#the overturned suv is actually there lol

[whilstiveputdownthisfic]

1:50 pm edt Sunday September 15 2024

(chosen stills; more in video)

(part 2/2)

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

How do you like NaNo so far?

Okay tea! It’s going okay! Honestly, it’s not going as well as I expected but also going... better than I expected (simultaneously lol)!

I’ve been tracking a LOT of things, so on my MyWriteClub, I track if I’ve written that day (I’ve written 12/19 days of the month so far), and I’ve also been tracking on NaNoWriMo’s website (I’ve written just over 4300 words this month). This is a pretty solid streak, and I’ve definitely been writing WAY more often than I usually do, and enjoying it WAY more because of where I’m at in the book.

Y’all, I gotta say it... I love Feeding Habits. I’ve got a huge, huge problem with writing a book, loving it, then feeling embarrassed by it after a few weeks of finishing it, and with Feeding Habits, I’ve been extra hard on it. It’s not that I feel embarrassed by it like I do Moth Work (this is a whole other issue), it’s just been two moods: grueling to write, or magnificent. Most of the time, it’s been grueling, and I have a really hard time not enjoying drafting because it’s my favourite thing about writing and so that affects my mental health, etc, etc. So when I, in this moment, am saying I love Feeding Habits, I just want myself to fully, 100% feel this way, because I know, with the last few books I’ve written, it doesn’t last (not to be pessimistic, but to be grateful for where I am).

NaNo is actually not all that different to me usually writing proces. I actually always think about writing every day, it’s just about 1/7 days a week I may actually do it, more if I’m in a good patch. I can’t give NaNo full credit for my productivity, however. I am in a really great place in Feeding Habits right now, and NaNo occurred right at the start of that, so it was really coincidence and timing that I’m currently doing okay in the book, and therefore, able to produce. I’ve mentioned that I just can’t write when I’m mentally unwell, and that not writing furthers that mental unwellness and so I’m really, really happy with how this month is going with writing right now. I don’t feel heavy, I feel I’ve written a lot of great (and very gay <3) stuff, and I’m so pleased.

I am only tracking NaNo progress for Feeding Habits specifically because I wanted to put more attention on it, and I definitely think it has been successful in that regard! I’ve been doing tons of other writing though, either for classes, or personal stuff (do not ask me how submitting a poem at 11:59pm on the day of the deadline went hahaha), so I feel like I’m... thriving??

Excerpts from Feeding Habits stuff I’ve been working on recently under the cut!

This is the boys’ first ever conversation in months and in the book:

A canoe-rental kiosk ruching the Hudson River. Harrison pays for a two-hour time slot with the last of his savings and lugs it to the shoreline by himself. It is nearly midnight, the sky clogged with fog and moonlight.

Lonan will not enter the water. Back near the kiosk, he fiddles with a beachstone, bathing in tungsten from the streetlamp above him. He gave no reason for his rejection, just picked stones as they walked along the boardwalk, through the parking lot, to the kiosk. As if he’d polish them, feed them through a rock tumbler as if he has patience for that, tend to them like infants, shape, polish, burnish, sell them for thirty dollars a piece and donate the money, as if has the mind to.

Harrison shifts the canoe perpendicular to the water and steps in. The boat cranks under his weight, its coldness seeping through his jeans.

Lonan stoops for more stones. His knees luminescing in white sand. His hair oilslick, cropped to his scalp like blunt grass. His fingers arrowing through sand, a raven filching seed. He unearths the stones with urgency, a paleontologist, a gravedigger.

“You’ll never make a sale on those,” Harrison shouts from the canoe. His voice splinters the night and puffs with the sand.

Lonan nearly drops his handful of stones. It takes him a moment to look up, and when he does, he searches the treeline first, the windows of a parked SUV, the gaps between a thicket of lifejackets before reaching Harrison, and he’s so deerlike, Harrison thinks, he’s so limp, so feeble, so susceptible. His hair jutting briefly from his scalp like an accordion, badly cut probably because Eliza likes it that way. His skin nearly lilac in places, a gauntness in his face, a hunger.

“My mother tells me you like her cooking,” he continues. “That you’re here for your sister. That you’re here alone.”

Lonan reaches for another stone.

“Eliza wants you to look like a deacon.” Harrison frills a hand toward his hair, snaps his fingers like scissors. “So holy. I could ordain you right now. Make you born-again. There’s so much water.”

“I don’t swim,” Lonan says. He reaches for another stone, then another so his palms turn into one.

“You don’t? You’re a land mammal. Rhinoceros. Hippopotamus. Is it the stones? You’re afraid they’ll sink you?”

CANOE SHENANIGANS (#BOYSINABOAT):

Harrison shuffles forward until their knees touch. He reaches. He makes contact. He touches his skin. He touches his ear. He touches cheek. He touches eyes, fingerprints his irises, wrings the tears from his eyelashes, pulls his face by the jaw, cradling his land mammal. He is crying. They should both cry. They are both crying. Their own lake puddling in Harrison’s palm. Theirs as Harrison dips his free hand into the water. Theirs as he hushes Lonan’s writhing. Theirs as he christens him, the water gorging his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Theirs as he promises it will be okay. Theirs as he says he will get to know this stranger. Theirs as they promise to both regrow. Theirs as Harrison jerks the canoe. Theirs as they capsize. Theirs as they reunite in fizzing tide, caught in the river, both animals trapped in amber.

Some context for this next excerpt: Lonan and Harrison get into shenanigans the night before, Harrison ~robs Lonan, abandons him, and yeets himself to the barn mentioned in chapter six where he falls asleep for the night. Here, he wakes up at dawn and is coming up with an excuse to explain why he’s there early to the homeowners. He decides, since they hired him to fix up their barn, he’ll just say he was trying to be a good worker:

Harrison fixes himself in the reflection of an overturned wheelbarrow, its silver belly clouded with rust. He exists the barn dry, well-rested, a richer, more fashionable man.

Before he even finishes ascending the veranda of the Harvey house, Sharleen opens the door. Her white hair is pearled into a bun. She wears a paisley patterned apron, chartreuse.

“Raspberry danishes,” Harrison says. “All I wanted was to bring you some fresh raspberry danishes, but all the bakeries were closed.”

Sharleen rolls up her sleeves. Her hands are caked with flour and fat.

“I considered tulips, but realized I’ve never asked for your favourite flower. Is it tulips? Hydrangeas? Chrysanthemums?”

Sharleen juts open the screen door and holds it open for him. He enters the foyer, and it smells like cinnamon, like sugar.

“I’ve heard marigolds are helpful for warding off squirrels,” he says, taking the hand she offers for his jacket. Sharleen doesn’t jump when he runs his finger across her wedding band and pecks her knuckles with his mouth. She doesn’t even speak. “Is that true?” as they usher toward the kitchen. “Pretty and purposeful. Sounds fake.”

Sharleen dusts her hands on her apron and jars open the kitchen door.

“Could be a double whammy. Or a scam. Or an old wives’ tale,” Harrison says as they walk into the kitchen, so occupied with the marigolds he does not notice when Sharleen returns to the stove to flip a pancake, so occupied, when he turns to the kitchen table, expecting only Harvey but seeing Lonan, all he says is, “Sounds too good to be true.”

The embarrassing aftermath of that lmfao :)

Harrison eats his pancakes on the porch. The Harveys’ dog joins him, a golden retriever named Leila. He cuts her a rift of cake and slots it into her mouth when she whines. One bite for him, another for Leila. Him, Leila, him, Leila. The good news is since he fixed their coffee machine, he now drinks drip.

It does not take long for Lonan to follow him outside. Harrison’s known this was inevitable and has dreaded the last five minutes because of it. He slits another triangle of pancake and feeds it to the dog.

It’s too cold to be out without a jacket. Wind nips Harrison’s ears and icicles his fingertips. Lonan’s shirt, the pale blue button-up he nabbed knowing he’d have cash, brays under the breeze, barely denser than a tissue.

So, after Harrison knocks them into the water (lol), this happens. My favourite description of Lonan: grass, and speck. (TW murder-y??):

���Pull me under,” Lonan said, spitting water, his voice grating under pressure. He trembled, his limbs his betrayal, tremoloing in the waves.

And Harrison did. Dousing him by the shoulders and holding him under so only he floated in the miniscule gap of air, Lonan a sunken, thrashing speck. It was thrilling, holding a body in his hands, determining its fate. And equally as thrilling to hold it as he lulled Lonan back up and over his shoulder where he deflated, gasping. At first Lonan coughed, once twice, heaving saltwater and saliva. But then a birdlike sound, compact but jittering, the wisp of a laugh, and Harrison couldn’t help but wonder if he was thrilled, too

“Do you feel accomplished, Harrison?” Lonan asked, his teeth prattling like an accordion. His hand trailed up the tail of his jacket, scrawling along the soaked leather. Lonan shifted, his body dead weight nearly drowned. And there was the sound again, chirping, “You’re not the first person who’s tried to kill me this year. Congratulations.”

So the tea is that Harrison robs Lonan by swapping shirts with him (tea tea tea), so here’s that scene where they re-swap and Harrison pesters Lonan about not marrying Eliza:

“Why won’t you marry her?” Harrison asks. “You could have children. A honeymoon.”

Lonan stuffs his free hand into his pocket. His breath fogs with every exhale, his nose pinkish with cold. Harrison doesn’t feel any of it, the breath, the cold, his hands. He doesn’t move to button up his flannel. He doesn’t want to move.

“You’re going back to her. You’re here to check on Reeve, and then you’re going back. To get married. To have children. To honeymoon forever.”

Lonan’s hair is awful. Spoking from his scalp like a raven’s wings, some sections ragged, uneven. Not a haircut, but punishment.

“You’re perfect,” Harrison says. He should being shivering, be freezing, but he feels nothing. “Why can’t you say you’re perfect?”

Lonan moves first. They could reabsorb. Go back to blue. But he only reaches for the flannel with his free hand and drapes it around Harrison’s shoulders. Arm by arm, slotting them through the sleeves. Button by button, securing it up his abdomen, his chest, right up to his throat. If Harrison looks closely, one of his eyes is rimmed with scarlet, like a vessel there popped, and a pool of lilac simmers, almost undetectable, across his temple.

“You could’ve married her,” Harrison says. His voice has dropped to a whisper. Lonan swings his jacket around his shoulders, securing his arms through each loop of leather, one, two. Zipping so his exposed skin may rewarm.

“I need to take you home,” Lonan says. Lonan with the broken eye. Lonan with the blackberry skin. Lonan with the teeth-shorn shirt. Lonan with the mowed hair. Lonan with the burned palms. Lonan with the wedding ring that was never really a wedding ring. Lonan who looks as if he’s always prepared to blink, just in case something comes out to get him.

(lonan’s dialogue IS SO SOFT gay PINING said WHOMST i did i am whomst)

god i want to share more but I need to save stuff for the writing update, here’s one MORE THEN I AM GONE:

Harrison sleeps in the car on his way back and doesn’t wake until the next day. In that time, Suzanna slots takeout boxes through the unrolled window, three full meals: sweet corn and tomato fusilli, beef stifado, meatless cassoulet. What she doesn’t know is they sit, untouched, under the passenger’s seat, not because Lonan is averted by her cooking, but because he’s saving them to share, just in case. She brings a vacuum sealed bag of extra comforters the first evening when flurries dot the windshield, Harrison is swathed in them all by the time the snow reaches half an inch. One lined with Sherpa closest to his skin when he stirs, the bulbs of fabric like cottage cheese. In the time he’s in the car he dreams. Of driving into the ocean. Of haircuts. Marriage.

OK BYE