#there were times in college when i god damn ugly cried from sheer frustration

[leggalese]

I'm fully convinced that Feen wasn't a precious angel and was a massive brat in his own way. If he didn't get his favorite part in a play or if his artwork would get lambasted by a teacher he'd throw the most diva fit and insist how unfair the world is. He also most likely thought his peers were less talented than him and would freely butt in to critique their work only to cry foul if the same would be done to him. He was born petty.

On the right is an imagined scenario of him and Miles being study buddies. Everyone would have such a miserable time together <3.

[someinstant]

hi, hello, sometimes i still check this thing, can we talk about star wars? (i liked it)

So after the orgy of present-opening and cooking and Christmas music and wine-drinking and devouring of prime rib and Yorkshire pudding, my sister and I dragged my parents to see The Last Jedi, because we had waited FOREVER to see it, and also we were tired of avoiding spoilers.

(If you wish to avoid spoilers, this is where you should stop reading, because I’m going to gush a little about Things That Happened.)

I’m going to do this in list format, because I’m not focused enough right now to manage a coherent argument.  So here, have a List of Thoughts about The Last Jedi, many of which are not about the movie at all:

1. I teach high school.  (Did you know that? I don’t even know if anyone reads this thing anymore. Whatever, that’s cool. I write for me, mostly.) And more than that, I teach seniors in high school.  I’m incredibly lucky that the students I teach are amazing, driven, diverse kids, and they make every day I spend in the classroom worth it.  And all genders have their own quirks and challenges, but I have to admit a special fondness for my idiotic, brilliant senior boys: they’re so close to being functioning adults, and so incredibly far from it at the same time.  I had this one student several years ago-- I’ll omit his name for reasons of not being a creep-- who just shone with this irrepressible vibrancy.  He was the kid who’d be late to school on the day of finals (”Why were you late?” “I would have been on time, but the towel caught fire.”),* only had twenty minutes to take his chemistry exam, and aced the damn thing. He was an athlete-- soccer, played keeper-- funny as hell, endlessly compassionate towards his friends, and inevitably three steps ahead during lecture. He was in love with new books every week: Into the Wild had him making plans to go backpacking in Alaska, Julius Caesar had him standing on desks giving funeral orations. He was also going to be a handsome sonofabitch when he grew up. And he knew all of this.

He could also be thoughtlessly cruel, dismissive when he didn’t agree with criticism, and utterly assured his decisions were correct.  So when he got ten days out of school suspension and an arrest record which nearly cost him his college acceptance, I went home and cried, because that kid was one of MINE, and he fucked up, and badly.  What he did could have hurt someone, and it was only through sheer luck that it didn’t. And I also cried because-- oh god, his poor mother, who was the sweetest, most hard-working woman I’ve ever met, and she made all these sacrifices for him, and he just-- let it all burn for no reason.

(Maybe there was a reason. But that reason is his, and not mine, and I won’t speculate.)

And then I cried because I wondered if we’d-- if I’d-- indulged him too much.  If I smiled too much at his antics, because I found them charming and funny in a boy, but would have found them shockingly immature in other genders. So then I sat down and wrote out a letter, three pages, front and back, about how I felt.  How proud I was of his intellect and joy, and how much his lack of caution frightened me. How hurt I was that he had done what he did. How disappointed I felt. How much I believed that he could change, and make better decisions. How he had to learn to weigh consequences, and think more than a week in the future.  I told him all his potential didn’t matter if he burnt it up in a few stupid impulses.  I gave him the letter when he came back to school after his suspension, and he cried in front of me when he read it. Just big, ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs.  His mother found me at graduation and hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would break.

(He’s doing great, now, by the way. Came by to visit before school ended this semester. Probation’s done, he’s got an internship he loves, he seems steadier and happy, and he brought me a jar of preserves from his mom. They’re good people.)

2. So I really loved The Last Jedi, because: I know exactly who Poe Dameron and Finn and Luke and Kylo Ren are. I also recognize Leia’s fond indulgence warring with her frustration, and Admiral Holdo’s air of I am done with your shit, young man.  That bit, as they’re transfering an unconscious Poe to the transport vessel after his incredibly dumb attempt at a mutiny? Where Holdo and Organa have that, “I really like this one,” “Me too,” exchange?  I have had that conversation a million times with fellow teachers about troublesome students, most of them male. We love them, but JESUS H. CHRIST are they a pain in the ass.  Which makes this an interesting story to me, because it’s both about the problems of impulsive, ride-or-die masculinity, and the indulgence of it. Leia’s very much a stand-in for Poe’s mom in this, and she indulges him, and is also incredibly frustrated by him when that indulgence results in terrible decision-making.  And I can appreciate that.

3. Also, do you know how much I love that the Resistance survives because Poe asks everyone to be quiet and listens? Poe, who turned off his radio so he didn’t have to listen to Leia, who talked over Holdo and jumped to conclusions about the transport ships, who was so interested in what he had to say that he missed all of the nuances around him.  Listening, man. It’s important.

4. Were there pacing problems? Hell yes. I wasn’t crazy about Floating Leia, frankly, and the bit where Leia and Kylo are talking to each other through their bond-- eh, I think there were more interesting cinematic ways to do that. 

5. Also, I think Luke is more interesting in this movie than in any of the other films. FIGHT ME.

6. Also also: Laura Dern has taken on velociraptors. When she tells you she’s got it under control, trust her damn word.

* True story. I never asked for the details, because I figured it was best I didn’t know.

[murder-cate-wrote]

Something I wrote for a friend. RusPrus, part of a larger, unspecified domestic au that I haven’t quite figured out myself. 

Enjoy.

Ivan rushed through the door. He tossed his bags haphazardly into their allotted corner, just past the entrance way. He heard the awkward rattle of an unsteady object nearly toppling over; it was the coat rack, which Ivan had flung his book-laden canvas and hand stitched satchel at. Ivan froze at the sound, staring in sheer horror as the treacherously tall and clumsy coat rack almost fell like an oak felled by a storm.

However, the rack did not fall, and settled back into place with one last rattle.

As soon as Ivan knew that the rack was out of danger, he released his breath and slumped over. He half wished his body would just let his legs go limp beneath him, the fall knocking him out cold. If he could've fallen exactly as the coat rack almost had, Ivan might be happy. But some primal message in the back of his brain stopped his legs from breaking down, and some other lurking voice laughed at him for this flaw.

Of course the first thing that Ivan did upon returning home would be almost making a big, ugly mess. Naturally.

There was nothing quiet about Ivan. Not the way that his feet dragged or stomped on the laminate wood floor, nor the way that he muttered under his breath and cursed many, many undeserving things on soft bits of air. Especially not the way that he finally got fed up with it all; trying to organize his thoughts and sort out what goes where.

What book did he need to look over, what questions that went along with the section? He didn't care. What project needed his attention, what piece was next in line? He didn't care. What about himself, what to eat, drink? Maybe a shower? Pajamas even?

Ivan didn't care.

He trundled into his small, though very well kept, bedroom. The door slammed behind him, and Ivan winced as he heard the walls tremble. He casually flopped down on the bed, dragging himself towards the middle, where a slight indent in the shape of his body indicated his favorite spot to rest. The bed groaned uncomfortably under his weight. The blankets had been well made before Ivan laid down and mussed them, and were rather stunned that someone was already in bed at this hour. It wasn't even quite dinner time; the sun still above the horizon, and yet someone occupied the bed. Either way, the thick, floral blankets had little say in the goings on of life. They silently accepted the staunch, unmoving occupation.

Ivan himself was surprised as well. This morning, he had left the room in utter disarray. Now, it was spotless. Of course it was, Gilbert couldn't stand a mess. And with a free day to do as he pleased, it seemed as if nothing pleased Gilbert more than simple chores and menial tasks that most people considered torturous.

Ivan had woken up early that morning, nerves shredded to bits at the thought of the day ahead. He had spent quite some time picking out what to wear, making a fiasco out of something so trivial. That little shirt and pants parade of his left various articles of clothing strewn about the room, Ivan much too nervous to worry about putting them away. It was as if he forgot about them until he was already gone from the house, unable to go back and put them away like he should have in the first place. It wasn't just that... Ivan remembered knocking a few things off of a shelf in his panic, some little picture frame or odd trophy, neither of which belonged to him. And, no, he hadn't bothered to pick either of those up, seeing as he was much too worried about himself to bother.

The memory summoned a rather hollow, dark feeling in his chest.

Ivan had made another mess the moment he had entered his apartment that evening. A clutter which Gilbert would come home to from whatever little escapade he was out on and gladly remedy. He would never mention it to Ivan, and probably wouldn't ever think about it again himself. Perhaps it was this quiet, peaceful acceptance that drew up a deep blame in Ivan. It was like the fault lines between the tectonic plates, slowly ripping Ivan apart.

He fell asleep, draped limp across the whole bed, flat on his stomach. It was a position comparable to one that an investigator might find the victim of a murder in.

~

Gilbert frowned, the edge of a snarl curled on the edge of his frustrated huff. He switched his truck into park, and slammed his hand on the steering wheel as if to prove to himself just how irritated he was. He snatched a box of pizza from the passenger's seat, then practically kicked open his door. He didn't really care for the truck that much- it was just an old red ford, with its fair share of dents and scratches- this physical abuse didn't even begin to make him feel guilty. He'd be getting rid of it soon anyhow. Maybe his brother would like it for his apprenticing shop, use it to teach the kids a few things.

Jumping down from the cabin of his truck, Gilbert slammed the door closed, relishing the clatter of metal slapping metal. It was chaotic and mindless and beautiful.

Unlike his mother, who had just spent the better half of an hour subjecting him to her own special mix of mental torture- a creative blend of his current shortcomings mixed with those of his past, all being communicated over the phone.

Yes, Gilbert had muttered. He remembered how he always forgot to do the dishes or take out the trash and yes, he was on top of that now, no need to fuss... and what was that? His grades? Hell, how had she even gotten ahold of those? Oh, yeah, Gilbert himself had sent her a short documentation via email, as his mother had requested when he first began attending college. A monthly report so that she could keep an eye on her little boy, and make sure that he was okay.

Like hell she did. She didn't give a damn, she didn't care! She was a control freak that exploited every single one of his flaws and never acknowledged any of his successes beyond a light pat on the back. She bitched and bitched and never thought one that perhaps some of Gilbert's issues were not with him, but with his mental affliction. Then again, Gilbert's mother didn't believe that ADHD existed anyhow, so why bother hoping that she might see it one day and get off his back?

Gilbert sneered, but quickly lost the glare in his eye as he caught sight of a moth fluttering around the dully glowing scone outside his apartment door. That was on the second floor, and Gilbert hadn't even reached the stairs yet. So that was one big fucking moth.

"Damn," Gilbert muttered, utterly amazed by the size of the moth. "Mothman's cousin must be trying to move in or something."

A mew to his right caught Gilbert's attention next, and he quickly looked down to face this new creature.

"Ah!" He cried in delight. "Mothman!"

Mothman, the amber eyed black cat, blinked lazily and meowed again. He was not looking at Gilbert, but at the pizza box he carried. Gilbert snorted. "Oh, don't even try and use me, cute face. It might work on softie, but not me. Besides," Gilbert squatted down, careful to hold the pizza out of Mothman's reach. "This is the good stuff, ya know? Not to brag, but it ain't Little Ceasar's. Cost me more than a couple pennies outta my own pocket, catch my drift?"

Mothman wound around Gilbert's legs, and all at once the tension melted off of his skin. His mother could go softly fuck herself for as much as he cared. Mothman was absolutely right, Gilbert thought as he stroked the cat with his free hand. There was no reason she should get up under his skin like that. Certainly no reason that she should make him so mad that he hurt someone else, aside from the truck that was used to the odd beating.

"Ah, fine." Gilbert laughed, giving Mothman one last, good cheek scratch. "I'll see if I can sneak out some for ya. For now, I gotta get up to the room. Ciao!" The last word, a farewell in an unfamiliar language, was spat out as cooly and stupidly as Gilbert could manage. He laughed at his own tomfoolery, while Mothman seemed to roll his stunning eyes.

Up the stairs Gilbert dashed, with his keys rattling in his pocket and the pizza expertly balanced on his hand. It was not long before he had reached his respective door, although he was rather disappointed to find that the moth he had spotted was long gone. Twisting the key in the lock, Gilbert shoved the door open with a quick yell. "Dinner is here!"

Upon receiving no reply, and observing the assorted books, folders, and sketchpads scattered on the table, a small, sad frown took over Gilbert's face.

"Bad day, huh?" He asked no one in particular.

He quickly found the bags that went with the various school supplies, and put them away as best as he could. The pizza had been set on a free spot on the table, which was clear after Gilbert had finished his small task. It was long forgotten by then, as was any hunger that nagged at Gilbert. His mother, surely, would've lectured him about eating consistent meals. But her son didn't hear her voice echoing in his head that evening.

There was nothing loud about the way that Gilbert moved. Not the way that his feet silently padded across the rug, nor the way that small concerns fluttered in and out of his thoughts. Especially not the way that he entered the shadowy bedroom, kneeling down beside it and resting his chin on the edge of the mattress.

Evening had long since claimed the sky, along with soft, unimposing clouds. The light from the half shuttered window was grey and calm. Gilbert could've fallen asleep then and there. He had, several times before in similar situations. But Ivan wasn't sleeping this time. Gilbert could tell by how the other man curled into himself, and by the anxiety that poured off his skin like a river of blood from an unseen wound.

Now, all Gilbert had left to do was be patient. Ordinarily, for Gilbert, this was like asking him to hike Mount Everest in a single day.

But for Ivan? God, he'd sit still for a week. He'd meditate and make peace with his mother and any number of ungodly things that Ivan would never ask of him. Gilbert grinned, lopsided. Ivan would never ask anything like that, even though he knew that Gilbert would act upon the whim of his word. How kind of him, honestly.

No, Ivan only asked for simple things.

Usually, forgiveness.

"Sorry." Ivan croaked. His voice was strained, absolutely pitiful. Usually, it had such a clear, golden tone, which floated up to a soprano's pitch. Gilbert admired it for its irregular beauty. Now it nearly made him want to cry.

But he didn't let the grey light and soft apology ruin him. He smiled wider, creeping up a bit further onto the bed, half on-half off. With his chin perched upon his hand, Gilbert said, "what for?"

Ivan shallowly shrugged. "The mess. 'm sorry."

"Nah," Gilbert swallowed hard before going on. "That wasn't a big deal. You know that. I tell you every time you supposedly 'make a mess'. It was my day off, and I should be thanking you, rather than you coughing up this... what should we call it this time?"

"Sob story?" Ivan offered.

"Yeah, this sob story... Like I was saying, I should be thanking you. I would've gone insane today with nothing really to do, so you helped me. Honest. You kept me sane, Ivan. As usual. You don't gotta be so glum about it for my sake, okay? You're good, you're good..."

Here, Gilbert paused. His mouth was half open as his tongue tried to come up with more words to fill the empty space of the swiftly darkening room. His eyes caught sight of the dim portraits the clung to the walls of the room. Pictures that he had taken. Mostly from his trip to Europe. The Coliseum in Rome, the Brandenburg Gates in Germany, a random bridge in France, a few sheep in the U.K....

"Hey." Gilbert whispered, a new thought having come to mind. He was proud of it, in fact, seeing as it was one that contained a slim memory which he expected himself to have forgotten. Yet, there it was.

Ivan grunted, permitting him to continue.

"How was that presentation today, eh?" Gilbert raised up, excited to hear. The thought that perhaps this was what caused Ivan's off mood never occurred to him. Not until Ivan groaned and rolled over. By then, it was too late for Gilbert to take his words back and take a more sensitive approach.

"Oh, God." Ivan nearly sounded like he was in tears right then and there. He sat up, and looked far more miserable than before. Gilbert couldn't tell for the dim light, but he hoped that tears hadn't already stained his cheeks. "It was so awful, Gil. So, so bad..."

"Hey, hey...!" Gilbert nearly jumped on the bed, trying to reverse his imperceptive mistake. Now even with Ivan, he searched the other's face once again for the stains left by tears... if Ivan had cried, that meant he had also...

Relief washed over Gilbert, a wave of ease relaxing his muscles. Searching his face, searching his arms, Ivan hadn't gone and done something stupid, he hadn't hurt himself.

"You couldn't have done bad." Gilbert whispered, and took Ivan's hands in his own. Ivan turned his face away and hid behind the shadow of his hair. "You prepared for so long. I know you did well."

"No." Ivan protested. "No, I didn't. I stuttered and I froze up and I forgot half of what I was supposed to say. I forgot my own story, Gil, the story I've been working on for most of the semester."

"Yeah," Gilbert leaned over, trying to find Ivan's face and meet him with another smile. "And I forget my own first name sometimes. Trust me, Ivan, I've been watching you work. You did awesome, I know it."

"You just said you don't know your own first name. How could you know anything about how I did, huh?" Ivan frowned, turning ever so slightly only to see Gilbert's wide grin. He nearly lost the grip he had on his glower.

"I said I forgot my name sometimes, not that I didn't know it." Gilbert corrected, bringing one of Ivan's limp hands up to his lips. He planted a quick kiss on Ivan's palm, which surely tickled the skin. Ivan jerked his hand back in surprise, and even in the low light, Gilbert caught sight of the dull red color on Ivan's cheeks.

"One thing I'll never forget, though, is that you do good work, Ivan. Who gives a damn if you get nervous sometimes? It happens. Your professor wasn't looking for an intensive speech on controversial topics, she was just looking to see the progress you made on your story board over the semester. I know for a fact that she's impressed. You put your soul into that thing, it's seriously impressive. You're really, really good at putting your ideas and images on paper, seriously. You don't even need to speak! Your art has a voice of its own. Just you wait until you go in tomorrow. I bet she'll say something to you about how fantastic it was." Gilbert finished, hesitantly awaiting Ivan's reaction.

He saw no real change in expression, only a small twinkle in Ivan's eyes. "I guess she will," Ivan murmured, and Gilbert felt elation spread through his veins. Had Gilbert really, finally convinced Ivan that he was as amazing as he knew he was?

"She will because you'll slip her a twenty, or make some shady deal. Scoundrel." Ivan added, and Gilbert tilted his head back and belted out in a cackle.

"Me?" Gilbert asked, recovering from his fit. His expression mimicked absolute astonishment. "Why, I'd never!"

Ivan just shook his head. Though a soft smile lit up his lips, Gilbert wasn't quite satisfied with that temporary change. It would be gone much too soon.

He laughed softly once more, then cleared his throat. Now, his voice had a far more serious, almost stern tone, that caught Ivan's attention. "Listen, Ivan, please don't be so tough on yourself. I bet no one even noticed that you stuttered or forgot anything. When I used to play for concerts, I thought every time I messed up that everyone in the audience knew. Well, the thing is, those suckers didn't know jack. And still don't. That's just the game. I know what's going on and what's supposed to happen, and they, the audience, can only assume that what happens is what's supposed to happen. You gotta own that sometimes, you know? You gotta own your errors, even if they haunt you when you sleep. Sometimes, it's better to pretend like you have ugly little children... but you still love them, yeah? Even though they're ugly...."

Ivan stared for a moment, then broke down in his own laughing fit. He allowed himself to fall backwards, landing on his back with a soft 'oof.'

"Where do you come up with this stuff, Gil?" He asked quietly, rubbing a hand across his face.

Gilbert crawled over to meet Ivan's eyes. His own were half lidded, as if he were dreaming. And his smile had curled into more of a devious smirk, as if he knew that he had gotten his way and won the battle. "Well, my mother always told me that my mouth was like a hallway, directly connected to my ass."

Ivan snorted. "Yeah, yeah, I know all about her and what she used to say... what do you think, though?"

Gilbert tapped his chin, feigning a period of silent thought. In reality, he had his answer within a moment. "It's the combination of our unique brilliance, that's what I think."

"Maybe you're just crazy, and I really haven't been keeping you sane at all." Ivan offered, shutting his eyes.

"Maybe." Gilbert creeped a bit closer, sitting right up against Ivan's side. "Maybe I don't care."

With that, Gilbert leaned down and connected their lips in a kiss that felt like the gentlest car crash to ever take human lives. He was perhaps a bit rough and silly, but then Ivan smiled against him and this was too enticing not to treat with some amount of seriousness. Gilbert felt himself pulled by a strong arm flush to Ivan's chest, and brought his own hand up to wind his fingers through Ivan's silken hair. A warmth as sure as death shuddered through his body, but Gilbert didn't give a damn if it meant he was on the road to hell or otherwise. This, all of it, was well worth its weight in gold, and then some.

Ivan was the first to break away. He blinked a few times but didn't say a word. His eyes were as soft as his lips, calm and satiated. In and of itself, this was an expression of gratitude that simple words couldn't express.

Then, he hugged Gilbert tight, offering no hope of escape. Gilbert accepted this with a strained, amused wheeze, his face afire and tongue in awe of the Ivan's subtle taste. Settling down and tucking his head as best as he could beneath Ivan's chin, Gilbert continued to absently work the tangles out of Ivan's hair. Ivan hardly noticed the occasional tug; he was simply entranced by how delicate and sensitive Gilbert's touch was. It was a ritual, and Ivan was the fortunate victim.

"Hey." Gilbert whispered.

Ivan hummed, giving permission for Gilbert to go on.

"I just thought of something else I'll never forget. Never, ever. You ready for it?"

"What's that?"

"I'll never forget how much I love you."