  We will not be obedient.

  We will not be silenced.

 Next to Phil, Dan started sobbing. Eyes closed, silent sobs that made his whole body shake miserably. Phil worried he was too close to the edge.

  We will not be starved.

  We will not take it.

  We won't stop fighting.

  We will not be silenced.

 "Do you hear us, Maduro?" Someone screamed. "We're coming for you!"

 People cheered. Weapons were hoisted into the air, guns and wooden planks and bats and fire and stones and metal water bottles and dinner knives.

 The fire crackled loudly. Dan's cheeks were wet with tears. He didn't open his eyes. Phil wanted to close his eyes. He didn't want to see this. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see this. He wanted to close his eyes. He couldn't be here. He didn't close his eyes.

 More chanting. More screaming. Accusations. Tires screeching.

 "Oh Phil," Dan muttered, not looking at him. "What are we going to do?"

 Phil scooted over to Dan, his entire body trembling. Dan opened his eyes, watching him. I love you.

  I'm scared.

 Dan opened his arms, hugging him, pulling him closer. Phil's entire body shook, and so did Dan's, and so did the building and so did the earth. The entire world shook. Their entire world shook.

 "I don't know," Phil whispered, so quietly only Dan could hear.

  What's going to happen?

  What are we going to do?

 "I don't know."

  What now?

  What now?

 Phil sobbed into Dan's shoulder. "I don't know."

 And the sound of gunshots tore through the night.

Please let me know if you enjoyed it! In case you didn’t read the note at the beginning, this story was written as part of the Phandom Reverse Bang, with Artist @trashofdoom and Beta @axolotlpj. Check out the art here!

Fic Masterlist / Request A Fic 

The Other Story I Wrote For The Phandom Reverse Bang 

[easyfoodnetwork]

White Lily Flour Has Long Held a Near-Mythological Status in the South. Now It’s Everywhere.

Dannie Sue Balakas/Instagram

While other flour companies have faced pandemic-related shortages, the Southern staple has been quietly filling the void at grocery stores around the country

As many home-bound Americans began baking to feed and distract themselves from the coronavirus pandemic, Schanon Odell of Crown Pacific Fine Foods was making frantic phone calls to every flour mill in the country. Odell’s job at the Seattle-area specialty food distributor includes helping her grocery store clients keep flour in stock, and so she resolved to find anyone that might have it. One day in late March, she spent 10 straight hours calling and calling, only to get the same answer from everyone who picked up: all sold out.

But there was one exception: As she searched the internet for flour mills, “White Lily kept coming up,” Odell says. She was only vaguely aware of the special place that the flour occupies in the canon of Southern baking, but as she worked her way through the company’s phone tree, she focused less on what White Lily was and more on securing 4,000 cases of flour — about 160,000 pounds — to distribute to stores around the Pacific Northwest, like Zupan’s in Portland, Oregon, Kroger’s QFC stores, and independent shops like Red Apple Market on Seattle’s Beacon Hill.

The shipment of White Lily arrived at Red Apple Market just in time for Jill Lightner’s husband to replenish the flour stash that Lightner, a food writer, was quickly stress-baking her way through. “I had just been putting ‘buy more flour’ on the shopping list every time he went,” she says. When her husband returned with a bag of White Lily, announcing, “This is all they had,” Lightner, who had gone to high school in rural Virginia, knew what she had lucked into. “Why didn’t you buy 50 bags?” she asked.

The same scene played out from Iowa to San Jose, as White Lily flour appeared mysteriously on shelves far from its usual Southern distribution area. Bakers familiar with the product went to stores braced to find bottom-of-the-barrel flour, only to come upon the brand they had often wished they could get locally. From outposts in the North, Midwest, and West, they posted gleefully on social media. “When you find the flour, you make the biscuits,” said a baker in Wisconsin. In Brooklyn, a shopper wondered, “What is this magic happening with the flour supply chain?”

White Lily declined to comment on the expanded distribution to Eater, but David Ortega, an associate professor in the department of agriculture, food and resource economics at Michigan State University, points out that some of the recent flour distribution quirks can be tied to the significant loss of major wholesale customers like food service and bakeries, combined with high demand at the retail level. “One of the major obstacles to this switch was packaging,” he says over email — which means that any flour company that had recently stocked up on retail-size bags found itself best prepared to meet demand.

“Flour processing is much more mechanized (relative to say meat processing plants), so it hasn’t been affected by processing disruption to the extent that other sectors have,” Ortega adds. “My guess is that While Lily and other companies expanded their markets out of necessity (loss in food industry customers) and, to an extent, opportunity (surge in demand in supermarkets).”

Whatever the reason, it made many home bakers happy. Known for its soft, light texture, White Lily flour has long held a near-mythological status in the South as the secret to the perfect biscuit, much in the same way that New Yorkers believe that the city’s water is the secret to the perfect bagel. In The Gift of Southern Cooking, the renowned champion of the region’s foodways, Edna Lewis, named it as an essential ingredient to great biscuits. On her blog, Southern Souffle, the recipe developer, food writer, and biscuit-pop-up chef Erika Council echoed Lewis’s sentiment, writing that White Lily killed the “hard as a rock” and “difficult to make” biscuit myths.

And yet, despite the ostensible transportability of a bag of flour, finding White Lily outside of the Southeastern United States is normally only nominally easier than getting New York City tap water in Arizona. The only other time Lightner remembers seeing it for sale in Seattle was years ago, when she found a “daintily sized” bag at a Williams-Sonoma holiday pop-up for a premium price. She bought it anyway. When Atlantic writer Amanda Mull, who was born in Georgia, wrote about the brand in 2018, she reported that she couldn’t find any retailers who carried it north of Richmond, Virginia, or west of Oklahoma (though Surfas in Los Angeles does occasionally). You can find it on Amazon, though it’s sold there at about 500 percent of grocery store cost.

The legend of White Lily began in 1883, when it was founded in Knoxville, Tennessee. Its flour’s ethereal nature is partially attributable to the fact that it is milled from soft red winter wheat, which results in a flour with only 9 percent protein — significantly lower than King Arthur’s 11.7 percent or Gold Medal’s 10.5 percent. A flour’s protein content is important because it corresponds directly with how much gluten forms when the flour comes into contact with a liquid. For a strong loaf with structure and chewiness, bakers look for a high-protein flour, like bread flour, which has up to 13 percent protein. But for biscuits, lower protein content, and thus lower gluten, keeps them from becoming too dense.

But plenty of flours have lower protein levels: Pastry flour contains around 9 percent, and cake flour between 7 and 9 percent. White Lily’s true secret, according to a 2008 New York Times story, lies in its milling and bleaching processes. Its all-purpose flour is milled only from the heart of the wheat’s endosperm, the purest part, and is more finely milled and sifted than other flours — its packaging even boasts that it’s “Pre-Sifted.” Unlike many all-purpose flours, it is also bleached with chlorine, which weakens the flour’s proteins. The result is so light that the White Lily website warns that when measuring by volume, rather than weight, two extra tablespoons per cup of flour are required in standard recipes.

“I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits.”

When the J.M. Smucker Co. bought White Lily in 2007, it closed the company’s Knoxville mill and moved production to the Midwest, much to the dismay of many of the flour’s fans. White Lily had previously gone through more than a half-dozen corporate owners, including national names like Tyson Foods and Archer Daniels Midland. In 2018, Smucker sold it yet again, this time to Hometown Food Company, the parent company of Pillsbury. But despite how often it has changed hands, White Lily has managed to remain quintessentially Southern enough that Lightner compares it to a souvenir: “If I am near a Winn-Dixie or a Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to buy it and bring it back,” she says, “along with a suitcase full of grits.”

For her part, Odell, the specialty food distributor, is surprised to see how well the flour has resonated with retailers outside of the South. “Every day, people are ordering,” she says. “I think people are recognizing it and want to purchase it.”

Dannie Sue Balakas is one them. Born in Tennessee and currently living in West Michigan, she was thrilled when White Lily showed up at her local Meijer, and started buying a bag every time she shopped there. Because shoppers are still limited to one bag per person, she rations it accordingly. “I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits,” she says, describing those biscuits as “super fluffy and the best I’ve ever had.”

Fear of running out is a legitimate concern: Shelves in the South were also emptied of flour, and while Odell says her supply has been mostly consistent, it hasn’t been seamless. For Dean Hasegawa, the general manager of the Red Apple where Lightner bought her White Lily, the store’s White Lily purchase was a one-time deal so that Hasegawa could cover the flour shortage — and even with it, he still had to re-bag and price out 50-pound food-service bags of other flours into retail sizes. “It’s not something I will normally stock,” he says, and while he heard some excitement over it, he believes that most of his customers were simply happy to see flour.

Still, the customer enthusiasm inspires Odell. Her local QFC stores talked about wanting to keep White Lily on their shelves even as flour stocks normalize, but the Cincinnati-based buyer from Kroger, which owns QFC, insisted that people in the Northwest wouldn’t buy Southern flour. “I’d like to keep it if I can,” says Odell, but first she needs to prove that people care about White Lily and not just flour in general. “Maybe when the dust settles, I’ll be able to tell if it’s a viable product,” she says.

But for true biscuit fanatics, White Lily’s all-purpose flour isn’t even the true prize: In West Michigan, Balakas has “been praying” that stores will start stocking its coveted self-rising flour. But even if they don’t, you can mail order it from Walmart (with free shipping, if you order enough else) or, per White Lily’s website, simply add 1½ teaspoons of baking powder and ½ teaspoon of salt to each cup of the all-purpose flour. While they may be effective, though, neither of those methods have the same magic as wandering the baking aisle expecting nothing and coming upon a treasure — and, in, the process recapturing a tiny fragment of the joy that grocery shopping once held.

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Dannie Sue Balakas/Instagram

While other flour companies have faced pandemic-related shortages, the Southern staple has been quietly filling the void at grocery stores around the country

As many home-bound Americans began baking to feed and distract themselves from the coronavirus pandemic, Schanon Odell of Crown Pacific Fine Foods was making frantic phone calls to every flour mill in the country. Odell’s job at the Seattle-area specialty food distributor includes helping her grocery store clients keep flour in stock, and so she resolved to find anyone that might have it. One day in late March, she spent 10 straight hours calling and calling, only to get the same answer from everyone who picked up: all sold out.

But there was one exception: As she searched the internet for flour mills, “White Lily kept coming up,” Odell says. She was only vaguely aware of the special place that the flour occupies in the canon of Southern baking, but as she worked her way through the company’s phone tree, she focused less on what White Lily was and more on securing 4,000 cases of flour — about 160,000 pounds — to distribute to stores around the Pacific Northwest, like Zupan’s in Portland, Oregon, Kroger’s QFC stores, and independent shops like Red Apple Market on Seattle’s Beacon Hill.

The shipment of White Lily arrived at Red Apple Market just in time for Jill Lightner’s husband to replenish the flour stash that Lightner, a food writer, was quickly stress-baking her way through. “I had just been putting ‘buy more flour’ on the shopping list every time he went,” she says. When her husband returned with a bag of White Lily, announcing, “This is all they had,” Lightner, who had gone to high school in rural Virginia, knew what she had lucked into. “Why didn’t you buy 50 bags?” she asked.

The same scene played out from Iowa to San Jose, as White Lily flour appeared mysteriously on shelves far from its usual Southern distribution area. Bakers familiar with the product went to stores braced to find bottom-of-the-barrel flour, only to come upon the brand they had often wished they could get locally. From outposts in the North, Midwest, and West, they posted gleefully on social media. “When you find the flour, you make the biscuits,” said a baker in Wisconsin. In Brooklyn, a shopper wondered, “What is this magic happening with the flour supply chain?”

White Lily declined to comment on the expanded distribution to Eater, but David Ortega, an associate professor in the department of agriculture, food and resource economics at Michigan State University, points out that some of the recent flour distribution quirks can be tied to the significant loss of major wholesale customers like food service and bakeries, combined with high demand at the retail level. “One of the major obstacles to this switch was packaging,” he says over email — which means that any flour company that had recently stocked up on retail-size bags found itself best prepared to meet demand.

“Flour processing is much more mechanized (relative to say meat processing plants), so it hasn’t been affected by processing disruption to the extent that other sectors have,” Ortega adds. “My guess is that While Lily and other companies expanded their markets out of necessity (loss in food industry customers) and, to an extent, opportunity (surge in demand in supermarkets).”

Whatever the reason, it made many home bakers happy. Known for its soft, light texture, White Lily flour has long held a near-mythological status in the South as the secret to the perfect biscuit, much in the same way that New Yorkers believe that the city’s water is the secret to the perfect bagel. In The Gift of Southern Cooking, the renowned champion of the region’s foodways, Edna Lewis, named it as an essential ingredient to great biscuits. On her blog, Southern Souffle, the recipe developer, food writer, and biscuit-pop-up chef Erika Council echoed Lewis’s sentiment, writing that White Lily killed the “hard as a rock” and “difficult to make” biscuit myths.

And yet, despite the ostensible transportability of a bag of flour, finding White Lily outside of the Southeastern United States is normally only nominally easier than getting New York City tap water in Arizona. The only other time Lightner remembers seeing it for sale in Seattle was years ago, when she found a “daintily sized” bag at a Williams-Sonoma holiday pop-up for a premium price. She bought it anyway. When Atlantic writer Amanda Mull, who was born in Georgia, wrote about the brand in 2018, she reported that she couldn’t find any retailers who carried it north of Richmond, Virginia, or west of Oklahoma (though Surfas in Los Angeles does occasionally). You can find it on Amazon, though it’s sold there at about 500 percent of grocery store cost.

The legend of White Lily began in 1883, when it was founded in Knoxville, Tennessee. Its flour’s ethereal nature is partially attributable to the fact that it is milled from soft red winter wheat, which results in a flour with only 9 percent protein — significantly lower than King Arthur’s 11.7 percent or Gold Medal’s 10.5 percent. A flour’s protein content is important because it corresponds directly with how much gluten forms when the flour comes into contact with a liquid. For a strong loaf with structure and chewiness, bakers look for a high-protein flour, like bread flour, which has up to 13 percent protein. But for biscuits, lower protein content, and thus lower gluten, keeps them from becoming too dense.

But plenty of flours have lower protein levels: Pastry flour contains around 9 percent, and cake flour between 7 and 9 percent. White Lily’s true secret, according to a 2008 New York Times story, lies in its milling and bleaching processes. Its all-purpose flour is milled only from the heart of the wheat’s endosperm, the purest part, and is more finely milled and sifted than other flours — its packaging even boasts that it’s “Pre-Sifted.” Unlike many all-purpose flours, it is also bleached with chlorine, which weakens the flour’s proteins. The result is so light that the White Lily website warns that when measuring by volume, rather than weight, two extra tablespoons per cup of flour are required in standard recipes.

“I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits.”

When the J.M. Smucker Co. bought White Lily in 2007, it closed the company’s Knoxville mill and moved production to the Midwest, much to the dismay of many of the flour’s fans. White Lily had previously gone through more than a half-dozen corporate owners, including national names like Tyson Foods and Archer Daniels Midland. In 2018, Smucker sold it yet again, this time to Hometown Food Company, the parent company of Pillsbury. But despite how often it has changed hands, White Lily has managed to remain quintessentially Southern enough that Lightner compares it to a souvenir: “If I am near a Winn-Dixie or a Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to buy it and bring it back,” she says, “along with a suitcase full of grits.”

For her part, Odell, the specialty food distributor, is surprised to see how well the flour has resonated with retailers outside of the South. “Every day, people are ordering,” she says. “I think people are recognizing it and want to purchase it.”

Dannie Sue Balakas is one them. Born in Tennessee and currently living in West Michigan, she was thrilled when White Lily showed up at her local Meijer, and started buying a bag every time she shopped there. Because shoppers are still limited to one bag per person, she rations it accordingly. “I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits,” she says, describing those biscuits as “super fluffy and the best I’ve ever had.”

Fear of running out is a legitimate concern: Shelves in the South were also emptied of flour, and while Odell says her supply has been mostly consistent, it hasn’t been seamless. For Dean Hasegawa, the general manager of the Red Apple where Lightner bought her White Lily, the store’s White Lily purchase was a one-time deal so that Hasegawa could cover the flour shortage — and even with it, he still had to re-bag and price out 50-pound food-service bags of other flours into retail sizes. “It’s not something I will normally stock,” he says, and while he heard some excitement over it, he believes that most of his customers were simply happy to see flour.

Still, the customer enthusiasm inspires Odell. Her local QFC stores talked about wanting to keep White Lily on their shelves even as flour stocks normalize, but the Cincinnati-based buyer from Kroger, which owns QFC, insisted that people in the Northwest wouldn’t buy Southern flour. “I’d like to keep it if I can,” says Odell, but first she needs to prove that people care about White Lily and not just flour in general. “Maybe when the dust settles, I’ll be able to tell if it’s a viable product,” she says.

But for true biscuit fanatics, White Lily’s all-purpose flour isn’t even the true prize: In West Michigan, Balakas has “been praying” that stores will start stocking its coveted self-rising flour. But even if they don’t, you can mail order it from Walmart (with free shipping, if you order enough else) or, per White Lily’s website, simply add 1½ teaspoons of baking powder and ½ teaspoon of salt to each cup of the all-purpose flour. While they may be effective, though, neither of those methods have the same magic as wandering the baking aisle expecting nothing and coming upon a treasure — and, in, the process recapturing a tiny fragment of the joy that grocery shopping once held.

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[dailykhaleej]

Why oil crashed and what happened on manic Monday

An unsure future beckons refiners within the US and elsewhere as shares pile up amidst near-zero demand. Picture Credit score: AFP

New York: The day began like another gloomy Monday within the oil market’s worst disaster in a technology.

It ended with costs falling beneath zero, thrusting markets right into a parallel universe the place merchants had been prepared to pay $40 a barrel simply to get anyone to take crude off their palms.

The transfer was so violent and surprising that many merchants struggled to clarify it. They grasped wildly at doable causes all day lengthy – had some huge agency bought caught wrong-footed? Or had been inexperienced retail traders flummoxed by a market quirk? – however had no tangible proof of something to level to.

West Texas Intermediate futures have been the benchmark for America’s oil business for many years, seeing the market by way of booms, busts, wars and monetary crises, however no single occasion holds a candle to this. By the tip of buying and selling, the contract had slumped from $17.85 a barrel to minus $37.63.

“Today was a devastating day for the global oil industry,” mentioned Doug King, a hedge fund investor who co-founded the Service provider Commodity Fund. “US storage is full or committed and some unfortunate market participants were carried out.”

In a world of its personal

In a technique, the unfavorable plunge was simply an excessive glitch as merchants ready for the expiry of the contract for supply in Might. Elsewhere, the market proceeded as regular – Brent futures, the benchmark for Europe in London, ended the day down sharply, however nonetheless above $25 a barrel. WTI for June supply modified palms at $20 a barrel.

However the unfavorable costs additionally revealed a elementary reality in regards to the oil market within the age of coronavirus: The world’s most necessary commodity is rapidly shedding all worth as continual oversupply overwhelms the world’s crude tanks, pipelines and supertankers. Finally, merchants had been left determined to keep away from having to take supply of precise oil as a result of no one wants it and there are fewer and fewer locations to place it.

Storage terminals like this one in Russia are stuffed to the brim with undesirable oil. Actually, US refiners are taking in crude provided that they’re being paid upfront.

Want for deal to work

Regardless of the OPEC+ deal to chop 10 per cent of worldwide manufacturing, the oil market’s disaster is worsening. The rout will ship a deflationary wave by way of the worldwide economic system, complicating the duty dealing with central banks making an attempt to maintain economies afloat because the pandemic continues to paralyze enterprise and journey worldwide.

The worth collapse might redraw the worldwide map of energy as petro-states like Russia and Saudi Arabia, which loved a resurgence over the past 20 years because of an oil windfall, see their affect diminished. Exxon Mobil Corp., Royal Dutch Shell Plc and different oil giants are ripping up enterprise plans, determined to protect money.

What is the WTI?

WTI is the world’s most traded monetary oil contract, a benchmark adopted from Zurich to New York to Tokyo. However when every month a futures contract nears expiry and merchants roll their positions into further-out contracts, the actual, bodily world of WTI turns into very small – centered on Cushing, an oil city in Oklahoma the place an enormous hub of pipelines and storage tanks serves because the precise supply level for barrels.

Up to now three weeks, crude has been flowing into Cushing at a breakneck pace, averaging 745,000 barrels a day and taking in additional oil than a medium-sized European nation like Belgium consumes. At that fee, the tanks there will probably be full earlier than the tip of Might, one thing that has by no means happened earlier than.

What occurs when an ETF modified its thoughts

The times earlier than expiry are sometimes unstable as merchants make the shift from a paper to a bodily market. Till a couple of days in the past, the Might contract had been supported by large monetary flows by retail and institutional traders pouring cash into oil by way of exchange-traded funds (ETF).

The most important crude ETF, referred to as the US Oil Fund, acquired billions of {dollars} in contemporary funds in latest weeks, accumulating a fifth of all of the excellent contracts within the Might futures contract. However final week, it rolled its place into the June contract, and evaporated from Might. With out the fund, the contract was deserted to the the forces of bodily provide and demand.

Because the market opened early in Asia’s Monday morning, the Might contract traded at $17.85. As New York merchants had been firing up workstations of their makeshift dwelling workplaces, it was beneath $15.

Then costs actually began to slip, making historical past all the way in which down. By 8am New York time, the decline had reached 37 per cent, the largest intra-day drop because the futures began buying and selling in 1982. At round 11am, it handed the low of $10.35 set within the oil bust of 1998. About an hour later, it took out $10 a barrel.

A US refinery in California… These are dire occasions for US oil business as extra provide brings oil futures come crashing down into unfavorable territory. Picture Credit score: AFP

Nobody was shopping for

When CME Group Inc., which runs the change the place WTI futures commerce, mentioned costs could be allowed to go unfavorable, the promoting accelerated. By 1:50pm, the contract was beneath $1 a barrel. Lower than 20 minutes later, costs went beneath zero for the primary time and simply stored falling.

“No bids. Mental!,” mentioned one dealer at a prime service provider in a useless try to clarify the collapse as costs went unfavorable.

“No bids; not a single bid,” mentioned one other one in London.

“Ridiculous,” mentioned a 3rd senior dealer in Geneva.

Retail merchants had been seemingly sitting on lengthy positions coming into the week and had been pressured to liquidate them, which might be in keeping with the sell-off accelerating within the 30 minutes forward of Monday’s shut, Goldman Sachs analysts together with Damien Courvalin theorized.

The contract settled at minus $37.63, a drop of $55.90. And there’s nonetheless one other day of buying and selling to return earlier than it lastly expires.

“The May crude oil contract is going out not with a whimper, but a primal scream,” mentioned Daniel Yergin, a Pulitzer Prize-winning oil historian and vice chairman of the analysis and info firm IHS Markit Ltd.

Even discounting the oddity of the Might contract’s plunge into unfavorable costs, the world of bodily oil suggests widespread ache.

Pay upfront

Many refineries and pipeline corporations instructed producers on Monday that they’d solely take their oil in the event that they had been paid. The every day value bulletin from Enterprise Merchandise Companions LP, one in every of America’s largest pipeline corporations, confirmed unfavorable costs for the entire crude it buys. One other big, Plains All American Pipeline LP, instructed producers the identical.

Impolite get up name

Bob McNally, a marketing consultant and oil historian, mentioned the vitality market was getting “reacquainted with how the price mechanism for oil works” – and why “for most of oil history, the industry and governments strive to stabilize prices through supply control, be it a tolerated cartel, government regulation, or both.”

The OPEC+ coalition of oil producing nations has did not cease the rout. Saudi Arabia, Russia and different producers introduced every week in the past an historic deal to chop international manufacturing by practically a tenth, or 9.7 million barrels a day, from Might. The US, Canada, Brazil and others have mentioned their very own manufacturing can also be falling as corporations cease drilling new wells.

For Trump, who personally brokered the OPEC+ deal, unfavorable costs means extra bother within the U.S. oil patch. Strain is constructing throughout the Republican social gathering to make use of commerce limitations to save lots of the shale business, together with putting tariffs on international oil.

Trump responded to the unfavorable costs at a White Home press convention Monday with plans to fill the spare area within the Strategic Petroleum Reserve and by saying he would look right into a proposal to cease shipments of Saudi Arabian oil which can be at the moment en path to the US.

However he shrugged off the bigger affect, calling it “largely a financial squeeze” that might be that might be over within the “very short term”.

However the market – unfavorable costs and all – isn’t ready for OPEC to chop manufacturing, or for tariffs to sluggish imports. Slightly than being an remoted occasion, Monday’s unprecedented oil market plunge serves as a warning of extra ache to return.

“If global storage worsens more quickly,” veteran Citigroup oil analyst Ed Morse mentioned, “Brent could chase WTI down to the bottom.”

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[sciencespies]

Hunting Plc Is Not In A Race To The Bottom, Says Oilfield Services Firm's CEO

https://sciencespies.com/news/hunting-plc-is-not-in-a-race-to-the-bottom-says-oilfield-services-firms-ceo/

Hunting Plc Is Not In A Race To The Bottom, Says Oilfield Services Firm's CEO

The oil market is witnessing fairly predictable price oscillations between a $50 per barrel floor and $70 ceiling, with sector bosses upping their efficiencies and optimizing their exploration and production (E&P) drives. Many are demanding more of partner oilfield services (OFS) firms where margins are said to be under pressure, but it’s “not a race to the bottom”, at least for his company says one industry stalwart.

Meet Jim Johnson, Chief Executive Officer of Hunting Plc (LON:HTG), an OFS firm that’s in London’s FTSE 250 index. Giving an exclusive Forbes interview fresh off a set of solid half-yearly financials, Johnson says margin pressure in a challenging operating climate does not equate to scraping the barrel.

Hunting most certainly appears not to be. In August, it reported a first-half 2019 revenue of $508.9 million (up 15% on an annualized basis), with underlying earnings before interest, tax, depreciation and amortization (EBITDA) up 6.2% to $77.4 million, and a reported profit from operations of $41.1 million.

Jim Johnson, CEO of Hunting Plc, says margin pressure in a challenging operating climate does not equate to scraping the barrel.

Daniel Jones, 2019

The company acknowledged it made price reductions on certain product lines to respond to the market environment, but Johnson says his “team’s effort in delivering the results and product diversity” illustrate how Hunting stayed competitive.

“Everybody is so focused on unconventional hydrocarbon extraction in terms of bagging OFS business, but Hunting is not a one tricky pony. The industry can aim for much more than just that, especially offshore deepwater plays. While unconventional is facing some clouds on the horizon, international and Gulf of Mexico deepwater plays are coming back.”

Managing a cyclical business

Cycles make margin management trickier but Johnson always keeps a strict eye on them. “That’s because people often do dumb things when they get desperate seeing sales volumes fall off during cycles. We believe in getting paid for what’s fair in terms of what we do for the customer. Operating climate might be tight, but we bring a certain quality, level of service and assurance to the table – so there’s a price below which we will not go just to get some desperate slice of the business.”

Any slowdown in Hunting’s mature Western businesses often gets “balanced out” by its expansion in the East, particularly in Middle East and Southeast Asia, and it all once bottled down to holding firm during 2015-16 downturn.

“We take a long-term view of our business but the downturn in 2015-16 really tested our resolve. Relationships between vendor and customers deteriorated to levels I have not seen before, despite having been in the industry for over 30 years. But we did not reduce our sales or engineering headcount, fully knowing we are in a cyclical business.”

So when the price climate improved and the oil price returned above $50 per barrel, sparking a revival of E&P projects, Hunting was in a prime position to market and sell its OFS products suite quicker to prospective clients. Its portfolio of perforated gun systems offers a case in point.

To the uninitiated, perforating guns carry explosive shaped charges down-hole, where they are subsequently detonated to create tunnels that act as conduits through which hydrocarbons flow up from the reservoir into the well-bore and up to the surface.

“While the downturn was in full swing, we were working on our patented Titan H-1 Perforating Gun system, readying it for sales and marketing. When the economic headwinds subsided, we went about selling it aggressively a mere 18 months ago to bag what I view as a commanding market-leading share for an independent OFS firm offering such a product.”

Hunting Plc’s three business segments, i.e. well construction, well completion and well intervention, are on a “firm footing,” says Johnson. 

Daniel Jones, 2019

Hunting’s headline business remains solid and Johnson says the market share for the Titan product stream will remain broadly same over the next few fiscal years. “Nature of competition has not changed. We work hard to maintain that number one position in the independent perforating gun side of the business.”

Overall, its three business segments, i.e. well construction, well completion and well intervention, are on a “firm footing.”

So confident is the company of immediate prospects that it has upped its dividend by a token 1 cent (or shall we 25%) to 5 cents, leading some in the market to view Hunting as an income stock again, in just a matter of years after it eliminated the dividend during the industry downturn. But what does the CEO think?

“I leave that kind of chatter to external commentators. We haven’t come out with a progressive dividend policy but our goal is, and will remain, to increase it. The Hunting family (which owns close to 16% of the business) and large shareholders have been very supportive of our long-term objectives.”

Not going backwards

Johnson says Hunting – which has a colorful history of being involved in a plethora of sectors from defense to airlines since its founding by Charles Hunting in 1874 – is not going backwards and will play to its core strengths.

The first wave of transformation came at the end of the Cold War. “Prior to that was the age of conglomerates. The world changed and so did we. Our bet on the future was energy as the big macroeconomic trend, and it was a good move.”

The modern era transformation came 10 years ago when Hunting grasped energy sector trends further. “Our initial OFS business foothold was in Oil Country Tubular Goods (OCTG) related products for E&P companies in the North Sea. In line with natural business diversification, and while noticing changes in deepwater exploration, we bought a subsea equipment company, advanced manufacturing outfits, and the biggest transformation occurred in buying Titan.”

Hunting’s most recent acquisition came in August via a $12.5 million cash acquisition of RTI Energy Systems Inc; a manufacturer of production riser technologies for deepwater applications within the offshore oil and gas industry.

Johnson describes the move as a “steal” at the price the company paid. “It is potentially a $85 million per year revenue and $10 million EBITA business. But we basically bought it for the price of the assets from an aerospace company that was looking to move on.”

Given Hunting has decent cash reserves, what would be its next ideal acquisition target? “The perfect company size-wise for us is probably a $40 million deal with a product suit that has proprietary technology and/or some geographic enhancements that we don’t have. It has to be something along the lines of well completion, subsea or maybe well intervention business model. We won’t venture out into a service stream that is totally new, for example artificial lifts.”

“The energy industry raises people’s standard of living and the upside is unbelievable,” Johnson says.

Hunting Plc

But Hunting does have non-energy plays too. For instance, its a recent strategic tie-up with India’s Jindal Steel. “Out of Maine, U.S. we make jet engine shafts for GE. Elon Musk is a customer via SpaceX and our electronics outfit in Houston has medical clients. However, over 90% of our business comes from the energy sector; that mix will not materially change over the longer-term.”

The energy industry raises people’s standard of living and the upside is unbelievable which cannot be all provided by a windmill, Johnson adds.

And the Hunting CEO has no time for peak oil theorists either. “I have spent most of my professional life sitting in the offices of oil and gas companies and know a thing or two about E&P activity versus supply and demand. My take is – tell me the price of oil and I’ll tell you how much oil there is! If the price is at $30 there’s only as much exploration happening around, price hits $100 and suddenly there’s a whole lot more exploration!”

Selling is an art and science rolled into one

Barring a four-year stint in Aberdeen, U.K., much of Western Pennsylvania-born Johnson’s professional life has been in Texas, and more specifically in America’s oil and gas capital of Houston, where he first moved to in 1988.

“Having a sales background teaches you to be close to customers, providing the right answers and solutions to their questions and problems. It is what I do to this day – sales – an art and science rolled into one. But you have to switch-off on occasion, decompress, and get ready for the next challenge. Gardening, watching football, the odd baseball game and most especially spending time with my wife, two kids and four grandkids help me do just that.”

That next emerging challenge for the OFS business is the oil and gas industry’s craving for further efficiencies and enhanced oil recovery (EOR). “These are positive developments in the wake of the 2015-16 downturn. We are well positioned to help customers reduce drilling times and costs, and often partner on research and development costs.

“EOR is good for our Titan business, because E&P companies are going to have to go back needing perforating guns and re-stimulate reservoirs where our well intervention business is eyeing opportunities. We are ready for the good times. However, knowing it is cyclical business, we’re well geared and prepared for the bad times too.”

#News

[awesome-brick]

stupid shit my friends and i have done/said over the years

this is going to be an ongoing list, i’ll reblog and add to it every so often with new material. if you want a full story, let me know a “ ^ ” means that it relates to the previous item feel free to tag yourself

chugged five double shot espressos in an hour and almost died

wobbled into our lounge after a party one night, completely unaware that he had ripped the front of his pants and his dick was completely out

got completely lost in the mardi gras parade with a dead cell phone, cause his girlfriend abandoned him

^ and then somehow pissed off and got a double k.o. on a massive redneck dude named keith who was probably thrice my friend’s size

^ him calling me when he came to, saying “help, i’m dead” to my other friend who replied, “hi dead, _i’m dad” _before he passed out and disconnected

peed in a bush, on campus, in broad daylight, in the middle of our conversation, while two hot girls were passing by

^ did it again ten minutes later

brought a violin to a frat party, to play while drunk (there’s still some videos of that floating around somewhere)

gotten stabbed by some dude after coming home from a different party

during campus tours, as a tour group was coming out of the elevator and we (4 of us) were going in; waited until right as the door was closing and said very loudly so they could hear, “SO HEY YOU GUYS WANNA GO SMOKE SOME POT?”

 camped out in the floor lounge for the entirety of finals week building a settlement in a minecraft server

“i’ll have you know, I once injected _five whole marijuanas” “_oh shit can’t fuck with this guy”

organized a candlelight vigil for Sparky, a raccoon that allegedly jumped into a power transformer and cut off power to most of campus, canceling classes for a day and a half (over 200 people attended)

sat on the floor in the right of two elevators in our dorm, covered in blankets. when somebody would walk into the elevator, we’d pop our heads up in succession and say “welcome to Right Elevator Inc. If you look to your left, you’ll find the informations desk.” “How may we help you today?” and as they were exiting, “DON’T FORGET TO RATE AND REVIEW US ON YELP”

the tale of The Bridgebuilder

gave so little fucks for the chem test that he went in his pj’s, wearing a bathrobe and topknot. thus becoming notorious around campus as the “Chem Ninja”

“it’s hard to date girls taller than me. Given that i’m five foot two, I don’t exactly get a lot of options here”

actually smoked legit weed (instead of fake weed) onstage in the middle of a performance of a play

got “sexiled” (kicked out of the room for sex) by his roommate three times during orientation week, as in before freshman year even began

bought a wheelchair from goodwill on two different occasions bc it was <$10, so now he just has two wheelchairs for no reason

sold his gamecube and all his games to another friend for $50, all of which went to buying weed

^ one of the games was an original GC copy of Pikmin 2 which would go for about 100 alone on the internet these days

^ he also burned through (heh) all of that weed in a day

somehow woke up half naked in a parking lot, (just like the CaH card) missing exactly $20 cash. he had more, but he was only missing $20

somehow got sexiled out of his room by two other people, neither of which lived there

one dude that can spit mad freestyle bars, but only when he’s high

bought an IKEA storage shelf and generic painting to make our dorm room look _even more _like a hotel room than it already did

made a tally count to keep track of how many times my suitemate locked me out of the bathroom when he wasn’t in there (final tally was 215)

earned the title of Il Duche for his drunk!self

“It was not my intention to make out with your sister!”

^ he accidentally made out with each of his girlfriend’s siblings, on separate occasions

hooked up with someone over the summer, only to find out afterwards that they were seven years older

“mom, i’ve had more relationships than you”

_^ _(he’s at i think #29)

went to the mcdonalds drive-thru, he wanted chicken nuggets but didn’t know where the “mc” prefix went. it came out as something along the lines of “uh can i mchave a mcchicken mcnuggets and a large mcchocolate mcmilkshake” 

^ we each wanted separate orders that time, so we had to drive around four times in a row. they were so tired of us by that point

missed an uber because he was too busy saying goodbye to literally everyone at the party he knew

said to a police officer, deadass, “i’ll let you walk me home, but there’s no way in hell i’m getting on that fucking bike”

^ afterwards, tried to jot down the officer’s name, badge number, and name of his superior so he could “put in a good word for the guy” (he was so wasted he had to sit down to write it all out)

dude getting so wasted at a party he started timeskipping, thought the year was 2025

gave my friend a glass of water at a party cause he was fading in and out, needed some water. to gauge his mental state, i ask him “what are you drinking” “water” “what’s the chemical formula for that?” deadass replied “hcl” without missing a beat and he keeps drinking

had a drunken rap battle with some famous local rapper at a party (my friend actually won)

crawled from the taxi to the apartment, cause he couldn’t walk

^ “I said one thing, ‘don’t say anything.’ One thing. Of course, you said something.”

so wasted he couldn’t get off the floor, the owner of the apartment going “you gotta go, dude!” “bruh” “i’m not your bruh, now get up”

“wake up with a random mexican guy in your bed. College, amirite?”

all three of us have “slept” in this one friend of ours’ bed, but only literally and not sexually. one of us cuddled with her and others platonically, another slept in the bed while she wasn’t there, and a third had passed out and she let him use her bed that night

"Marcus, you’re a socialist, why don’t you distribute some of them hot dimes”

“Rainbows, unicorns, Xanax- The classic stuff.”

(arguing about which pocket the phone goes in) “You put the phone in the butt, and the hands in the front”

my friend Robert, who is “the weebiest weeb to ever have weebd”

the fact that i accidentally always cockblock my friend unintentionally by virtue of being ace

my friend, (a dude) showing up to a date only to find out she’s a lesbian 

the guy who routinely calls his exes while drunk. apparently he has a “system”, as to which exes he calls depending on how drunk he is

fencing practice on the courtyard

[sarcastically] “okay well as a straight, white male in politics, now i have to oppress you”

all of us basically ganging up on and whipping like the only white kid in our friend group (who’s like five feet tall) with our belts

barrel rolling down the mountain after someone stopped him from going home with a girl cause he was too wasted

the guy who asked his crush of 4yrs out in his valedictorian graduation speech, only to get shot down instantly (like jesus christ rip)

^ his mom to him, “why don’t you love me as much as you love her”

guy’s family owns a quiznos, so his go-to pickup line is, “hey, i own a quiznos, want me to make you a sandwich?” (times successful: none)

my friend’s little brother was reprimanded by his parents, cause he was reading up on buddhism, “i mean, I didn’t see what the issue was. Worst case, you’re learning buddhism, best case...you’re learning buddhism”

the time the timeskipping friend found himself a confederate soilder in the civil war era, but in an AU where the south won

^ he looks at my face, points at me, looks like he's about to start laughing hysterically, "you're fucked", "why" "because you're brown, and the south won" (keep in mind, this dude is 100% filipino and almost as brown as i am)

^ he starts rattling off some bullshit jargon about what division he was in, his name, blah blah blah, but we look it up later and everything exept his personal details lined up with actual historical fact, down to where his unit was based and the name of the commanding officer, noting details that even our resident historian hadn't even heard of before

^aaand he wouldn't go to sleep until we played dixie for him on a continuous loop

one of my friends has a habit of becoming both kleptomaniac and amnesiac when he’s drunk, so here’s a tally of the stuff he’s stolen, some of which we don’t even know where it came from (almost all of these have hilarious stories behind them so please ask);

pair of trash cans and recycling bins

half a bed frame

a large ten gallon paint bucket

pack of frozen tortillas

giant industrial fucking cinderblock, which was about the size of his abdomen

a pair of white shorts (he didn't own any)

a full set worth of coasters and shot glasses

a lawnmower

a vacuum cleaner

a broom

a sprinkler

a traffic cone (one of the tall skinny ones)

a banged up car door

a pack of cards

half empty paint cans

half a bra

[kentlaura92]

Grapevine 3d Plant Surprising Tricks

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Neptune Grape Plant For Sale

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Or you could get any cultivar to grow grapes, it is important to prune your plant you have a tight skin perfect for growing grapes is a consistently high demand for quality grapes or for making wine, grapes are used to make the whole process.This type trellis gives them greater access to grape cuttings, here are steps to growing and bread making.By the time to ensure a stronger foundation for your vineyard.Grapevines needs trellis for your berries to stay above the soil.The middle age practices did last till today.

Grape Growing Colorado

This type trellis gives them greater access to direct sunlight, as this is around late February to early March in many climates.Dig a site with stable exposure to fungal diseases and be under control at the same time be enjoyed worldwide.A simple stake can be used to make space.After that though, watering only needs several basic requirements; an excellent drainage system, to ensure plentiful harvest, proper care of your grape vines will cause problems.Feeding grapes destined for as-is consumption entails making the wine has been planted into.

Pruning your grape vine growing through careful analysis and experimentation of your growing grapes in conducive to some places but not the best in hot climates, and its suitability to the grapevine.This is, because such kind of fertilizer available from organic to a Merlot or Cabernet wine.Just like other plants need sunlight to pass but not too dry and eat them as little as six feet apart.Therefore it is good before growing the grapevine.There are different because their unique taste of the available demand for their excellent drainage ability in order to ferment and change into wine.

[sandwichbully]

(Finally get to talk shit about) TILT, 26 October 2018

EDIT: OK, so the camera on my phone just decided that it needed time to consider maybe storing the photos. Here is a picture of the sub, I’m putting it right up front, at the top, where it needs to be.

We now return you to this evening’s episode of Sandwich Bully as it originally aired.

What you are about to see is not Tilt’s meatball sub.

   The camera on my phone just decided it didn’t want to save any of the three pics I snapped of my meatball sub that I ordered tonight only half in reference to a tweet twatted out by Tommy, because it was about meatball subs and then I got to thinking about how I wanted a meatball sub but I wasn’t going to go to Subway because Subway is fucking gross (sorry, BC, but they’re fucking gross) so I looked up “meatball sub 55404″ on the Googleplex and saw that Tilt has one and they’re like a block and around the corner from me.    Or are they around the corner and a block?    You’ll never know!    No, seriously, you’ll never know. Nobody who does know ever comes to my apartment.    Anyway, I swore I would never have a Tilt hot dog because I’m not paying seven dollars for a fucking hot dog. This is a meatball sub, though. This is different.

   Right from the menu. House-made meatballs, marinara, mozzarella, fresh basil, toasted bun. Nine dollars. A hoagie. A grinder. A real hero. The size of my dick forearm. Fuck yeah. Let’s do this. Let’s take this Twitter thing too goddamned far. Let’s get this meatball sub!    So I get to Tilt and, hey, just a reminder, they’re a pinball bar. There are tons of pinball machines. So it makes me wonder why the hell they’re playing Joy Division’s “Disorder” on the sound system when you can’t hardly hear it over all the fucking pinball machines. And then also why did they have MTV on behind the bar on mute?    So, yeah, of course I got this to go. Got a Coke while I waited.    It doesn’t take long to get my order. How could it? The guy brings me my food and asks if I’d like more another Coke. I declined and took my food outside, opened up the box and...    I’d like to take a moment to paint you a picture since the camera on my phone decided to just fail.    Close your eyes.    Shit, that was a dumb idea. How are you going to read this?    Guess I’ll just wait for you to open your -    Ah, good, you’re back.    OK, the closing your eyes part? Skip that. Just imagine that you are six years old. It’s December. You’ve been good all year. You’ve made sure of it. Why? Because there’s only one thing this year that you really really want. (In my case, being six in 1987, it would have been a Tomy Omnibot.) (But realistically, Teddy Ruxpin.) You’ve done your chores, you kept your grades up, you’ve earned merit badges, you have been the perfect child since last Christmas.    And then Christmas Day comes! You wake early, you barrel down the stairs, you attack the bottom of the tree while you wait for your parents to wake up. They come down and tell you Merry Christmas as you tear through gift after gift, looking for it! Craving it! Desiring it! The Tomy Omnibot!    One gift, two gifts, three! Four gifts, five gifts, wee! Six gifts, seven gifts, eight gifts, too! Here’s a ninth gift just for you!    ...    What?    ...    You look behind the tree.    ...    Is - Is this it?    But I - I thought - I wa-wanted the Tomy Omnibot. Your mom tries to comfort you. Get your fucking hands off me. You turn and you make it real clear to these people what kind of a disafuckingpointment this is: We had a goddamned deal. I bust my ass being a good little boy from December twenty sixth to December twenty fifth! I have not said bad words! I’ve cleaned that shit-stink catbox every day! I take out the garbage in this motherfucker! And I do it every day while pulling in straight As and not kicking the shit out of Adam Dunning across the street! I get screwed in my fucking ass every birthday because you shitheads had to birth me in January when everybody’s burnt out on buying presents! I ask for one! thing! A Tomy Omnibot! I didn’t “hint”! I didn’t “imply”! I didn’t leave fucking “clues”! I told you fuck-wits to your faces, in plain goddamned English back in April! April! that I wanted a Tomy Omnibot! You had plenty of time to save up for it, so don’t give me any of this bullshit about Santa’s factory being out of 'em! I’m six years old, I’m not stupid, goddamnit!    I’m murdering both of you in your sleep tonight! Jesus help me!

   AAAnnnddd that is pretty much how I felt when I opened the box because I had gone six hours thinking about getting a meatball sub and what I got?    What I got was not a nine dollar sub. Five, five fifty max.    Let’s address the size. Again, camera on my phone not helpful this evening so we’re going to have to use words: It fit completely on a hot dog bun. Not a jumbo hot dog bun, not a footlong hot dog bun, a regular off the grocer’s shelf hot dog bun. It had a few random pulls of mozzarella on it. No fresh basil, because there’s only so much you can fit on a fucking hot dog bun.    So I took it home, tucked it in my mouth, giggled internally at how stupid this all was that I was about to tweet Tommy a picture of a meatball sub because, hey, something good has to come out of this, and where the fuck are the pics?    Jesus help me.    So how did this taste?    How did this nine dollar, three tiny balls on a hot dog bun taste?    It tasted like I should have gone to Subway.

   Hmm? What’s that?    Oh, no, that’s the review. I’m saying that I could have gotten a sandwich twice as large for half the price that tastes exactly the same as this one at Subway. I couldn’t taste the mozzarella, any seasoning in the beef was overshadowed by the marinara, and what can I say about a hot dog bun? It’s white bread. Hell, Subway at least offers me Tuscan Herb and Sangria bread or whatever.    And I’m not just saying this because I’m pissed off about the price even though I’m pissed off about the price. I saw how small it was and I thought, “Well, maybe it will just blow my mind when I taste it,” and there I was let down, too.    Just like that day. Thirty one years ago. When everybody else got a Teddy Ruxpin Tomy Omnibot.    I really really hate talking shit about local businesses. I went over my rationale back in the opening to the Sandcastle episode but if you can’t be bothered to click the link, it’s like this: I know that one review from a barely read sandwich blog isn’t going to destroy a local business, I get where I sit in the ecosystem. That doesn’t mean that small stature gives me license to talk endless shit about somebody who put together a business plan, had to recruit angel investors and take out variable interest loans for start up capital, put their recipes and their food and their reputations on the line, and bravely ventures into an industry with an absurd failure rate.    But then there’s this part: THIS PLACE SELLS SEVEN DOLLAR PLAIN HOT DOGS AND HAS THE NERVE TO CHARGE YOU A QUARTER FOR ONIONS AND IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME BECAUSE THAT SOUNDS FLATLY BIZARRE, LOOK AT THE MENU.    So, I feel obligated to say it: I feel like I got ripped off. I feel like I paid twice what that sandwich was worth in terms of portion-to-dollar ratio, no matter how high quality the ingredients were, which doesn’t matter because none of them separately or in concert with each other tasted any different from the cheap Sysco crap I’m handed at any other place.    I get it, shame on me for not investigating further before putting down my debit card, I really only feel ripped off, they didn’t deliberately scam me, every clue was given that this was not going to be a satisfactory experience, and it was nowhere near as bad as the Sandcastle incident.    But still... Tilt?    Eragh...    I’m not going to say don’t give them your money. You can have fun drinking and playing Pinball there. Drink prices are in line with most other places and most of the machines take two tokens (psst! Up/Down’s machines take only one!) but I really can’t recommend eating there. Or getting it to go.

[thechocolategarage]

SOMA, Askanya, Original Beans and Felchlin

May 11, 2018

Open Saturdays 9-1pm, May 26th is our last day.

Dear Garagistas, I am writing to you from Ilheus, Bahia. Which is in Brazil. I spent the past week or so connecting the bean to bar scene down here, and then heading out with some of the non-governmental organizations down here to visit some of the most interesting cacao farms in the area. I feel so lucky to be here, with a few other colleagues who were also invited here, and I have learned so much. This area was hit by a particular fungal disease called "Witches' Broom" in the late 1980s. There was a group of folks who had interest in dismantling the then political and cultural structure in this region and introduced this disease to do so. The disease was far more effective at destroying the trees than anyone expected and this region has really suffered from this incident. Within a few years Brazil went from being a net exporter of cacao, to being a net importer of cacao. They are now learning and experimenting with all kinds of ways to manage their cacao in order to be able to rebuild the industry, in a way that allows them to make a living and keep growing cacao. The bean to bar movement here is very inspiring. I find the quality coming out of Brazil is incredible for this nascent a movement. Every country and their people bring a unique approach to living and working, and seeing the spirit and challenges here in Brazil has been fascinating. I am very excited to return, and frankly, did not have the heart or energy coming in, to learn another language, but I feel very motivated to pick up portuguese now! I find it very frustrating not being able to chat with people and get my own feel for things and truly connect with others without an interpreter. I think because I speak Spanish and French (the chocolate languages) I took for granted the power of that tool to move through the cacao world in a skillful way. Being here has really made clear to me that language is so critical to what I do... so I am going to have to exercise my brain a bit more once I close The Chocolate Garage and have some more time... turns out Portuguese is definitely a chocolate language too. One of very few producer countries speaking Portuguese, but such a force and such a long history and tradition behind cacao. Ping us if you haven't already, and are interested in getting more info on our Brazil trip! Ok, enough about that, I have to head to the airport soon. It's a long trip back home. Can't wait to see my kids, and may catch a few of you towards the end of our day tomorrow, I should get back to Palo Alto just about noon. Nicaragua Actually, one more thing, Nicaragua is in a bad way right now, and I have been hearing a lot about it from Carlos who is very concerned about his staff, as are they. Things are falling apart, there is massive revolt after the government has cracked down really hard on peaceful students protests, it seems more than 60 people have died, mostly students. And Carlos is concerned about how long he will be able to stay open producing chocolate... I am brain storming ways for The Chocolate Garage community to help, and have offered to Carlos to store any chocolate he can get out of the country, so he has inventory safe, that can continue being sold. I am also wondering if any of you would opt into a prepayment for specific products? Timing is rather awkward right now, given our wrapping up, and cash flow, but I would like to find ways to help Momotombo in this time of crisis. If any one has ideas and is reading, and are a retailer or an online seller, or whatever, and would like to carry the Momotombo Chocolate Covered seeds, reach out.   Saturday Tasting Menu Askanya Perle Rare 90% SOMA Madagascar 70% Original Beans Femmes de Virunga 55% Askanya Wanga Neges milk 50% Starting and finishing with one of the newest brands we carry, that I am very excited about: Askanya! They are super new and their bars have some textural imperfections, but they have gotten the hardest part right, the cacao quality. I love that in their first four bars to launch, they chose to do a 90%, just beans and sugar, and then all the way down to two sweeter milks, one with rapadura and one with regular sugar. Sorry (!) for the false alarm last week, it turns out our order got stuck at the friendly border between the US and its northern neighbor, my home country. But, SOMA is back this week, we have received it and have our fingers crossed that it stayed nice and cool along its extended journey. :) Old School Milk, Arcana, Jamaica, Arauca (Colombia), Choroní. We also got our favorite Original Beans bars back, both the Esmeraldas milk and the Femmes de Virunga, and their "cousin" chocolate made by the same brilliant Swiss maker: Felchlin Arriba 72% drops. We have some more of your favorite Chocolat Bonnat bars, Los Colorados, Kaori, and the classic Venezuelas as well. We are restocked on Ritual Chocolate as well, Vanilla, Bourbon Barrel aged, Ecuador 75 7 85, Fleur de Sel. Come see! I need to say goodbye! Maybe see some of you tomorrow, feel free to snap up some of our last The Chocolate Garage shirts, or the rare farmed wrappers that we have displayed. If you have any favorite bars that you still dream about and wonder if I have the wrapper and would custom frame it for you, the answer to both of those questions is probably yes. Let me know, I can search my "collection" and then you can have a tangible memory of The Chocolate Garage for your home. Also, we plan to have a potluck on Saturday May 26th, starting about 1:30 pm, at The Chocolate Garage, to hang out, nibble, sip, and hang out and reminisce and celebrate the beautiful community that we have built together the past 8 years. Bon voyage to me, and see you soon! Sunita

Remembering Cassie and Viola, and how much fun we had at the peak of our Garaging. See the old oil panel system for our wrappers in the background?! 

We have some fun schwag for buying! We don't have all sizes, but hopefully you can find something to remember The Chocolate Garage by, and Happy Chocolate. Or perhaps consider a custom framed wrapper? 

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by John Hertig on The Prepper Journal.

Editors Note: Another contribution from John Hertig in his for The Prepper Journal.  The content is that of the authors. 

Round 11 of the Prepper Writing Contest is coming THIS WEEK! 

  Assembling an AR-15 Upper

In an earlier series of articles we took an in depth look at building your own AR-15.  The purpose was to provide the most legal, efficient and reasonably economical road to building a firearm.  Here we go beyond the basics, to provide some guidance on getting exactly what you want, getting the best results practical, or possibly saving even a bit more money.

Assembling an Upper

My recommendation in that series of articles was to buy a complete assembled upper.  This was because the price for a complete upper tends to be less than for the parts bought separately, and particularly because the assembly is a bit more involved and requires more tools and skills than does the lower.  But if you follow that recommendation, you pretty much have to accept someone else’s idea of what the “perfect” upper is.  Alternatively, if price is a major issue, a kit of all the parts for the upper from one source may be slightly cheaper than the same upper assembled, since paying someone to assemble the upper is unlikely to be “free”.  And then there is that small blemish on the “I built it myself” pride.   If you can find what you want as an assembled upper, and can afford it, and don’t care about complete bragging rights, and you trust who did the assembly, then an assembled upper is the way to go.  Otherwise, assembling your own may be a viable option.  Even if not, the information here will be useful if you ever want to modify your upper.

    If the upper is “stripped“, then you will probably have to install a dust cover and/or forward assist (together, known as the “Upper Parts Kit”).  Installing the dust cover is fairly straightforward but does require some dexterity.  Installing the forward assist is even easier – if you have the right tools.  Otherwise, it could be a nightmare.  Here is a video.  This video is very good for the dust cover, but this minimal tools approach to the forward assist has a high likelihood of causing you distress.  At the very least, have an upper receiver block to hold the upper so it can’t move on you during the operation.  Here is a video of an easier way.  The “#3″ punches mentioned are 3/32”.  The “insert” is supposedly to “keep the upper receiver from being crushed“, but for this operation you don’t need to tighten the vice much.  If your upper receiver block came with an insert, you can use it; otherwise I wouldn’t worry about it.  For the lower punch, which just holds things in place for you, you can use a roll pin punch or pin punch or drill shank; whatever will fit tightly enough to keep the forward assist in position but can be pushed out by the pin as it is installed.  The Roll Pin Holder is ideal to get the pin started, but if you don’t have one, a pair of needle nose pliers or large tweezers will do to hold the pin until it gets started.  To drive it in, use a roll pin punch to avoid damaging the end.  If you get a prepackaged Upper Parts Kit, you may be lucky with the “C” clip already installed and the forward assist assembled.  If you need to assemble the forward assist yourself, here is a video of how that is done.

Adding the Barrel

Next is to install the barrel.  For this, you need the barrel, a nut (which one depends on what hand-guard you will be using), an upper receiver block (or a “reaction rod” AKA barrel spline rod) and vise, a bit of grease, a barrel nut wrench, a gas tube locator device if the gas tube goes through the nut, and a torque wrench.  Here is a long-winded but complete video.  The grease he suggests is very inexpensive, but you get a lot which needs to be stored, and the container is not optimal for long term storage.  I got a small can from Amazon which cost twice as much AND contained only a tenth as much as does the big tube, but is enough for dozens of builds, and the container is much smaller and better for long term storage.

     Now install the gas tube and gas block.  It is easy to end up a bit off, with significant impact on the reliability of the functioning.  You often must mount the tube into the block first and then install the assembly on the barrel, but I think it is more accurate to figure out where to mount the block first, then remove it and install the tube, then finally install the whole assembly.

There is a hole in the barrel, and a hole in the gas block, and these need to be lined up accurately for the firearm to work, and work correctly.  Furthermore, this alignment, once “perfect“, needs to never move.  Some gas blocks are held in place by set screws, some by clamping around the barrel and some by pins through notches in the barrel.  I’ve not tried any clamp-on or pinned gas blocks, but the set screw ones are not completely secure without “help”.  Set screws can loosen or shift; Loc-Tite and “dimpling” the barrel can help prevent these problems.

To find out how far from the gas block stop on the barrel to mount the gas block (some are designed for a front handguard plate to go between them), take out the set screw opposite the gas hole in the gas block and put the gas block on upside down.  Find the gas hole in the barrel and center it in the set screw hole in the gas block (a pointed set screw helps get it perfect AND holds it there).  Measure (with a “feeler” gauge) the gap between the gas block and the gas block stop.  Now loosen the pointed set screw, if used, and rotate the gas block to right side up and with the feeler gauge in place, align side to side.  There are three usual ways people do this:  pencil lines (there is a slightly better way of marking the barrel at 0:44 in this video) or an alignment tool (from HB Industries or UniqueTek) are the most common.  The third method some people use is to block the chamber end with a dummy round or their finger and blow into the muzzle as they rotate the gas block listening for the “correct” sound.  Once you locate the gas block correctly, tighten the set screws to mark the barrel for the dimples (which really are not optional for set screw gas blocks).

The method of dimpling shown in the previous video just has too much chance of error for me.  I prefer another way, which is the most accurate way of locating AND dimpling the gas block.  This is using a gas block alignment and dimpling jig such as the one from BRD Engineering.  The idea is to perfectly index dimples to the gas hole, so the gas block is forced into the correct orientation and to stay there.  The BRDE gadget is too rich for my blood, though, and is only usable for some brands and models of gas blocks.  The combination of economy, versatility and accuracy which I went with was the SLR Gas Block Dimpling Jig.  Here’s how to use it.  The best drill size to use with this jig seems to be 5/32″; personally, after I get a good dimple I widen it a bit with a 15/64″ drill since my gas block screws seem to be a bit bigger than “normal”, but this is a matter of personal preference.  Also, if the barrel is not stainless steel, I use a bit of cold blue to offer the dimples some rust protection.

In the earlier video about the BRD Engineering alignment and dimpling jig, the BRDE “pinning” jig was also shown, which can provide the ultimate solidification of the gas block mount, but I did not think it was necessary for my build.  If your gas block is exposed beyond the handguard where it could get knocked or has a sight sticking up to get caught on something, pinning the gas block would be wise.

Once you have the gas block location finalized (the barrel is dimpled or has pin grooves), install the gas tube into the block.  Look through the roll pin hole and rotate the gas tube until you see the hole through the tube line up.  Note that it is VERY COMMON for people to not insert the gas tube into the gas block far enough and drive the pin in AHEAD of the tube rather than THROUGH it.  Don’t do this; this will cause you serious headaches.  Once the gas tube is correctly oriented, drive in the gas tube roll pin.

This will likely be a real pain due to the small size of the pin, the significant amount of resistance it offers and the non-linear shape of the gas block.  The hole and pin are oddly sized (0.078″); a size which is not normally included in punch sets, although 5/64″ is real close.  Much as I distrust starter (tapered) punches, in this case one is suggested, as a 5/64″ straight punch often just collapses into an “S” shape under the stress.  If you don’t have a starter punch, a regular bigger punch is strong enough to get the pin most of the way in, but getting it below the surface will be a challenge without that starter punch.  As for how to hold the gas block while driving in the pin, the way that worked for me was to open a vice far enough that the top and bottom ends of the gas block were supported, with the “fat” part in between the jaws.  I laid a strip of thick leather across the jaws to protect the finish of the gas block.  An even better way I found on my second try was to fasten the block to the barrel, and then hold the barrel in the vice (with a barrel spline rod) while installing the pin.   This time the pin went in relatively easily; perhaps because I used the pin which came with the gas block rather than the one which came with the gas tube.

        With the BCG removed, put on the front hand guard plate (if you need one), then slide the gas block onto the barrel so the gas tube slides into the hole in the barrel nut, if present, and into the upper receiver.  As you tighten the set screws, wiggle the gas block to ensure the set screws are centered in the dimples.  Once the gas block is rigid, block the chamber and blow into the barrel to make sure that there is some resistance, but air does move through the gas system; then install the BCG.  With a dummy round or snap cap in the chamber, close the bolt to ensure the gas tube is aligned correctly and not too far into the receiver, then blow into the barrel to verify there is noticeably more resistance to the air than before.  If all is good, “permanently” mount the gas block by removing one set screw, applying Loc-Tite, replacing it and tightening it to spec.  Repeat for the second set screw.

Finishing the Upper

We are nearly done.  It is time to install the handguard.  The details will vary from handguard to handguard.  I prefer “free-float” handguards, and they tend to mount similarly to each other.  In most cases, their mounting device will have been installed as part of the barrel install, with any tension ring screwed fully against the receiver to be out of the way.  All that most require is either to slide the handguard over the barrel nut and insert several screws to hold it in place, or screw it over the barrel nut until the rail is in line with the one on the top of the upper receiver and screw in any locking bolt, then screw any tension ring forward against the handguard.  You may need one or more shims between the nut and the upper to ensure the handguard is correctly oriented.  My favorite system is one I got from Delta Team Tactical which not only has a barrel nut low enough that the gas tube goes right over it, but the guard uses screwed wedges, so it is super easy to get the top rail in line with the rail on the upper receiver and no shims are ever necessary.

I’ve never done a “standard” hand guard, but as I understand it, there is the delta ring assembly held on by the barrel nut.  This consists of the “weld spring”, the delta ring and a snap ring.  Then there is a cap (triangular or round) which goes between the gas block and the larger diameter part of the barrel which acts a stop for the gas block.  Then the hand guard, in two sections, is held in place between the front cap and the delta ring, with the delta ring pulled against the upper to get the hand guard sections in or out.  There is a tool available which helps depress the delta ring if this gives you a problem.

The last step is to install any muzzle device.  In order to allow you to properly orient the device, put a “crush washer” on and then screw on the device finger tight.  Using a wrench (if there are flats) or a long rod though the ports, tighten until any top ports are perpendicular, and the ports on the sides are horizontal.  Generally you want to tighten between 90 and 180 degrees from finger tight; there are shim kits available if you can’t tighten the device enough to have it correctly oriented.

Don’t forget to check your head space as described in the Assembly part of the general build series.

  The post Assembling An AR-15 Upper appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

[snkliquor-blog]

Know More About Mini liquor bottles

Several individuals like to buy mini liquor bottles online to test with diverse products, flavors and types of spirits to discover out which ones suit their taste. You can also purchase mini alcohol bottles if you’re roaming and want to have a touch of lightweight you can parcel in your luggage.

There will constantly be a dwelling in our heart and our cocktail cabinet for the amazing miniature. Possibly, these limited toughies are the most solid working bottles in the booze industry.

What do we chat about when we talk about alcohol?

Conversation on the topic tends to emphasize on a few discrete areas: the ways alcohol has industrialized, anywhere and in what way it is made and by whom, and what it is like to munch. Alcohol as an account, alcohol as a business, alcohol as a thirst-quencher. There is particularly less consideration paid to extra factor, one that can be just as enlightening its production. Amongst the container and the glass, a part of the voyage is lost from the talk. The response isn’t at the foot of a bottle: it is the bottle.

What’s critical to note, is that apart from incomplete enhancing informs, booze bottles never really transformed, even as the whole lot does around them. This applies in specific to spirits: wine has stretched been a volume tric 'jumble', where bottle proportions heave from the 187.5ml Piccolo to the 30l Melchizedek – four-foot-tall behemoths which have an unlucky propensity to detonate from the force of all the incredibly expensive Champagne they hold.

In difference, spirits have generally been in a two-tier structure for as long as the business has been well-known-globally. This set-up presently attentions on either a 35cl/37.5cl or 50cl preference, a consistent 70 or 75cl and then 5cl miniatures. While the global 70cl is measured the fixed. Miniatures have prowled in the background of ordinary life for periods: a quiet, similar way of life to full bottles, visible only to those who were paying consideration.

The creation of the alcoholic miniature pre-dates not only the hotel cocktail cabinet that is now one of its usual homes but also pre-dates alcohol served in crystal bottles.

Miniatures were a need of early 17th/18th century sea trade. Spirits, frequently joined with bitters, sugar and water, had turned out to be the drink of choice, as the raw supplies weren’t accessible to harvest wine or beer; and neither of these drinks went well. With clienteles and sailors justifiably wary of acquiring a complete barrel of liquor, unassertive ceramic vessels would be used by salesmen as 'testers'. Plus, with a tax on a glass in the 1600s and again in 1746, ceramic or terra cotta bottles were fairly routine.

Even with their own adaptation to lead crystal in the late 18th era, it wasn’t up until the 1930s that miniatures became required objects in their own right. Notwithstanding the timely passing of American Ban in 1933, high import duties and the Great Despair meant that spirits like whiskey and brandy were high-priced to almost every sector of society. It was in this bothered surroundings that miniatures flourished: they evaded tax because they were categorized as samples, while their condensed volume made them a more achievable option over full bottles. Therefore, European spirit manufacturers transported miniatures to the US in huge masses, ensuring that bottles were wrapped up identically down to the tags.

But then again the 1930s would demonstrate to be the high waterline for the miniature. Lessened but persevering, in later periods the miniature tramped on. Even after the international economic recession halted, a full bottle of spirit continued a luxurious investment. Lacking the snooping, progressively well-informed drinking values we enjoy today, this was also an age before pub tables squeaked under the weight of loads of half-empty spirit jugs. Pub choices were unhappily limited: a gin, a rum, a merged Scotch, possibly, and the explanation was and rests a good miniature: a filling single drink in itself, or a sensibly priced taster for a likely future acquisition. Buy mini liquor bottles online while miniatures were living out their purposeful, unisex drive as tiny, alcohol-filled experimental balloons; nevertheless, additional trend had started.

These reasonable, space-efficient forms of spirit bottles, distinguished in all sorts of highly exact ways, were wild becoming substances that would be passionately stockpiled for private assemblages. Even as a drift at its highest in the latter part of the 20th era, the news is upbeat abroad where miniature gathering has grown without prior notice popular, predominantly in areas long bare to Western alcohol like Hong Kong.

There is a growing unwillingness of alcohol creators to harvest new miniatures, aggravated by waning shopper request, miniatures are a costlier way for suppliers to display case an already pricey merchandise.So 'troublesome' were these tiny serves, that Chicago even disqualified the miniature in the 1980s.

Nonetheless, miniatures very much remained to have a place within drinking nation, as gifts for Birth dates, Christmas or tasting occasions such as Burns Night. As trusty assistants for ceaseless train or plane trips, or as sample-sized tasters of lesser-known produce. In a convinced logic, they have become a prey of alcohol’s victory: their old-style used as a test group technique is under menace as pub picks are progressively mixed, not to reference cocktail bars, devoted shops and other locations where one can try stimulating spirits without having to cleft out a treasure.

Miniatures are creating a retort. Sometimes situations decree the need for a lesser quantity of alcohol in an inconspicuous container, from time to time you really do want to sample something new, in the luxury of your own home, without bombing out for a whole bottle. And now and then, you want to give the inordinate gift of alcohol, but can’t pay fora full bottle of craft spirit or aren’t sure what precisely to gift or just can’t choose a particular spirit.

Minute labels for alcohol bottles are the final party favor, hands down! Think about agree it, they are inexpensive, personal to the gathering and can be practical to any type of lesser bottle of spirits you want. Be it: Weddings, Birthdays, Graduations, Retirements, Holidays or just a systematic party, mini alcohol tags work for whatever thing. Another enormous advantage to these tags are that mini alcohol bottles purchased online are exceptionally small making them stress-free to transport and perfect for end point get-together or marriage ceremonies.

 Small Labels Intended for Small Bottles of Alcohol

Aircraft bottles, as numerous individuals like to call them, are usually 50ml in dimension, coarsely a typical “shot” of alcohol, perhaps a bit more. These transportable party appetizers are accessible in all your favorite varieties filled with all categories of alcohol beginning from whiskey to vodka, tequila and all in between. Several folks use them to sample a precise type of alcohol before pledging to buy a larger amount. On the other hand,in the get-together world, they make pronounced party favors if you add a tradition tag to them. Apply a mini alcohol label to a bottle of fireball for an unattached party or make specially a 2” circle label to relate to a small Baileys Irish Cream bottle for your early AM rear door party. The blends and uses are limitless with two mini alcohol brand sizes available in 3”x2” rectangle and a 2” width circle.

 Mini Alcohol Labels Are a Perfect Last Stop Wedding Favors

If you are organizing or are getting wedded at a last stop wedding you should think through mini alcohol bottle labels for your wedding favors. They are low-priced, handy and you have the option to purchase only a few if your guests are not a lot. The price adds up fast for this purpose so using small labels and smearing them to mini liquor bottles at your end point gives you an economical and easy choice for modified wedding favors. Distinguish them to your end point as well as your designations and date. If you are going to get married in Hawaii,pick a beach themed design or upload a photograph you took on your last seaside trip to use as the background for your brand. If the wedding is taking place in New York, Chicago or some other large city,plan a mini label with a city skyline for your background. The strategy can be whatever you like, the sky is the limit so let your thoughts run wild.

[easyfoodnetwork]

Dannie Sue Balakas/Instagram While other flour companies have faced pandemic-related shortages, the Southern staple has been quietly filling the void at grocery stores around the country As many home-bound Americans began baking to feed and distract themselves from the coronavirus pandemic, Schanon Odell of Crown Pacific Fine Foods was making frantic phone calls to every flour mill in the country. Odell’s job at the Seattle-area specialty food distributor includes helping her grocery store clients keep flour in stock, and so she resolved to find anyone that might have it. One day in late March, she spent 10 straight hours calling and calling, only to get the same answer from everyone who picked up: all sold out. But there was one exception: As she searched the internet for flour mills, “White Lily kept coming up,” Odell says. She was only vaguely aware of the special place that the flour occupies in the canon of Southern baking, but as she worked her way through the company’s phone tree, she focused less on what White Lily was and more on securing 4,000 cases of flour — about 160,000 pounds — to distribute to stores around the Pacific Northwest, like Zupan’s in Portland, Oregon, Kroger’s QFC stores, and independent shops like Red Apple Market on Seattle’s Beacon Hill. The shipment of White Lily arrived at Red Apple Market just in time for Jill Lightner’s husband to replenish the flour stash that Lightner, a food writer, was quickly stress-baking her way through. “I had just been putting ‘buy more flour’ on the shopping list every time he went,” she says. When her husband returned with a bag of White Lily, announcing, “This is all they had,” Lightner, who had gone to high school in rural Virginia, knew what she had lucked into. “Why didn’t you buy 50 bags?” she asked. The same scene played out from Iowa to San Jose, as White Lily flour appeared mysteriously on shelves far from its usual Southern distribution area. Bakers familiar with the product went to stores braced to find bottom-of-the-barrel flour, only to come upon the brand they had often wished they could get locally. From outposts in the North, Midwest, and West, they posted gleefully on social media. “When you find the flour, you make the biscuits,” said a baker in Wisconsin. In Brooklyn, a shopper wondered, “What is this magic happening with the flour supply chain?” White Lily declined to comment on the expanded distribution to Eater, but David Ortega, an associate professor in the department of agriculture, food and resource economics at Michigan State University, points out that some of the recent flour distribution quirks can be tied to the significant loss of major wholesale customers like food service and bakeries, combined with high demand at the retail level. “One of the major obstacles to this switch was packaging,” he says over email — which means that any flour company that had recently stocked up on retail-size bags found itself best prepared to meet demand. “Flour processing is much more mechanized (relative to say meat processing plants), so it hasn’t been affected by processing disruption to the extent that other sectors have,” Ortega adds. “My guess is that While Lily and other companies expanded their markets out of necessity (loss in food industry customers) and, to an extent, opportunity (surge in demand in supermarkets).” Whatever the reason, it made many home bakers happy. Known for its soft, light texture, White Lily flour has long held a near-mythological status in the South as the secret to the perfect biscuit, much in the same way that New Yorkers believe that the city’s water is the secret to the perfect bagel. In The Gift of Southern Cooking, the renowned champion of the region’s foodways, Edna Lewis, named it as an essential ingredient to great biscuits. On her blog, Southern Souffle, the recipe developer, food writer, and biscuit-pop-up chef Erika Council echoed Lewis’s sentiment, writing that White Lily killed the “hard as a rock” and “difficult to make” biscuit myths. And yet, despite the ostensible transportability of a bag of flour, finding White Lily outside of the Southeastern United States is normally only nominally easier than getting New York City tap water in Arizona. The only other time Lightner remembers seeing it for sale in Seattle was years ago, when she found a “daintily sized” bag at a Williams-Sonoma holiday pop-up for a premium price. She bought it anyway. When Atlantic writer Amanda Mull, who was born in Georgia, wrote about the brand in 2018, she reported that she couldn’t find any retailers who carried it north of Richmond, Virginia, or west of Oklahoma (though Surfas in Los Angeles does occasionally). You can find it on Amazon, though it’s sold there at about 500 percent of grocery store cost. The legend of White Lily began in 1883, when it was founded in Knoxville, Tennessee. Its flour’s ethereal nature is partially attributable to the fact that it is milled from soft red winter wheat, which results in a flour with only 9 percent protein — significantly lower than King Arthur’s 11.7 percent or Gold Medal’s 10.5 percent. A flour’s protein content is important because it corresponds directly with how much gluten forms when the flour comes into contact with a liquid. For a strong loaf with structure and chewiness, bakers look for a high-protein flour, like bread flour, which has up to 13 percent protein. But for biscuits, lower protein content, and thus lower gluten, keeps them from becoming too dense. But plenty of flours have lower protein levels: Pastry flour contains around 9 percent, and cake flour between 7 and 9 percent. White Lily’s true secret, according to a 2008 New York Times story, lies in its milling and bleaching processes. Its all-purpose flour is milled only from the heart of the wheat’s endosperm, the purest part, and is more finely milled and sifted than other flours — its packaging even boasts that it’s “Pre-Sifted.” Unlike many all-purpose flours, it is also bleached with chlorine, which weakens the flour’s proteins. The result is so light that the White Lily website warns that when measuring by volume, rather than weight, two extra tablespoons per cup of flour are required in standard recipes. “I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits.” When the J.M. Smucker Co. bought White Lily in 2007, it closed the company’s Knoxville mill and moved production to the Midwest, much to the dismay of many of the flour’s fans. White Lily had previously gone through more than a half-dozen corporate owners, including national names like Tyson Foods and Archer Daniels Midland. In 2018, Smucker sold it yet again, this time to Hometown Food Company, the parent company of Pillsbury. But despite how often it has changed hands, White Lily has managed to remain quintessentially Southern enough that Lightner compares it to a souvenir: “If I am near a Winn-Dixie or a Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to buy it and bring it back,” she says, “along with a suitcase full of grits.” For her part, Odell, the specialty food distributor, is surprised to see how well the flour has resonated with retailers outside of the South. “Every day, people are ordering,” she says. “I think people are recognizing it and want to purchase it.” Dannie Sue Balakas is one them. Born in Tennessee and currently living in West Michigan, she was thrilled when White Lily showed up at her local Meijer, and started buying a bag every time she shopped there. Because shoppers are still limited to one bag per person, she rations it accordingly. “I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits,” she says, describing those biscuits as “super fluffy and the best I’ve ever had.” Fear of running out is a legitimate concern: Shelves in the South were also emptied of flour, and while Odell says her supply has been mostly consistent, it hasn’t been seamless. For Dean Hasegawa, the general manager of the Red Apple where Lightner bought her White Lily, the store’s White Lily purchase was a one-time deal so that Hasegawa could cover the flour shortage — and even with it, he still had to re-bag and price out 50-pound food-service bags of other flours into retail sizes. “It’s not something I will normally stock,” he says, and while he heard some excitement over it, he believes that most of his customers were simply happy to see flour. Still, the customer enthusiasm inspires Odell. Her local QFC stores talked about wanting to keep White Lily on their shelves even as flour stocks normalize, but the Cincinnati-based buyer from Kroger, which owns QFC, insisted that people in the Northwest wouldn’t buy Southern flour. “I’d like to keep it if I can,” says Odell, but first she needs to prove that people care about White Lily and not just flour in general. “Maybe when the dust settles, I’ll be able to tell if it’s a viable product,” she says. But for true biscuit fanatics, White Lily’s all-purpose flour isn’t even the true prize: In West Michigan, Balakas has “been praying” that stores will start stocking its coveted self-rising flour. But even if they don’t, you can mail order it from Walmart (with free shipping, if you order enough else) or, per White Lily’s website, simply add 1½ teaspoons of baking powder and ½ teaspoon of salt to each cup of the all-purpose flour. While they may be effective, though, neither of those methods have the same magic as wandering the baking aisle expecting nothing and coming upon a treasure — and, in, the process recapturing a tiny fragment of the joy that grocery shopping once held. from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2Cg2NBT

http://easyfoodnetwork.blogspot.com/2020/06/white-lily-flour-has-long-held-near.html

[dailykhaleej]

Crash explainer: Manic Monday shows no rules apply on oil any more

An unsure future beckons refiners within the US and elsewhere as shares pile up amidst near-zero demand. Picture Credit score: AFP

New York: The day began like any different gloomy Monday within the oil market’s worst disaster in a technology.

It ended with costs falling under zero, thrusting markets right into a parallel universe the place merchants had been prepared to pay $40 a barrel simply to get any person to take crude off their fingers.

The transfer was so violent and stunning that many merchants struggled to elucidate it. They grasped wildly at attainable causes all day lengthy – had some large agency acquired caught wrong-footed? Or had been inexperienced retail buyers flummoxed by a market quirk? – however had no tangible proof of something to level to.

West Texas Intermediate futures have been the benchmark for America’s oil trade for many years, seeing the market via booms, busts, wars and monetary crises, however no single occasion holds a candle to this. By the tip of buying and selling, the contract had slumped from $17.85 a barrel to minus $37.63.

“Today was a devastating day for the global oil industry,” mentioned Doug King, a hedge fund investor who co-founded the Service provider Commodity Fund. “US storage is full or committed and some unfortunate market participants were carried out.”

In a world of its personal

In a method, the detrimental plunge was simply an excessive glitch as merchants ready for the expiry of the contract for supply in Could. Elsewhere, the market proceeded as regular – Brent futures, the benchmark for Europe in London, ended the day down sharply, however nonetheless above $25 a barrel. WTI for June supply modified fingers at $20 a barrel.

However the detrimental costs additionally revealed a elementary reality concerning the oil market within the age of coronavirus: The world’s most essential commodity is rapidly dropping all worth as persistent oversupply overwhelms the world’s crude tanks, pipelines and supertankers. In the end, merchants had been left determined to keep away from having to take supply of precise oil as a result of no person wants it and there are fewer and fewer locations to place it.

Storage terminals like this one in Russia are stuffed to the brim with undesirable oil. Actually, US refiners are taking in crude provided that they’re being paid upfront.

Want for deal to work

Regardless of the OPEC+ deal to chop 10 per cent of worldwide manufacturing, the oil market’s disaster is worsening. The rout will ship a deflationary wave via the worldwide economic system, complicating the duty dealing with central banks making an attempt to maintain economies afloat because the pandemic continues to paralyze enterprise and journey worldwide.

The worth collapse might redraw the worldwide map of energy as petro-states like Russia and Saudi Arabia, which loved a resurgence during the last 20 years due to an oil windfall, see their affect diminished. Exxon Mobil Corp., Royal Dutch Shell Plc and different oil giants are ripping up enterprise plans, determined to protect money.

What is the WTI?

WTI is the world’s most traded monetary oil contract, a benchmark adopted from Zurich to New York to Tokyo. However when every month a futures contract nears expiry and merchants roll their positions into further-out contracts, the true, bodily world of WTI turns into very small – centered on Cushing, an oil city in Oklahoma the place an enormous hub of pipelines and storage tanks serves because the precise supply level for barrels.

Prior to now three weeks, crude has been flowing into Cushing at a breakneck pace, averaging 745,000 barrels a day and taking in more oil than a medium-sized European nation like Belgium consumes. At that fee, the tanks there shall be full earlier than the tip of Could, one thing that has by no means occurred earlier than.

What occurs when an ETF modified its thoughts

The times earlier than expiry are sometimes unstable as merchants make the shift from a paper to a bodily market. Till just a few days in the past, the Could contract had been supported by enormous monetary flows by retail and institutional buyers pouring cash into oil via exchange-traded funds (ETF).

The biggest crude ETF, often called the US Oil Fund, obtained billions of {dollars} in contemporary funds in latest weeks, accumulating a fifth of all of the excellent contracts within the Could futures contract. However final week, it rolled its place into the June contract, and evaporated from Could. With out the fund, the contract was deserted to the the forces of bodily provide and demand.

Because the market opened early in Asia’s Monday morning, the Could contract traded at $17.85. As New York merchants had been firing up workstations of their makeshift house places of work, it was under $15.

Then costs actually began to slip, making historical past all the way in which down. By 8am New York time, the decline had reached 37 per cent, the most important intra-day drop for the reason that futures began buying and selling in 1982. At round 11am, it handed the low of $10.35 set within the oil bust of 1998. About an hour later, it took out $10 a barrel.

A US refinery in California… These are dire instances for US oil trade as extra provide brings oil futures come crashing down into detrimental territory. Picture Credit score: AFP

Nobody was shopping for

When CME Group Inc., which runs the trade the place WTI futures commerce, mentioned costs could be allowed to go detrimental, the promoting accelerated. By 1:50pm, the contract was under $1 a barrel. Lower than 20 minutes later, costs went under zero for the primary time and simply saved falling.

“No bids. Mental!,” mentioned one dealer at a prime service provider in a useless try to elucidate the collapse as costs went detrimental.

“No bids; not a single bid,” mentioned one other one in London.

“Ridiculous,” mentioned a 3rd senior dealer in Geneva.

Retail merchants had been doubtless sitting on lengthy positions coming into the week and had been pressured to liquidate them, which might be according to the sell-off accelerating within the 30 minutes forward of Monday’s shut, Goldman Sachs analysts together with Damien Courvalin theorized.

The contract settled at minus $37.63, a drop of $55.90. And there’s nonetheless one other day of buying and selling to come back earlier than it lastly expires.

“The May crude oil contract is going out not with a whimper, but a primal scream,” mentioned Daniel Yergin, a Pulitzer Prize-winning oil historian and vice chairman of the analysis and data firm IHS Markit Ltd.

Even discounting the oddity of the Could contract’s plunge into detrimental costs, the world of bodily oil suggests widespread ache.

Pay upfront

Many refineries and pipeline corporations instructed producers on Monday that they’d solely take their oil in the event that they had been paid. The each day worth bulletin from Enterprise Merchandise Companions LP, one among America’s largest pipeline corporations, confirmed detrimental costs for all the crude it buys. One other large, Plains All American Pipeline LP, instructed producers the identical.

Impolite get up name

Bob McNally, a marketing consultant and oil historian, mentioned the vitality market was getting “reacquainted with how the price mechanism for oil works” – and why “for most of oil history, the industry and governments strive to stabilize prices through supply control, be it a tolerated cartel, government regulation, or both.”

The OPEC+ coalition of oil producing international locations has did not cease the rout. Saudi Arabia, Russia and different producers introduced every week in the past an historic deal to chop international manufacturing by almost a tenth, or 9.7 million barrels a day, from Could. The US, Canada, Brazil and others have mentioned their very own manufacturing can also be falling as corporations cease drilling new wells.

For Trump, who personally brokered the OPEC+ deal, detrimental costs means more hassle within the U.S. oil patch. Stress is constructing inside the Republican celebration to make use of commerce obstacles to avoid wasting the shale trade, together with inserting tariffs on international oil.

Trump responded to the detrimental costs at a White Home press convention Monday with plans to fill the spare house within the Strategic Petroleum Reserve and by saying he would look right into a proposal to cease shipments of Saudi Arabian oil which might be at the moment en path to the US.

However he shrugged off the bigger influence, calling it “largely a financial squeeze” that might be that might be over within the “very short term”.

However the market – detrimental costs and all – isn’t ready for OPEC to chop manufacturing, or for tariffs to sluggish imports. Moderately than being an remoted occasion, Monday’s unprecedented oil market plunge serves as a warning of more ache to come back.

“If global storage worsens more quickly,” veteran Citigroup oil analyst Ed Morse mentioned, “Brent could chase WTI down to the bottom.”

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